Latest Posts by cappepaw - Page 2

heavy, dirty soul

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

He looks like hell.

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

You set the takeout down and say nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously?”

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

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

“Eat, John.”

It’s not a request.

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

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

“Good?” You ask, softer this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the silence answers for him.

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

This is routine. Nothing new.

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

And that means more than anything ever could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You suck in a breath.

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

“I hate seeing you like this.”

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

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

“I’ll shower later.”

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

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

“I’ll come with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says nothing. Just lets you do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there it is.

The map.

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

But there are new stars on the map tonight.

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

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

He doesn’t flinch.

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

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

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

“Turn around for me.”

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

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

You lift the soap again and step closer.

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

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

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

You lather the soap again and reach between his legs.

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

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

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

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

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

No blood, no sweat, no grime. 

Nothing of the outside world. 

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

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

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

Who has seen him like this.

And loved what you saw.

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

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

With nothing but awe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But something fragile. Something honest.

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

Then you kiss him.

A slow, careful press of your lips to his. 

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

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

It’s comforting. Familiar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Gentle touch

what i wouldn’t give for a price pat

Some thoughts about John Price who owns a hardware store in a small town post-retirement for a bum leg… That man could never be forced to not work. He’s not one to sit still for long, even with a small limp. 

Maintaining the place is simple work, easy on his heart and mind after all the stress of his previous job. Does he miss the adrenaline? The feeling of importance? Of course. So, he runs that hardware store like he’s still a captain. You bet those aisles are fully stocked and organized by product and alphabetized by brand. His book is always neatly filled out at the end of each day, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he records the daily finances and stock in a neat print. 

He wears kakis that fit just a bit too tight around the crotch, a red collared shirt that all the employees wear with a little logo that Soap designed over the chest pocket where John always has a pen tucked away. 

The biggest perk? The cute little clueless bird that comes in irregularly, needing help. Finally, he gets to feel competent again, needed by someone for his skill and expertise. 

The men almost never ask for help, too obsessed with their own masculinity to do that. Most of the women don’t need it, experts at the gardening or DIY projects they’re doing. 

But you? There’s some sort of home maintenance crisis you need help with nearly every month. John’s beyond grateful that you don’t just go on YouTube for tutorials or call a repairman like everyone else seems to be doing these days. He needs those doe eyes of yours trained on him as he explains the different types of hammers they have in stock and which one would be best for that loose floorboard of yours. He needs your sweet, grateful smile as you thank him for all his help.

He’ll get you the right wrench, doll, don’t worry your pretty little head. In fact, here’s his number in case you need help fixing your leaking sink. 

You need fertilizer for your garden? He’ll carry out the premium brand to your car for you and brush off your thanks with a simple “anytime, sweet'eart”.

The rest of the boys come in on their leaves to help out around the shop with stocking shelves and whatnot. Gaz and Soap cackle like hyenas the first time they see Price rush to your side when you tilt your head in confusion at all the different types of super glue. Even Simon is smirking a bit under his mask. The man is whipped.

f!reader x Price

If your pretty little ass, once again brought itself over to his office by your cute stomping feetsies, reminding him to take a break because "John please, you haven't eaten anything.."

He would push everything off his desk, sit said pretty little ass on it before tearing your panties off and feast on your pussy.

"You told me to eat, didn't you love? Just following your orders.."

Thinking about reader who secretly pined for the rugged, bearded older man who frequented the gym.

You got more motivated to work out—just for the chance to see him. Every time you went, you made sure to claim the treadmill right in front of him, your heart pounding in sync with his rhythmic breaths.

The sound of his panting as he ran sent a thrill down your spine, igniting a delicious fantasy. You imagined him chasing after you, his gaze locked onto your form. Heat simmered in your core at the thought of glancing back, only to find him utterly focused. The thought got your feet moving quick.

Unbeknownst to you, he had a similar thought in mind as he started sprinting on the treadmill behind you.

how I picture price’s body😩

*taps microphone* Captain John Price. that’s all, thank you.

What if for dads bsf, he comes on a family trip to the beach with you and your father.

You in your bikini, the sneaked glances when your dad isn't looking. MAYBE have him apply sunscreen on you!

dadsbf!old man john price in his late 40s n young, innocent sweet fem!reader who’s 21

you’ve always been a mountain lover, sunny countryside and green lavish trees filled you with the warmest joy, but just like he would any other summer, your dad has forced you to come to the beach with him, stating that ‘vitamin d is important’, but what convinced you is that you can just lay down, read your book and sip chill cold cocacola in peace, especially since your dads best friend john price is coming with you

laying happily under the cozy shadow of a colorful umbrella, heart shaped glasses and a book in your hand, your reading is cradled by the gentle hum of the wind moving through the waves, but you find it hard to focus on the lines on the paper as your eyes keep moving towards him — his muscular, buff, hairy chest is wet, burly and decorated with a few scars, his dark, graying hair and beard kissed by the sun as he shook his head, thin drops of water falling over the sand.

you take a shaky breath, feeling your cheeks grow warm and red, brighter than the sun, and quickly look away, blushing hard and feeling bad for staring so much — but gosh, he’s the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, so bulky and mature, aged in the most handsome way.

you toss over the towel, shifting position and continuing reading, already too caught up in the book to notice the looming and lurching shadow above you, that covered the sun rays — you tilt your head, and there he is, bundle of muscles, thick beard and intimidating, pure masculine energy.

“enjoying your book, love?” he asks playfully, his voice rough and low, quirking his brow as he let his eyes travel down your figure, shamelessly staring over your legs and adorable, vintage style bikin, all frills and ribbons — he sets his warm eyes back on your face, “what are you reading, Lolita?”

your cheeks are burning like flames, and you feel like you’re steaming with the hot air around you “m not, sir,”

he only laughs, a short, deep chuckle, before he tilts his head towards the water behind him “not gonna take a swim, doll?”

“dont think so, haven’t put on sunscreen yet..” you nibble on your bottom lip, head elsewhere, before you reach out to heap your bottle of coke “was waiting for someone to help me open this, can you help me sir, please?”

you give him big, doe eyes, your puffy lips parted slightly as your dolly features look up at him with such a tender, innocent look he needs to ignore how uncomfortable and suddenly tight his wet shorts feel.

“of course, doll face,” he takes it from your hands, opens it with a tiny, effortless twist of his large hand and hands it over to you, giving you a slight wink — you flame up under his gaze, and quickly bring the bottle up to your lips, mumbling a shy “thank you, sir”

the first sip is the best one, cold and frizzy bubbles running down your throat as you savor them — you let your eyes mindlessly set on him as you drink, almost choking with the coke when you notice how his own sharp ones are stuck on your lips wrapped around the bottle.

you swallow, placing the bottle down — your dad is swimming cluelessly back in the sea, near the limit of the string of buoys marking the swimming area, out of sight and of reach.

“need me to put sunscreen on you, princess, can’t have your delicate skin get burned now,” he says it almost like a command, stating it like you don’t have a voice in the matter and that makes your heart flutter — he brings his authoritative, caring and dominating attitude everywhere he goes, even when he’s not working, he’s a soldier in control of his surroundings inside and outside of the field.

“don’t wanna bother you sir, but thank you, alright..” you just blink, carefully placing your book down next to you and laying on the sandy towel, practically giving and serving yourself to him. he almost grunts at the sight, you, so young, too young, sweet and modest in your bikini, always dainty and refined.

“never bother me, sweet girl, stay still for old price, good girl” he grips — yes, grips — the sunscreen hardly and bends over one knee, applying it on both hands before starting to smear it over your skin, your arms, your legs and then your thighs. you almost gasp at the contact, his hands have always looked calloused, rough and scarred, like sandpaper, but they feel so good, warm and large against your skin.

he remains silent as he lower his hands and gently squeezed your thighs, a silent request, which you immediately followed by parting your thighs to him, still laying on your back — his hands apply the sunscreen on your inner thighs, close to where you ache the most, where you want him, but your bashfulness prevents you from addressing this need.

his thick fingers distractedly brush over your clothed clit, making you let out a soft, tiny sound, that sounded like a strangled whine and a little sigh — his eyes shoot out, completely and utterly in control, but when he spreads more cream next to your needy spot, you involuntarily buck your hips against his hand, making him clench his jaw and mutter down a restrained, growly “careful, doll, be a good girl and don’t move, said stay still”

you swallow back your embarrassment, your cheeks red and bright, whole face on fire as he shifts his hands on your tummy, caressing it and smearing more white cream on your flat chest, between your tiny, small boobs that are raising and falling with every hard breath.

“feel good, doll?”

you nodded, unable to say anything, but you wanted him to kiss you, to just take you however he pleased “yessir”

“good, on your tummy f’me now, come on” he pats your leg, and you quickly turn around, closing your eyes when you feel his large hands on your back, applying your cream — you arch your back against his fingers, earning a deep, amused chuckle from him.

“look at you, love, stretching yourself like a bunny, huh?”

you nod again, but this time, your eyes shoot open when you feel his thick mustache and beard pressed against the skin of your shoulder, pressing a light, small and tickling kiss — he lowers his hand and playfully pats your bottom, caressing it before drifting back. “done, love, all nice and safe.”

you’re left like this, blushing and wide eyed, watching him take a sip from your bottle of coke, and you can’t help but let your romantic mind think this is an indirect kiss.

Masterlist

This was supposed to be a drabble, but the spirit of horny John Price possessed me. Completely unedited with a very abrupt ending... Oh well - sex pollen incoming!

John Price x Reader

*18+, Minors DNI*

Divider by @/cafekitsune

You'd been John Price's secretary for the better part of the last half decade. You'd been with him since he'd first made captain and had formed an excellent working relationship over the years, the nearly seamless teamwork of two people who knew each other inside and out. There'd been a time close to the beginning when you'd wondered if the two of you could have been something more, but it never progressed past the occasional flirtatious comment during a late night paperwork session.

No, you'd resigned yourself to a professional relationship with John years ago, no matter how fast your hear beat whenever you thought of his broad shoulders or strong hands. You told yourself it wasn't his voice you heard in your head when you touched yourself at night, that you didn't see the flex of his forearms as he moved his fingers in and out of you playing like a flim behind your closed eyelids.

You'd always assumed John had a partner tucked away somewhere, some pretty little wife to run his house and keep his belly full whenever he was on leave. You'd never seen a ring, but you'd heard Ghost make an offhand comment to Soap about "the missus" once. It made perfect sense - of course someone as good and dedicated as John would have a significant other waiting in the wings. It made it easy to bury your feelings - you'd never pursue a married man.

But you know what they say about assuming. You couldn't stop the phrase from flitting through your mind as you sat in the briefing room with the members of the 141 minus John. As they told it, he'd been compromised on the most recent mission with some kind of bioweapon and was currently in the infirmary for observations. He'd been asking after you since they'd arrived back in base, begging the other three men to track you down and bring you to his bedside.

"Shouldn't you be ringing Mrs. Price instead? I'm sure she’d want to know her husband was compromised."

A brief silence settled over the briefing room, and Soap and Gaz shared a strange look before glancing at Ghost.

"Price don't have a missus. 'Sides, he's asking for ya. We've wasted enough time already anyway - let's go."

The soldiers were on their feet and out the door before you could process the bomb they'd just dropped. John was single? Who the hell was "the missus" then? You scrambled to your feet and darted down the hall behind them, one arm bracing your chest to keep it from bouncing as you jogged to catch up.

They made it to the infirmary a few minutes ahead of you (damn their longer legs), and you could hear the murmur of their voices alongside John's low baritone. You could hear them laughing inside - that was good at least. John's laughter cut off abruptly as soon as you pushed the door open, his eyes cutting directly to where you stood in the doorway.

You almost thought you imagined the flare of his nostrils as if he was scenting the air, but you couldn't brush off the immediate tent that had formed in the bedsheets.

"There y'are, Dove! I've been dying to see ya all day."

It was your turn to look questioningly at Ghost, but he was sheparding the two sergeants out of the room, drawing the curtain around the bed, and giving you a thumbs up as he shut the door to the room. You swallowed as you heard the click of the lock. You were alone in a locked room with a compromised soldier - he could do anything to you here, he could hurt you, and no one would be the wiser.

"Stop standin' in the doorway like a stranger. Get over here before I have to come get ya."

This was a John Price you hadn't seen before - his cheeks were flushed, pupils dialted, and he was grinning like a madman. What was that bioweapon?

"John?"

He moaned at the sound of his name on your lips, his hips canting up slightly as you stared incredulously at him. Surely you were dreaming - you'd fallen asleep with your fingers buried between your soft thighs before you could orgasm. This had to be your brain's way of working out the lingering frustration of your unsuccessful wank session before bed. This couldn't possibly be real life.

"Please, Dove. I need ya - 'm so hot and everything aches. Just need ya to touch me, just for a second."

He was getting redder by the minute, a line of sweat starting to bead on his brow, his mouth falling open into a pant as he pushed the base of his palm against his erection. You couldn't stay here - you spun on your heel, intent on leaving as fast as possible when you heard a whimper behind you.

"Sweetheart, please. I feel like I'm dying over here."

You couldn't face him - this had to be a cosmic prank. It had to be karma for a past life; the universe dangling the man you wanted the most right in front of your nose as he begged you to touch him.

"John, I can't. You're sick - I'll go find a doctor or something."

You didn't wait for a response as you began to rattle the door handle. Did it only unlock from the outside? The crinkle of a paper under your foot caught your attention, and you looked down to see what was under the toe of your shoe.

Price got hit with a bioweapon making him extremely reactive to anyone he's attracted to. We figured it might be why he was so insistent on seeing you. It should wear off in about 12 hours - see you then.

You were going to find a way to kill Lieutenant Ghost. He'd broken about 15 different military protocols locking you in here, and you'd ensure he was court-martialed as soon as you figured out how you were going to escape.

A scorching heat at your back pulled you out of your vengeful reverie. Somehow, John had rolled out of bed and crept up behind you while you were reading the note. His palms were burning against your skin as he kneeded the fat of your hips.

"Always loved this fat arse, these pretty thighs. I’ve gotta sit on my hands sometimes when ya come into my office to stop myself from grabbing at ya. Just want to get a nice handful..."

You gasped as his hand slipped down the curve of your hip to grip your ass and squeeze, the hot length of his cock pressing against the small of your back. He slipped his muscular thigh between your legs and shifted you forward until your hands were pressed against the wall, using his broad shoulders to cage you in.

John was quickly starting to eclipse the world around you until he was all that was left. You couldn't stop the little whimper that tore up your throat as he bounced you on his thigh, his hands coming up to grip your chest. You could tell by the glide in your underwear you were already wet, almost past the point of reason now the man you'd wanted for years had his hands on you.

You didn't stop yourself from grinding back into him as his hands wandered across the planes of your body, gently caressing every curve and dip, pausing to stroke the rolls of your stomach tenderly.

"God I love you, Dove, but I can't wait anymore."

You whined as he slid back, the sweet pressure from his thigh dropping away as he fiddled with the button on the front of your trousers. You knocked his hands out of the way impatiently - he wasn't the only one who couldn't wait. John moaned as you finally ripped your trousers and underwear down your legs to pool on the floor at your feet.

"The shirt too - I need to see all of ya."

It was all the encouragement you needed to tear the rest of your clothes off, leaving you completely bare to John's tender gaze.

"So pretty, and all mine."

A switch seemed to flip with those words, and he was on you in an instant, his lips bruising and insistent on your own as he tugged you down to the floor. The juxtaposition between his fire on your front and the coolness of the tile at your back was intoxicating - you were going to fuck John Price.

"I'm not gonna be able to take my time, not the way I want, so you gotta promise me we'll go slow next time."

You gasped as he slid two fingers into you without warning. "Next time?"

"Yeah, next time," John was rapidly loosing his presence of mind, his words coming out in a growl as he scissored his fingers inside you.

"What kind of man would I be if I didn't make sure my missus was satisifed?"

You were the one Ghost was talking about - he'd been talking about you. The idea John talked about you enough for you to be seen as "his" had you unspooling, and you cried out his name as your orgasm rocketed through you.

He didn't wait for you to catch your breath before lining himself up with your entrance and sinking in, sighing in contentment as your walls gripped him.

"Thank you, Dove. You always know how to make everything better."

His eyes were closed as he rocked above you, setting a punishing rhythm as he chased his own release. Your eyes were hazy as you looked up at him, your fingers trembling as you reached up to trace his lips. They parted as you touched them, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste the salt on your skin. It didn't take him long to get close, only a few dozen thrusts before he was growling into your shoulder as he came, panting your name into the crook of your neck.

He seemed to come back to himself as you stroked his hair, blushing and stuttering as he apologized for taking you on the floor like an animal.

You couldn't stop yourself from giggling as you looked up at him. "You can make it up to me in the bed. You did promise me the next time would be slow. After all, you've got to take care of your missus, right?"

Think I need someone older

Think I need someone older, just a little bit colder. take the weight off your shoulders, think I need someone older ft. ex boyfriends dad John Price tw. age gap [reader is 22 and John is in his mid-late 40s], oral sex [male and female receiving] mentions of cheating [not by price or reader], insinuation of multiple rounds, PIV sex, creampie, mentions of a bitchy ex-wife, fem!reader, female anatomy, illusion to toxic and psychologically abusive relationship a/n. this turned out a lot longer than i anticipated it to be or i intended but when i started i just couldn't stop. price also works in security in this. this is also the first ime in ages that i have written something this long, so i apologise if it non-sensical or it makes no sense. word count.  3769 banner by @kaitsawamura

ex boyfriends dad John Price who had grown to hate the man his son at become, he was spoiled and entitled and thought he was gods gift to mankind always looking down on others and it was all because of his ex-wife. The woman worshiped her son, saw him as her prized possession, she did everything for him. Washing, cooking, cleaning and never punished him for anything he did and turned him into the monster he was today. John had tried to change her ways, tried to punish him and instill some discipline and human empathy into him but his wife wouldn’t have any of it. If John took his electronics away for misbehaving, his wife would give them back in 5 minutes. If he grounded him for any period of time, he knew all he had to do was ask his mom if he could go out and she would immediately tell him yes and to be safe and have fun. Any time he showed disrespetful behaviour, to them and to the other people she would always say ‘boys will be boys’. It was one of the many things that led to their eventual divorce when their son was 15. They shared custody and anytime his son was over Price tried to correct his behaviour, believing it was never too late but all of his work would be undone anytime he would go back to his mothers and by the time his son was 18 and stopped coming over as mandated by the courts, it was too late. Now his son only came round when he wanted something or was in the type of trouble he didn’t want his mother to know about. 

ex boyfriends dad John Price who met you for the first time at his son's 21st birthday, he didn’t plan on staying long and was only going to show face, put some money on the tab for his son and give him his present. And there are you, a pretty little thing wrapped in the arms of his asshole son and he decides to stay just a little longer than he planned to talk to you. You are oh so sweet when he talks to you, telling him you had heard good things about him from his ex-wife and son (which he instantly doubted, his wife was still bitter he went through with the divorce and his son saw him as this hard-handed father always dishing out punishments he believed he didn’t deserve), you voice is positively dripping with syrup and John feels his heart pick up in a way he hadn’t felt in years. But as he walks with you, he watches. Closely. Watches the way you're never too far away from his son, how you talk to nobody but him, how your eyes are always searching for his son in the room, how you rub your hand up and down your arms to comfort yourself as you watch his son talk, no, flirt with every other woman in the room. It makes something in his gut twist itself into knots because his son as this absolutely beautiful and sweet girl right there and he was just throwing it away

ex boyfriends dad John Price who meets you a few times in the next year, in cafes or supermarkets or even just when you’re out for a walk in the local park, you always look so pretty especially in the warmer months when you’re out and about in little summer dresses and short skirts, the warm summer sun shining on your skin and giving you a gorgeous glow,  and you are always so so nice to him, making conversation with soft smiles and wide eyes but he notices you're a littlemore skittish, always checking your phone and looking around you anxiously as if someone was watching you, how your clothes start to get a bit more conservative the little hints of your gorgeous skin now being hidden behind long sleeves and trousers. When he asks if you’re okay you give him a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes and tell him everythings fine, the feeling he had in his gut when he first met you gets worse. He knew something was wrong and though he couldn’t pinpoint what it was he knew it had to do with his son. 

ex boyfriends dad John Price who hasn't seen you for a few months since he last saw you in December, the last time he saw you all the warmth had drained from your face and your eyes and though you were smiling there was an undeniable sadness and pain just rolling off you in waves. It broke his heart to see someone who was once so full of life become lifeless, like all the light and warmth that had radiated from you when you first meet was sucked out and replaced with a deep darkness that penetrated the very fibers of your soul. When he see’s you again, its Spring and the world has started to gain a bit more of its colour back, and so have you. You’re in a local bar, your friends surrounding you as you laugh and drinkand dance, John watches from the bar. Watches the way your eyes light up and your smile finally reached your eyes, the way your cheeks are dusted in a small pink hue as the alcohol flushes your skin. He smiles as he brings his whiskey to his lips and turns away from your group, who unbeknownst to him were trying to convince you to go up and talk to him despite the fact that he was your ex-boyfriends dad. They rolled their eyes and shoved at your shoulder every time you tried to brush them off, saying what better way to get revenge against your cheating, toxic ex-boyfriend than to sleep with his dad? And with the encouragement of another shot you decide to go ‘fuck it’ and walk up to the bar, sliding in comfortably beside John your hand falling right beside his your pinky finger brushing against as you turn your head to look at him only to find him already looking at you, his eyes raking up and down your body. He wasn’t going to admit it out loud, at least not to you at this very moment, but gods was he glad you were showing a little bit of skin again, the tight crop top you had on giving him the perfect view of your cleavage and leaving the delcious skin of your sides exposed while the short skirt you wore hugged the curve of your hips in such a teasing manner that he just wanted to reach out and palm the fat with his big hands just to feel it squish between his fingers, and your thighs gods he just wanted to bury his face inbetween them and feel the fat press against his head. 

ex boyfriends dad John Price who smiles at you, warm and welcoming, eyes twinkling with mischief and mirth as he greets you with a friendly ‘hi’, you give him a flirtatious smile and a ‘hi’ back. You quickly fall into an easy conversation, catching up with one another and skirting over the glaring question of what happened. You talk about your classes and how glad you are to be graduating soon and, saying how you’ve already secured a graduate position in one of the top companies within your industry and he tells you some stories of his time in the military and when he tells you about a scottish man called ‘Soap’ you can’t help but giggle and ask how he got that name and when John tells you its classified you pout at him and he damn near pulls you in for a kiss right there. Time flies by so quickly when you’re talking to him that you don’t even notice your friends leave, your best friend sending a text letting you know everyone got home safely and to use protection and not to do anything she wouldn’t do (which causes you to roll your eyes and John can’t help the dirty thoughts and images that flashes through his mind when he sees it), or how the numbers in the bar keep dwindling down until its just the two of you left and the bartender gives you a cheeky smile as you close out your tab (John insisting on paying for yours as well). 

ex boyfriends dad John Price who insists on walking you home when you’re ushered out of the bar, his hand casually slipping around shoulder as he pulls you against him, using the fact that the spring night is chilly and you didn’t bring a jacket out with you and he just radiates warmth, which instantly spreads through you at his touch. Starting in your cheeks, causing an adorable flush that quickly spreads through your entire body settle deep in your stomach and your core. You continue to chat as you walk, more stories flowing between the you and you flush even brighter at the big belly laugh he lets out as you share your drunken stories from freshers week when you first started university. Before you know it, you’re outside your apartment and you dwindle for a bit conversation dying down but neither of you wanting to say goodbye yet. It takes a nothing more than a few nanoseconds for you to decide to invite him up for a drink, telling him you had a bottle of 15 year old single malt your father gifted you for being accepted into your dream job after college and he accepts even quicker.

ex boyfriends dad John Price who follows behind you, his hand in yours and his heart beating rapidly in his chest feeling like a goody teenager as he crosses the threshold of apartment, he doesn’t even let the door fully close before he’s turning you around and pinning you to it. One hand gripping your hips and the other cradling your jaw like you are the most precious thing in the world, completely contradicting the way he kisses you. Its deep, harsh, bruising and full of passion, lips slotting against yours like they were always meant to be there. The kiss is absolutely intoxicating, one hand reaches out to fist at his shirt while the other tangles in his hair at the back of his head, your grab is a little tighter than you expected and tension at the back of his skull causes a moan to ripple from deep in Johns chest and spill into your mouth and you arch into him, pressing yourself impossibly closer to him, your hand moving from his chest to grip at his shoulders. You dig your nails into his skin beneath the soft fabric of his shirt as his hand moves from your hip to grab at your ass and pull you against him, his hard cock pressing into the plush of your stomach through his jeans. John pulls away from the kiss far to quickly for your liking and you go to chase his lips but he quickly buries his head in your neck, lips pressing against your pulse point as you pant and move your neck to give him better access to the skin, his teeth graze your skin as the kisses turns to bites and the moan you let our is absolute music to John’s ears.

ex boyfriends dad John Price who feels a little guilty about what he’s doing, the rational part of his brain at war with the emotional part, telling him it’s wrong and he shouldn’t be doing this, apart from the fact that you were more than 20 years younger than him you were also his son ex-girlfriend for gods sake and maybe part of him was doing this to spite his son and maybe you were doing the same thing, he didn’t know the details of what happened you didn’t elaborate when you told him you had broken up just after new year, maybe you were just doing this for revenge to screw with his son, to show him what he missed but the emotional part is screaming at him that this is right, that right there is where he’s meant to be. He found you attractive, had since he first saw you, but it was more than that he thought you were amazing and kind and so so smart, he enjoyed every second of the small amount of time he got to spend with you idly chatting when you meet, you made his heart beat so erratically in his chest that he was sure it was going to rip out of this chest but he wouldn’t even mind if it meant he go to give it to you for safe keeping  because he knew there was no better place it than in your hands. Eventually the rational side wins and John’s panting as he pulls back from your neck, pupils wide as he looks in your eyes. You see a hint of hesitation in his eyes, and something inside you shrinks back a little and the heat that had been pooling inside of you was slowly turning stone cold but the way John rubs his tumb against your cheek stops it from flaming our completely. His voice is quiet as he ask if you want this, he’s still breathless as the words pass it lips and you barely hear it but when it registers in your brain you are instantly saying ‘yes’ and nodding your head.  That’s all he needs for his emotional side to win and he is pressing his lips to yours once again and his hands are gripping onto your thighs as he easily hoists you up into his arms as you wrap your legs around his waist.

ex boyfriends dad John Price who doesn’t even take you to the bedroom, instead he gently places you on the sofa as his hands reach out to remove your shirt, throwing it over his shoulder hapazardly (you notice in the morning it’s hanging of the edge of your lamp shade), his lips trailing down your throat and across your collarbone intermittently changing from kisses to bites to sucks something akin to pride blooming in his chests as the purple marks bloom across your skin. Heat blooms where his lips touch and you grind up into him, the fabric of your skirt having rid up when he lifted you and being bunched around your hips leaving your panties and pussy exposed and allowing you to seek a delicious friction as your clit nudges against the fabric of his jeans through your panties, it helps that the fabric is tented from Johns hard cock. The moan you let out is almost pornographic from just the simple movement and John groans at the sound, moving his hips to meet yours as you grind just to hear it again. 

ex boyfriends dad John Price  who had planned to take his time with you, to learn exactly what made you come undone underneath him and to draw out orgasm after orgasm from you until you were a trembling mess who couldn’t even remember his own name, he wanted to make you moan and scream until your throat was raw and watch those pretty little eyes roll to the back of your head as pleasure overwhelmed your body, but he could feel the wetness of your underwear through his jeans and the way you nails dug into his skin through the fabric of his shirt so hard he was sure they would leave little crescent indents on the skin and bruises that would last days, ones he would proudly show off and he decided fuck taking his time. He quickly removed his lips from your skin and you mourned their loss but the feeling was quickly replaced with pleasure as he moved down and presses a kiss to your clit through your underwear as John hooks his fingers into the waistband and pulls them down your thighs once again throwing it over his shoulder haphazardly not caring where they landed as his hand wrapped around your thigh and he dove into your pussy. He licks at your clit, tongue swirling around the bundle of nerves and pleasure shoots through your entire body, sparks lighting up your nervous system and it feel like every nerve comes alive more the fire inside of you heating up to a new degree with every swipe of his tongue and as John presses a finger to your entrance gently to your entrance, at first testing the resistance before slowly pushing into you and curving in such away it presses against your g-spot and its almost like he can directly inside of you with the precision he hits it at. The pleasure causes a moan and an ‘oh god’ to tumble from your lips and your eyes roll black, which John watches from between your legs and as your head falls back against the arm of the chair he nips gently at your clit the tiny bit of pain causes a whine to tumble from your lips and a smirk forms on Johns lips

ex boyfriends dad John Price   who says “eyes on me sweetheart” and the ways the words tumble from his lips, deep and rumbly and dripping with heat that almost makes you melt. And oh god the vibration against your clit has you almost seeing stars and pushes you closer to the edge but you quickly snap your head back so you can look down at John who presses another kiss to your clit as a reward but then he pulls his finger from inside you and for the briefest second you think you’re being punished but he replaces his mouth on your clit with his thumb and starts circling your clit while he raises the rest of his body to give you a bruising kiss, your tongues mixing together as you taste yourself on him and with one last flick of his thumb John feels you tense underneath him as your orgasm rocks your body. You feel like your whole body is on fire, little fireworks lighting up every single nerve ending you have and causing you to moan into John’s mouth, your fingers scramble to to hold onto something, anything to ground you, eventually tangling in the fabric of John’s shirt as you ride out the wave of your orgasm. Your chest heaves as you come down from your high and you separate your lips from John to mumble the words “you have too many clothes one”, he chuckles at you and ducks down to place a kiss against your pulse point again before sitting up and pulling off his shirt first and then reaching down to unbuckle his belt, his jeans and boxers joining the mess of clothes all over the floor. Your eyes scan his body, his years in the military and security doing wonders for his body, corded muscles bulging in his arms as he brings his arms down on side of yours head forcing you to look him in the face once again where you’re meet with inquisitive and teasing eyes as he asks “like what you see sweetheart?” 

ex boyfriends dad John Price  who doesnt expect or wait for an answer as he presses his lips to yours in another searing kiss, lips and tongues melding together its almost like you were trying to drain each other life essence out just through the kiss. When John pulls away from you, a string of saliva connects you and only breaks when he dips his tongue out to swipe across his lips as he checks in with you again to make sure that this is what you want and when you nod, he takes one of his hands by your head and gently guides himself inside you. The stretch is absolutely delicious and a moan rips through you, starting deep in your chest and falling from your lips before you can even stop it but John doesn’t want you to stop it instead he grips your chin and tells you to be louder that he wants to hear every little sound that tumbles from your lips and so you do. With every thrust inside of you and every circle of Johns finger against your clit your moans get louder and more uncontrolled every fibre of your being filled with nothing but pleasure and your mind numb to any other thought than Johns name and the pleasure he is giving you. You cum again with John inside you, your nerve endings lighting up like the sun itself as you clench around him, the tightness of your pussy clamping down on Johns dick causing a jagged moan to fall from John’s lips. He knew he wasn’t going to last, he was already so worked up from kissing you and eating you out that he knew he was going to cum soon. And as you clench around him again, a mini ograsm richocting from your last one, he groans into you neck and takes your hip into a bruising grip, fingers and nail digging in to the plush flesh, he can’t himself as she sheathes himself inside of you right up to the hilt as his own orgasm rocks through him and he fills you with his cum. Your both panting, your chests heaving as you both come down from your high with ecstasy and adrenaline filling your systems and you notice, John is still hard inside of you so you say with a smile, “another round?” which may have turned into 2, including a round in the shower as he tried to clean you up from the previous rounds. 

ex boyfriends dad John Price who decided that night that he wanted this to be more, more than just sex. He wanted you in your entiretly, he wanted not just your heart but your soul. He wanted to know every secret you kept hidden buried deepen inside you, he wanted to know the simplest most basic parts of you, your favour colour and favourite food, what made you laugh and smile and what pisses you off. He wanted to hold your hopes and dreams in his hands and support you to reach to them, wanted to hold your hand as you rose and comfort you when you fell. He wanted your happiness and your pain. He just wanted you. Every part of you, no matter how knarled and ugly you thought it was because to him you would always be the most wonderful creature the gods had ever created.

The Mountain Is You

Ch. 1:  I've become a figment of my imagination

Dom!Ghost and Dom!Price x Sub!Reader

I'm making this one official. (Chapter 2!)

CW: Dom/sub, bondage/discipline, pain play, spanking.

Explicit/NSFW/MDNI

Ghost had been the perfect introductory level Dom.  You’d started visiting the office of Life Connect 141 after a referral from a friend, and he’d had many of the qualities you’d been looking for in a partner. 

He was anonymous and discreet.  With his mask on, you never had to worry about bumping into him in the grocery store or bringing your car into the shop and finding out the man operating the nut driver had whipped your ass raw and called you his perfect little dove as you gargled incoherent sounds around his fingers. 

He was quiet, too, and had a way of making you feel comfortable.  His commands were issued in crisp, clipped tones that were easy to follow and get right.  Yes.  No.  That’s it.  Again?   You even heard his voice in your dreams and used it to ground yourself when you needed motivation or a tether to the present.

You replayed your most effective scenes in your mind in the same way you imagined some people pictured the ocean or listened to bird songs.

The pulsing heat of your backside tucked tightly in a pencil skirt, combined with his languid ‘good girl’ echoing through your mind, was enough to make your panties wet in the middle of a board meeting or standing on the platform at the train station.

And his aftercare was more than sufficient.  Although, to be honest, it bordered a bit on the cold side.  Rehearsed in a way that felt like he was only going through the motions.  Counting the minutes before whispering, “That’s my time, hon,” in your ear as he helped you to your feet.

He was there for you, but he didn’t need you.  It was you who sought out his services.  He’d done his job when you left feeling refreshed and confident to tackle whatever chaos awaited you in the world outside his office.  He was a professional, and you were a client. 

He wasn’t cheap, either.  Your self-care budget had taken a backseat to more pressing responsibilities, and it had become more and more difficult to make an appointment.  He’d become quite popular and needed to be booked further and further in advance.  You didn’t always know if you’d be in the right headspace when he was available, but you didn’t want to give up your place in the rotation. 

But it wasn’t for any of those reasons that you called to cancel your future sessions and take your name off the last-minute openings list.  He didn’t do anything wrong.  It was all you.

You’d trusted Ghost, worked up a relationship where he knew what you wanted and gave it to you exactly how you liked it, with a sniper’s precision.  At least until your latest session, when you desired something a bit...more. 

Work, and life in general, had been especially stressful.  A guy you’d started seeing from the gym had turned out to be a complete creep who stood you up on your second date, and spammed your phone for three days when you didn’t accept his apology or his offer to reschedule.  And your assistant had left for an unexpected medical leave and her temporary replacement didn’t know how to answer the phone. 

You were patient.  You were kind.  You were tired.  And now, on top of everything else, you needed to find a new gym.

It’d been a few months since you’d been in to see him, and you were severely overdue.  It was a recipe for disaster that, had you been a more experienced Sub, you may have been able to avoid.  Never go to bed angry?  Never visit your Dom when you were on the edge of spiraling out of control.

You were in your usual position, bottomless with your hands bound with his silk tie behind your back, ass presented to him on the faux leather sofa and your black lace panties in your mouth.  The mirror in front of you gave a view of the mirror behind you.  A 360 degree look at the crimson blood flowing hot under your fevered skin, the Hitachi vibrator strapped between your thighs and the dark figure at your back orchestrating it all. 

Everything was perfect.  Except that with each crack of the leather crop against your tender surface, you didn’t get any closer to the relief you sought.  You’d hit a wall, right on the cusp of that rapture you chased like a fiend.  Like a starving animal running down a faster prey with the last of its strength.

Pain had always been a curious thing for you.  Walking barefoot on the beach, the sharp rocks and shells against the arches of your feet were tactile and exhilarating.  The punishing ache of a deep tissue massage was more satisfying than the gentle glide of hands on your skin. 

There were times your whole body felt like an itch you couldn’t scratch.  That it needed to be flayed off or burned away, grown anew like antler velvet or snakeskin.

When he counted his twentieth whack, and you weren’t there yet, you whimpered with frustration.  The slickness at your core dried up, and the precipice of your orgasm disappeared from reach.  Just as you teetered at the top of the mountain, you slid back down to the bottom with a hopeless crash.

“Color, pet?”  At the unfamiliar sound of your distress, he stiffened behind you and moved quickly to pull the fabric from your mouth. 

“Green,” you pleaded, tears flooding your eyes unbidden. “Please.  Give me a few more.  I was close.”

“We already did three rounds of twenty.  I can’t go any further today.”  He kept his voice hard and controlled.  “Don’t want to scar this sweet, perfect ass.”

He slipped a glove off one hand and reverently grazed his knuckles over your welting hide.

“I’m renegotiating.  Please!”  You weren’t above begging.  Not like this.  Not when your blood ran hot enough to burn and sweat dripped between your breasts in desperation.

“No.”

“You think I’m weak, is that it?  That I can’t take it?”  Your ire sprung from your helplessness.  Not the physical surrender that you’d craved, but the impotent kind that left you empty and unfulfilled.

“Careful, dove.  Talking back to me like that.”  He slid his gloved hand along your cheek to cup your chin, turning you up to look at him.  Deceptively gentle as he gritted through clenched teeth, “You know better, don’t you?”

“What are you going to do about it?”  A fresh flare of anticipation fluttered through your belly, and settled low, where your bare cunt cradled the head of the vibrator.  

Fathomless eyes narrowed back at you with calculation from the openings of his mask.  The skull painted in place of his face sized you up in a fraction of a second before he let his hand fall away.

You squirmed under his scrutiny, clutching the smooth, hard plastic tighter between your thighs, rutting against the only point of contact you had left.  Willing it to be more and feel better than it did.

He sat silent, watching you struggle for what seemed like hours as your shoulders cramped and your knees shook from the constraints of your position.

“Help me?”  You begged again, running your tongue along your pouty lips.  Hungrily eyeing the zipper of his black dress pants.  “I’ll do anything you want.” 

Finally, he fisted a handful of your hair, pulling tight and sharp.  The sting both too brief and too late.

“You know the rules.”  The sympathetic slant of his head and the soft honesty in his tone pulled you out of the scene once and for all. 

You did know.  For all of its merits, Life Connect 141 also had its limits.  It was a business, and it came with strict guidelines.  No sex and no blood.  No exceptions.  Safe, sane, and consensual.  Sanitized and structured. 

Except none of those things were going to get you where you needed to be at that moment.  So, you did something you never thought you’d do.

You tapped out, muttering your safe word and pulling the plug.  He’d never given up on you before, but the clock had run out, and any further discussion was just a waste of his precious time.

The only indication he’d even heard you was a curt nod of acceptance and a clipped, “Alright,” as he untied your hands and rubbed some life back into your arms.

“Dove?”  He was concerned, and probably looking for his own reassurance.

Too humiliated to melt into his thick, tattooed arms, or to accept his offered ice pack for your battered backside, you simply dressed silently and shook him off with a faked smile.

“I’m fine.  Really.  See you next time.”  With not an ounce of truth.

You didn’t know the etiquette for breaking up your Dom, so you were surprised when you got a call barely an hour after you’d canceled.  Thinking it was a last ditch sales pitch to keep you as a customer, you let it go to voicemail.

But instead of a generic, “What can we do to keep your business,” you were greeted with Ghost’s voice instead.

“It’s me.  I’m just sorry that things ended the way they did.”

Why was he apologizing?  You’re the one who'd made a fool of yourself.  Pushing him for things he couldn’t give you.  As if you were more than just a transaction to him.

“I’d like to take you out for a drink.  There’s someone I’d like you to meet.  He can do more for you than I can.  I think you’ll like him.  I wouldn’t trust my best girl with just anyone.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at that, even as it curled your toes.  He probably said that to all his Subs.

“Call me back.  Please?  His name’s John.”

meet your match

price x f!reader | 10k | AO3

cw: dubcon, explicit sexual content, praise kink, daddy kink (mentioned), breeding kink, john price wife-hunting/wife at first sight, perfectionist/workaholic/lonely reader, stalking, manipulation

John spots the ad as he punches a pin through his card. 

It’s impossible to miss.

Bright red hearts, pink-and-white checkered borders on glossy paper someone paid extra to print. A heart-shaped tack centered perfectly along the top edge. Big looping letters—MEET YOUR MATCH SPEED DATING.

It looks absurd next to his card. A dull rectangle of plain cardstock, his name printed in clean, unembellished letters, ‘John Price - Handyman’, and his number below. No bright colors, no flourishes. Simple like the work. Honest. Keeps his hands occupied between deployments.

The disgust arrives on a delay, a spark traveling along powder. A twist in his gut, a curl of his lip. His eyes rolling hard in his skull. It’s an affront—not just to him, but to the very idea of how things are supposed to go.

He yanks a trolley free, muttering under his breath.

Who in their right mind would waste time like that? Spinning around, talking to strangers, volleying shallow questions, forcing laughter. Acting like most people don’t make up their minds in the first thirty seconds about whether or not they want someone in their bed.

The whole affair reeks.

He shoulder-checks another man in power tools, too distracted by the voices of his sergeants drifting uninvited through his head, summoned by all his grousing.

Stubborn, cantankerous Price. Twice-divorced, stuck in a year-long dry spell because he’s got a habit of scaring off any decent woman who strays into his orbit. The mean old bastard who always moans about the good ol’ days—when men met women face-to-face, not through some app where you swiped left or right like you were picking out a meal deal.

When he could pick them up right off the street, like the first Mrs. Price. Or the supermarket, like her successor.

The memories leave a bittersweet taste. An ache in his groin. It’s been a minute since he took a girl home. Since he tried.

Through the shelves, the poster shines like a fucking beacon.

He breathes sharply through his nose, shakes it off, and shoves deeper into the store.

He never should’ve looked at the bloody thing.

Four fingers’ worth of amber sloshing around in his belly, he swallows the burn of embarrassment with another glass. Lets it dull his better judgment. The tips of his ears red hot as he punches his bank card into the online checkout, grumbling some half-formed excuse to himself. 

The confirmation email arrives in seconds. He ignores it.

He spends the week installing cabinetry, letting the scream of a circular saw drown out his thoughts. Shovels dirt over it when he lays a garden path for a neighbor one afternoon, determined to bury it one stone at a time. Tamping it down along with the dirt, out of sight, out of mind.

But then the reminder lands in his inbox, bright and cheery. Evidence of his lapse in judgment. His mood sours, dragging him into the muck like a boot caught in deep, clinging mud. He knows he ought to ignore it again, chalk it up to a stupid mistake, but—

An itch flares on the back of his ring finger. He scratches it raw, but there’s no relief.

On the night of, he drives white-knuckled to the next town over, pulling into the car park twenty minutes early. He leans against his door, cigar in hand, smoke curling into the cold air as others arrive.

Most of them come in groups, chattering and laughing, familiar. He jumps from one face to the next, cataloging. His finger rests on an invisible trigger, caught between decisions—go in and see what the fuss is about, or make a quick retreat, head home, and catch some pretty face’s stream instead.

Then, a small cluster of girls passes by, giggling behind manicured hands, casting sidelong glances that scream daddy issues. He exhales a ribbon of smoke, watching over the glowing cherry of his cigar.

Whether or not he, by some miracle, finds a match tonight, there’s always the potential for a consolation prize.

As soon as he slaps a name tag onto his chest and scans the crowd, it’s obvious—he’s one of the older men present. Hell, scratch that, he might be the oldest by a fair stretch.

The younger bucks don’t spare him a second glance, too busy puffing out their chests, checking the competition among themselves. The women, though, they’re more forgiving. A few give him passing looks, flickers of intrigue as they clock him standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching.

John knows what he looks like. North of forty, gray threading through his temples, a soft layer of fat settling over the muscle beneath. Dressed sensibly, nothing flashy. Not like the men peacocking around in too-tight shirts, drowning themselves in cologne, preening. He’s here, and that’s about the extent of his effort.

And then the first round begins. He sits across from the first girl, and the second her eyes widen—not in the way he’d like—he knows exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

It proceeds as expected.

The fascination with his years, the curiosity. What’s a man like you doing at something like this? The inevitable prying. Married before? Twice? Oh, well, then. Or worse, the giddy birds, buzzing in their seats with smiles that say, yes, he is the answer to some life-long wound, a stand-in for the attention they never got from their fathers. 

Then there are the unbearably shy ones, pulling teeth just to get a full sentence out before the round is called. Good girls. Decent girls. Girls who stare at him as if he’s about to vault the table and sink his teeth into their throats.

Which is absurd.

He’s a war dog. He prefers a bit of fight. Skin in the game. Make it worth his while, tucker him out.

By the end of it, his card is full, but he’s unimpressed.

His knees and back ache from all the repetitious standing and sitting, moving from seat to seat like some wind-up toy. His jaw is sore from clenching, his temples pulsing from two hours of forced patience. Hands itching for a smoke. It’s nothing like sitting and waiting for a clean shot. That always results in at least a job well done. A mission accomplished. This? A lousy scorecard and a couple of numbers he won’t call from girls who don’t have a clue what they’re looking for?

He’s out of his fucking mind for even bothering.

It’s demeaning.

The organizer flicks on the mic, sending a screech of feedback through the speakers, and he rips the name tag from his chest, teeth grinding. He didn’t listen the first time—only a fucking moron would need the rules explained twice. He’s already angling toward the door, ready to make his exit, when he sees you.

The evening turns on its head.

The last hour wiped clean with a look.

Bright red hearts dangle from your ears. A matching necklace rests at the hollow of your throat. A pink-and-white checkered clipboard sits on your hip, a matching pen twirling absently in your fingers. Chipped crimson varnish on your thumb, like you’ve been peeling it off. Chewing, maybe. 

Glittery boots lend you height. Shoulders squared, posture straight. Doing your best to exude confidence.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

You prattle on. Platitudes, mostly. How engaged everyone looked in their conversations, a playful quip about how some already seem like goddamn lovebirds. Your voice lilts with charm, a smidge warbly. You must’ve given this speech a hundred times before. Then comes the boasting.

Your agency’s success rate. The numbers, the percentages. How many second and third dates attendees report back. How you’ve helped introduce hundreds of couples. There’s pride in it. Your eyes brighten. But it’s a veneer. Thin as lace.

He sees it. The beads of sweat gathering at your hairline, the faint sheen behind your ear, the subtle tremor in your voice when you get too caught up in your own enthusiasm. A broken-off giggle. The occasional tap of your fingers against the edge of that clipboard, a tic, a tell. You’ve got the confidence, but it’s over-rehearsed. As much of an accessory as the ornament wrapped around your neck.

And he can’t help but wonder.

What would you do if someone called your bluff? If he found you after? Stepped in close, trapped you against one of those god awful stiff-backed chairs, close enough that you felt the weight of him hovering? What would you do if he gave you his honest opinion about your ‘work’, face-to-face?

His mind spins on it for half a second before you say something that derails him completely.

Babies.

It lands like a stone dropped in a pond. Ripples outward in nervous laughter, uncertain shuffling. The younger attendees shift on their feet, casting shy, uncertain glances at each other. You fumble through it, quick and awkward, as if you’ve only realized the present demographics aren’t quite ready for the stork.

He hopes it’s an exaggeration. An offhand comment, a bone tossed out for the older guests in the room.

(Him, because who else fits the bill?)

His blood runs hot at that.

Something stirs in his gut, rising insistent and uncoiling in his chest. A want he thought he’d discounted out years ago, snuffed like a match between his fingers. Delayed by his climb through the ranks and waylaid by fizzling romance.

Children. 

Can one ever really bury an instinct like that deep enough?

His own father soured him on the notion—spiteful, unforgiving, malignant tumor of a man. Impossible standards, an intolerance to match. A rage John inherited, honed, funneled into the one bloody release he found in service. An ugliness that made him swear off continuing the line. 

Still, something funny holds him back. That itch.

He’s canceled every vasectomy he’s ever scheduled in the last decade. Reversible or not, it’s intoxicating to know what he’s capable of.

With you wandering into the crosshairs, it clicks into place. He understands.

He swallows, jaw clenching, and forces himself to look at your face instead of the hollow of your throat, where that ridiculous necklace rests. Forces himself to focus on what you’re saying instead of the shape of your mouth as you say it.

A-ffirmed. He’s out of his fucking mind for coming here.

He tells himself he won’t hunt you down afterward.

No. You’re insulated. Shielded by a flock of hens who swarm the second you return the microphone back to its stand, all clucking approval, dishing out compliments, asking their inane questions about your services. You nod, smile, say your thanks, gracious and warm, and it’s exactly the excuse he needs to leave.

He should leave.

Instead, he declines to give your colleague his scorecard, stuffing the useless sheet into his pocket without so much as a second look-over. He chews the inside of his cheek, locked on you. Takes what he tells himself will be his last look. Prints you on the inside of his eyelids.

Then he sees your hand.

A short stack of business cards, matching the damned poster that started this whole ridiculous mess. He moves before he can think better of it.

Crosses the hall in a handful of long strides. The younger women scatter in his wake, parted by his low, muttered pardon me’s.

And you, you—

Eyes wide, lips parting around a breath, half a sentence, “Here, sir,” before he plucks a card from your fingers.

Then he’s gone.

Straight out the door. Across the car park. Sliding into the driver’s seat, his pulse thundering in his ears, his hand already reaching for the glove compartment. Lighter. Cigarette. Routine to steady himself. Busy his hands so he doesn’t barge right back inside and drag you out behind him. Fire to distract the caveman clawing at his brain.

He doesn’t look at your card right away, not until the first drag burns through his lungs.

It’s just as garish as the poster. Wine-red lettering. Your name. The dating agency you work for. Your number.

And if that isn’t convenient. 

That’s half the battle won.

He should call. Go through the proper channels, hire you for your services like any decent man would. But there’d be no way to lie about what he’s really looking for and what he really wants.

He can’t be too direct, can’t risk scaring you off, but he also can’t leave it up to chance. Experience—and two spousal payments—have taught him better than that.

He won’t make the same mistake a third time.

John does his research.

Your online presence is threadbare, limited to a short bio on the agency website and a sparsely populated profile on a corporate network. Matchmaker, professional hostess. He scrolls, picks apart the scraps. Posts you’ve written and shared, abbreviated comments you embellish with hearts.

Little as he has to study with, it adds up.

You’re all work, no play. Polite, sweet, and a real go-getter, as a former colleague describes you. All butterflies and whiskers on kittens. Sugar-coated professionalism. Your accomplishments and certifications laid out like medals, ambitions clear. Ruthless, in your own way, but the kind with puppy teeth, growing into your bite, he’d bet.

He saw you struggle and the nerves you tried to hide. Maybe others bought it, but he didn’t. If that’s where you are after years on the job, he imagines what you were like in the beginning. Easily rattled, unsteady on your feet.

Still. You’re trying. Look where you are now. Go-getter.

The effort and determination, however clumsy, fascinates. It keeps him searching for a glimpse beneath the polished exterior, but there’s nothing. Not a single mention of friends, family, or, notably, a boyfriend.

It makes his teeth ache.

He needs more.

A hideous, modern building. The very opposite of you—cold, plain, and impersonal. Expensive, not without amenities. His favorite?

The floor-to-ceiling windows.

Blessedly, you are a creature of routine.

Home to work, and work to home. A seamless loop, unbroken save for brief, reasonable deviations. Trips to the shops, a walk through the park near your flat, a community gym. Even then, there’s no idle wandering or wasted time.

Sometimes, when you duck into the market, you emerge with a bouquet of flowers, petals and leaves wrapped in crinkled brown paper, or a bottle of wine, its slender neck peeking out. Small indulgences you buy yourself.

Because there’s no one else to do it for you.

He’s all but confirmed it, watching you ferry yourself between the same points, alone every time. No one welcomes you home. No one goes home to you. Big, lofty place like yours and no one to share it with.

It doesn’t sit right with him, on two fronts.

The first—you pride yourself on your expertise. The training, the certificates, the metrics. It’s all laid out online, your badges of honor, but you’re missing the biggest one, aren’t you? Lacking firsthand knowledge. Quite the albatross hanging around your neck.

The second—it’s self-flagellation, needless and punishing. Pretty, smart thing like you, locking yourself away. A princess banishing herself to a tower. The persistent, cynical part of him wonders if it’s simple snobbery. That you think you’re too good for men like him. 

Yet that’s not quite it either, is it? 

You shut yourself off from everyone.

Twice in one week, from his spot in the mouth of the alley outside your office, he hears you decline invitations for drinks from your colleagues. The same excuse, too much to do, and a pat to the stuffed tote slung over your shoulder.

You work hard, pour yourself into the gig, and when you manage to unwind, it’s always in isolation. A quiet dinner, a solo glass of wine, a book balanced on the arm of your couch. Those big yoga stretches in the morning and at bed time.

The thought solidifies into certainty: You need someone to step in. Someone who sees you.

Luckily for you, John does.

(You never pull those shades down all the way. A fancy place like yours? It’d be a shame to keep them covered, lose the view.)

Satisfied he’s learned all he can from a distance, John decides to meet you properly, on familiar ground. A lonely, overworked girl deserves at least that much. He isn’t cruel.

Buying another ticket to another fucking night of pointless dating doesn’t taste so bad when he has you to look forward to.

This time, it’s in the back room of a restaurant. Smaller, intimate.

Perfect.

John glides through the song and dance. Sign in, take the name tag, acknowledge your coworker, let them believe he’s another hopeful looking for love.

He is, in a way. Different from the last time. He strides with purpose now, heat-seeking. He sidesteps the idle chatter and growing crowd.

Eyes on the prize, and there you are.

As primped and polished as the first night, dressed in soft colors that contrast the tension strung tight in your shoulders pulled up to your ears. Just as on edge, if not more.

That damn clipboard is back on your hip, clutched like a lifeline, and it takes less than a second for his mind to replace it. A warm weight settled against you. Small hands grasping at fabric. A dark-haired child perched, fingers curled in your blouse.

His throat tightens.

You really shouldn’t have mentioned babies.

You move through the space in a current, pulled in every direction at once. Checking in with your coworker, refusing to delegate. Pointing guests toward the toilets, fielding messages on your phone, juggling it all with a thin smile.

It’s admirable.

Nevertheless, hairline cracks form. The light dulls in your eyes, the stress shakes your hands. You’re tired, and not the kind he wants to see on you.

Not the delicious, drowsy fatigue of a body thoroughly spent, melted into the mattress after he’s wrung you dry. Not the half-hearted whimper of a protest as you nuzzle into his chest, mumbling about your ruined makeup staining pillowcases and how it’s his fault. Not the slow, syrupy exhaustion of pleasure that makes you pliant and warm in his arms. The kind of fatigue that leaves you soft, content. His.

Nor the bone-deep weariness of a woman woken in the middle of the night, cradling—

He blinks, biting down on the thought, and suddenly, you’re within reach.

“Oh, hi again,” you chirp, passing a scorecard into his hand. “You came a couple of weeks ago, right?”

That ugly impulse rises within him again, the desire to drag you away outside and make your problems disappear. “I did.”

“Thought so. Well, good luck,” you check his name tag with a smile. “John. Hope you find someone tonight.”

If only you knew.

“One question, if you don’t mind,” he says, barely keeping his face neutral. “Ever find your own match at one of these?”

Your eyes widen with an almost comical look of confusion. “Excuse me?”

John doesn’t lower his head but instead stares right down his nose. “No ring on your finger,” he muses. “Boyfriend too scared to step up?”

“I–I’m not–”

“Don’t tell me,” he chuckles under his breath, “Miss Matchmaker is single?”

John tucks his chin to his chest and watches your pulse jump under your necklace. “Now that,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “is interesting.”

You freeze like you’ve been caught in a lie. Here you are, a professional playing cupid to the lovesick masses, and yet you’re fumbling. Single.

To your credit, you recover quickly, wetting your lips and pasting on a smile. “I don’t see how my personal life is relevant.”

“Oh, but it is,” he insists. “Handin’ out happy endings left and right, and you don’t have your own? How am I s’posed to believe your expertise?”

A line creases your brows. “My job isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? You sell love for a living, but you don’t believe in it enough to keep it for yourself?”

“That’s not—I do not sell love…” You stop yourself, sucking in a breath. “I’m focusing on my career.”

“Right. Too busy pairing up strangers to find someone of your own.”

You bristle, shifting your weight, trying to hold your ground.

He likes that. Likes knowing he’s getting to you, pressing into a tender spot. Chipping away at the outer, painted shell.

Before you muster a response, he breaks into a warm laugh to play up the angle. “Only teasin’.” More like testing, sussing out how much give there is until you crack open and spill. “Well,” he pockets his hands, “guess that means you’re up for grabs, huh?” He winks. “Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

He leaves you stuttering, clipboard clutched to your chest.

The night is a blur. He couldn’t name a single woman he spoke to. Unlike last time, his sheet is empty. No scores. If any woman sees it as a loss, he wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t care.

John steps out for air until more bodies trickle out, and then returns inside. He skirts the edges, poking around the tables at the far end where you’re collecting placards, setting the scene.

In his periphery, he sees the moment you realize you’re on a collision course.

“Lose something?”

Fuck, your voice. Your normal voice, not the chirpy affect you slap on for work. Even if there’s a new wariness to it.

“Think I managed to misplace my card.”

Your eyes widen, darting over the tables you cleared. A good and helpful girl, ignoring that little voice in your head.

“Oh no, I’ll help you look. Do you remember what table you ended on?”

He grins. “That’s kind of you, darl.”

He peeks as you check beneath tables, bending and huffing in frustration when you come up empty-handed. The apologetic smile when you finally admit defeat.

“I guess it’s long gone,” you say reluctantly.

John lays it on thick. Shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment, crumpling the sheet hidden in his jacket into a tight ball. “That’s too bad. What a wash.” A wistful sigh. “And you put on such a lovely event, too.”

The conflicted delight on your face is delicious.

“I’m so sorry.” you murmur. “Let me comp you a ticket to another event. I can’t let you go home empty-handed.”

What a turn of phrase.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. You took time out of your schedule–”

“Grab a drink with me instead.” He interrupts smoothly. “Lift my spirits.”

You hesitate, before shaking your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“A friendly drink?” he teases. “Where’s the harm in that?” 

Not like you have a boyfriend to make jealous.

“It’s just, I ought to get this stuff back.” You nod toward the neat stack of placards, the tote overflowing with the event’s paraphernalia. “Calculate the scores, check compatibility…”

“Can’t your colleague do that for you?” he presses. “Think you deserve a drink for a job well done,” he adds, watching the way you react to the compliment, soaking it in like it’s the first kind word you’ve heard all day. “I saw you working hard all night. Busy girl, eh?”

Indecision shines behind your curled lashes. The gears turn in real-time, weighing the consequences of saying yes.

His nails puncture the paper in his pocket when you flash yet another sorry smile. 

“I’m flattered,” you say, ever so gracious, “but I really can’t. I’ll send that free ticket to your email.”

The dismissal lands like a slap. Indignation sprints across his mind with disbelief snapping at its heels. You don’t give him a chance to tell you where to send that email instead, just the brush-off, slipping away before he can get a word in edgewise. Choler floods the chambers of his heart, draws a bit of blood.

Well, there’s that bit of fight he wanted.

You don’t look back, and he doesn’t blame you. You must feel the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades, on the curve of your ass. You whisper to your coworker, gesturing for their help with you.

His jaw flexes, fingers uncurling from the shredded card in his pocket.

That’s alright.

What kind of man would he be if he didn’t have a backup plan?

The moment unfolds as if coincidence.

John times his approach as you exit the florist, fingers idly stroking the petals of the bouquet in your arms, the same tulips you buy every week. He pictures doing the same to you.

He moves as you step onto the pavement. The collision is gentle, considering, but hard enough that his shoulder clips yours to knock your balance. Enough that you let out a startled gasp, grip faltering, sending the bouquet tumbling from your hands and bag jerking down your arm.

“Shit,” he mutters, crouching before you can. He gathers the flowers, offering them back with a small, sheepish smile. “Didn’t see you there, love. My fault—Wait.” 

He tilts his head, narrows his eyes like he’s only just putting it together. Like he didn’t spend the morning in your shadow to ensure this exact moment. 

Your attention jumps up to him in pure surprise.

“I know you. Miss Matchmaker.”

Recognition washes over your face, and in the span of a breath, confusion gives way to composure. It’s impressive how quickly you smooth it over, tucking away irritation.

“John?”

“You remember me.”

How could she not?

“Of course,” You take the flowers, clutching them tight. Never without a shield. “What a, um, small world.”

John huffs a short laugh, rocking back on his heels. “‘Fraid so.” He lets the silence stretch, drinking you in. You’re too poised to flinch outright, but he’s trained to catch it anyway. Fingers crinkling the paper, chin tipping a fraction higher.

You’re dressed for errands, wrapped in a trench that frustrates more than it should. He knows what’s beneath—having committed the curve of your waist to memory, the shape of your hips. It’s irritating, really.

Still, he likes the look of you like this. Definitely the type to never step outside without making yourself presentable. The type to live by the mantra you never know who you might run into. Collar turned up against the chill, hair styled meticulously away from your face, not hiding that guarded expression. You’re assessing him the same. 

Good.

No catching you on the back foot today, not without a push.

“Draw up any matches since last we met?”

You exhale a short, amused breath. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

He grins. “Ah, right. Can’t have the matchmaker giving away her secrets.”

“Yep. Sorry again about your missing card and, um…” You trail off, and John fills in the blank. The rejection. Your insult is forgotten. Water under the bridge, as far as he’s concerned. “I hope you come next time. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Don’t think you’ll see me there again.”

“No?”

“Don’t think speed dating’s for me.”

You nod knowingly, and hike your bag higher onto your shoulder. “It isn’t for everyone. Some people prefer or have better luck meeting the old-fashioned way.” You lift your wrist and check your watch, the impatient thing that you are. Eager to get home to the hour or two of work you needlessly do every Sunday evening. You start to pull away, already checking out. “Well, I better–”

He steps forward, boxing you in toward the wall.

“Like this?”

Your brow knits, mouth pressing into an unsure smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Polite and strained. You glance at the busy walk, weighing whether it’s worth stepping around or if that would be too rude.

“Like ‘this’? I don’t–”

“Two people, running into each other by chance.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. Smile lapsing, dropping in and out. Curiosity buried beneath skepticism. 

“John…”

He likes how his name sounds on your lips. He wonders how it’d sound under other circumstances.

“Have dinner with me.”

You blink and shrink back, though there’s nowhere to go. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” He doesn’t let your words land. He leans into them. No retreat. Not when the unseen thread fixing the two of you together tugs on the knuckle of his ring finger.

You adjust your grip on the bouquet. “I don’t date clients.”

“Haven’t hired you for anything, have I?” He tilts his head, innocent. 

“A technicality.”

“But not untrue.” He cocks a brow. “One dinner. No strings. If you decide halfway through you’d rather be anywhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Another beat of hesitation. He’s patient. He knows how this works.

Then, finally, you sigh. “Fine. One dinner.”

John smiles. “That’s all I ask.”

For now.

In the days leading to dinner, there’s not enough work to fill his hands.

Certainly not enough to fill his mind.

His thoughts, however, are consumed by you. Maddening how much of his attention you command, how the brief moments shared echo in his mind long after. A constant reverberation, shaping his thoughts, making him imagine another life. Branches reality in two—one without you, unthinkable, and the other? 

A home. A two-storey house with a garden. Kids. Maybe a dog. A do-over. His childhood, but through the looking glass and done right.

A life he’s determined to see the latter into fruition.

There’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

He assembles an outdoor playset for a young family. Decent-sized house and lot. Not unlike the one he sees behind his eyelids. The little ones badger him with questions, tug at his sleeves, chatter away as he carefully fits the wooden frame together and hangs the swings. It’s good practice, what with his plans.

When their mother pops outside to offer water, she compliments his aptitude with children. His patience. Assumes he must have a brood of his own, and he doesn’t correct her. It’s in the works.

Her nails are red, like yours, but perfectly maintained. Despite the slight bags under her eyes, there’s a lightness to her smile that tells him she’s exactly where she wants to be.

And when she steps away to take a call, he imagines you in her stead. Having it all—a home, a family. He’ll give it to you. 

She disappears inside. Her children shriek with laughter, and he wipes the sweat from his brow.

Yes. You, standing in the threshold, tea mug warming your hands. Watching a runt or two running wild, belly low with another. Your nails painted that same cherry tint. Chipped, but perfect.

The restaurant’s host recognizes him, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t recognize you. How would he?

You’re younger than your predecessors, for one. Smiling, for another. Not on John’s arm as a captive for one of his fruitless, belated apologies. Nor are you clearly hostage to obligation, for a tired anniversary ritual, a repetition of mistakes. No. You’re here as someone new, a departure. John’s future.

He erases the other man’s disapproval with a banknote slipped into his palm. The coward keeps his lips sealed, ushering you to the table you deserve.

Price, party of two.

Maybe this time next year you’ll be celebrating a party of three.

If you’re upset over the server’s harmless assumptions about the two of you celebrating a special occasion, you hide it behind the menu. After ordering, you’re forced to relinquish it. Nothing left to hide behind.

The scrape of your finger over your thumbnail betrays agitation. A nervous habit he’ll break after the engagement. Can’t wear his ring without a flawless set.

He doesn’t want to change you. Not much. Not beyond what warrants influence.

As the conversation unfolds—your preferred wine, the rhythm of your day, the idle pleasantries—he studies. His first unobstructed view. No more staring across a crowded room or through your window from his car. Up close and personal.

You are everything he wants. Intelligent, pretty, industrious, and amenable. A woman made to be adored. 

A wonder you deprive yourself of it.

John’s old hand at extracting information. There’s little difference between threats, praise, and encouragement. The right pressure and tone—all surface some truth. He’s practiced on plenty of folks with everything to lose.

But this? Far more delicate. High stakes.

And for all your sugar-spun sweetness and girlish, heart-strewn wardrobe, you are no easy conquest. You play coy. Meet his questions with half-answers, sidestep when you can, parry when you can’t. You know you’re being led, but not quite where.

Puppy teeth, but the same sensibility—you don’t know when to give up and roll over.

All the more proof you need him around.

It’s cute when you try to go dutch on the bill, flustering all over again when the server informs you John’s already paid. Damn near insulting, isn’t it? To be taken care of. That insistence on covering yourself, as if you can’t afford even the notion of dependency. A lifetime of self-sufficiency turned reflex.

You don’t know what to do when someone else takes the reins, and does a good job.

It shouldn’t surprise you. Not after he’s played the perfect gentleman. Holding the door. Pulling out your chair. Helping you in and out of your coat. Adamant on following through with escorting you home.

You made him meet at the restaurant. A necessary concession at the time, but a bruise nonetheless.

He acts surprised when he parks outside your building. Compliments the structure, neighborhood, all that. He leans against the driver’s side door, hands tucked into his pockets. Casual, as if he hasn’t plotted out how he’d get you inside.

You tiptoe around a goodbye. Promising.

The nerve comes, eventually.

“Were you…?”

He tilts his head, feigning mild curiosity. “Was I what?”

You square your shoulders in that trumped-up confidence. “Coming up?”

He lets the question hang for a beat longer than necessary to let you hear yourself. 

This is a surprise. You pushed back on the date, but here you are asking him up. Lonely, needy creature. You’re probably wet.

Briefly, he reconsiders crowding you into the lift and watching that wide-eyed surprise melt. Years of stratagem hold him in place. The long con is always the smarter play.

“Oh, darl,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am flattered.”

He injects enough warmth seep into his voice to make the rejection sting without cutting deep. “I was only teasing earlier,” he adds, a playful glint in his eyes, the perfect balance between charm and rebuke. “Think we ought to get to know each other better before that, don’t you?”

The shift is immediate. Your face falls. A flicker of surprise, a flash of embarrassment that you rush to mask with a nervous laugh, waving your hand as if physically brushing it off. That confidence of yours really is paper-thin. Fragile. So easy to poke and prod. Moldable.

“Ah, of course. I didn’t mean—”

No, but you did, and that’s the beauty of it. You want to mean it. You don’t know how to ask for what you want yet. Another lesson to teach.

“Don’t fret,” he soothes, taking a step closer, fingers finding your chin, featherlight, guiding it back. “How about a kiss goodnight instead, hm?” He taps the divot of your chin. “Tide you over until next time?”

He tastes your perfume first, having caught hints of it all night. Now it’s stronger, heady as you lift your chin. He waits until your eyelids flutter shut before leaning in, smelling burnt sugar before he samples it.

John knows indulgence best through cigars and smoke rolling over his tongue. But you? You cut through what that’s dulled, brighter. Red wine, velvet and ripe, staining the sweetness like crushed cherries. It’s Herculean, the effort to not change his mind and hustle you indoors. His mouth presses more firmly, and for one dizzying moment, he imagines the taste of your skin—licking sugar out of the bowl.

You try to get closer, but he cuts it off.

Your lips are wet, trembling when he pulls back, and you wear shame—white-hot and burning. In disbelief that you asked, aren’t you? What has gotten into you?

“Oh, I got lipstick on your mouth, let me–”

“Leave it.”

He pulls over once on the drive home, rummaging through the glove compartment to wipe the smear of your lipstick from his mouth. The sight of the red stain sends a pulse of heat straight down. You’d lose your head if you saw him now, he thinks, flicking open his belt in the dark. What you do to him. 

He barely gets a good tug in before he ruins that stain, tasting sugar in the back of his throat.

Home in bed, he pulls up the headshot from your agency’s website and dips a hand under his waistband again.

Just something to tide him over.

You wait a standard three days to text. He calls instead.

You sound breathless, which makes sense. Now’s about the time you leave the gym.

“I’m scoping out a potential venue,” you explain, rushed, coming down from whatever routine you finished. He pictures it. Tight leggings, top clinging to sweaty skin, earbuds half-pulled out because you’re walking home alone. “I was thinking you could help?”

“Help? What do you need me for?”

“The atmosphere’s different when I’m alone. I don’t get a good sense if a space is conducive to dates.”

You’re asking him to play along. To be part of your world. Giving him another opening.

He smiles, unseen but satisfied. “Right. What am I getting out of this?”

There’s a short laugh on the other end, meant to cover your nerves. “Dinner,” you offer. “And the opportunity to let me know how you really felt about our services.”

Clever girl. Keeping it professional and leaving yourself an out.

“How could I refuse?”

The restaurant is a hole in the wall. He’d’ve never found it on his own. A perfect setting, but not for what you said. Testing the atmosphere. John knows better.

You’re staring through the menu, picking your thumb.

“Would it help if I set a timer and moved to the next table in five minutes?”

Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re fidgeting, sweetheart.”

You pull your hand away like you’ve been caught, setting it flat on the table.

“Nervous?”

A quiet admission. “Maybe.”

“Don’t date much, do you?”

Your spine straightens. “I told you, I’m focused on my career.”

“Mm.” John hums, leaning back. “Not a judgment, sweetheart. Just an observation. I merely find it interesting. You run speed dating. Introduce people. Help them make connections…”

“I’m good at it,” you murmur, a shield being drawn up.

“Never said you weren’t. Simply curious why someone so good at helping others find their person hasn’t found one of her own. Especially when she’s a catch.”

You don’t answer, not right away. But you don’t look away, either.

Good girl. Let him in.

The silence goes taut. Then, a sigh, and you lift your eyes again. There’s something different in them now. A crack in that carefully maintained composure. Vulnerability.

“I used to date a lot, actually. I had bad luck with men, though.”

John’s thighs flex under the table, hot and hungry pulse running through him. Finally. Finally, some answers. 

“Tell me about them.”

It’s not a question. An invitation. One you’re teetering on the edge of accepting. Curiosity wins out in the end. You bite.

“There were…a few. Nothing serious. Not for lack of trying.” You confess, embarrassed. “I attract the wrong kinds of men.”

Funny. “What kind of wrong?”

“A flake,” you start, bitter. “Canceled more dates than he showed up for. I stopped bothering after a while.”

One.

“A man-child. Wanted a girlfriend who was more like his mother. Expected me to cook, clean, take care of everything while he played video games.”

Two.

“A cheapskate.” A hollow laugh escapes. “Took me out on a ‘fancy’ date and made me pay after he ‘forgot’ his wallet. On my birthday.”

Three.

“And…” Your throat works around the last one. The worst one. “A cheater. Slept with one of my friends. I walked in on them.”

Four.

Your four horsemen of the dating apocalypse.

John’s jaw clenches, though he schools his features. He can’t have you seeing what that information really does to him. Can’t let you know how badly it makes him want to hunt them down and fix it.

On top of it all, you tack on how they made you swear off dating for a year. Which turned into two, then three.

“Three years?”

You bite your lip, insecurity crossing your face. “Is that…bad?”

Three years. Three years of no one waiting on you, no one to spoil you. An empty flat, and, he assumes, a cold bed.

“Not at all. Only been on a few dates in the last year, myself.” ‘Date’ is a strong term for tossing part of his pay at pretty girls on screen for a chat. “Is that what this is, then? A date? Could’ve sworn I was here to help scope out the space.”

“No, I–I did ask you here to help with the venue, John. That’s all. Really.” A lie that twists you into knots, wrings your hands, fiddles with your necklace. It’s short-lived. “I suppose, if you want, it can be a date.” The words come out shy, testing the waters. “But so we’re clear, I’m not looking for anything serious, alright? I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Another lie. A thousand nights alone? You’re ready.

He smirks. “Well. Regardless, y’know how to make a man feel wanted, sweetheart.”

And if that doesn’t make you preen.

The conversation shifts when dinner arrives, treading into gentler waters. John alludes to his job, a morsel, and you, sweet girl that you are, don’t press for more. Content to gnaw on the bones he offers, easy details meant to keep those puppy teeth of yours busy. His parents. Where he’s from. How he wasn’t much of a student. How he worked under the table as a kitchen porter at a golf club until he joined up.

It works better than the wine, softening you bit by bit. The prick who poked at your insecurities earlier? He’s dissolving into someone else entirely. Someone you’re trying to figure out. Someone you might even like.

Your eyes linger longer when he speaks now. Your smile turns natural, less forced. You lean in when he talks, hanging on his words.

John knows exactly what he’s doing, feeding you enough to keep you intrigued, to have you looking at him through softer eyes. Because if you’re trying to piece him together, trying to understand him—you’re already invested. That’s how he’ll get you.

One crumb at a time.

It’s necessary groundwork. Sooner or later, details’ll come out. After all, you’re going to marry him. Certain things will have to be—

“Any, um…notable girlfriends? Since I told you about my four awful exes.”

Innocent. Fair. It still puts him on edge.

A big test for both of you. He told himself he’d lie weeks back. A fabrication to allow him to censor the truth and leave his past behind. See if he couldn’t get out of his payments and wash his hands completely of his ex-wives, call in a couple favors, push papers.

Yet now, now that you’ve bared your heart to him like a good and honest girl, he suppose it’s only right to tell the truth.

That’s not the plan, though.

He’ll phone a few names tomorrow. Get started on the paperwork.

“No one worth mentioning.”

The rest of the evening is easygoing from there. You remain relaxed, the earlier stiffness gone, but you’re still holding back. You let him toy with one of your rings for a few seconds before pulling away. Your feet bump under the table, and you tuck yours beneath your chair. Your eye contact’s better, but you find reasons to look away.

You’re resisting what’s building between you. He can see it clear as day. For one simple reason, John bets.

You don’t believe in love. Don’t trust it, at least.

Not anymore. Maybe you did once, back when it was uncomplicated, hadn’t soured in your mouth, and burned you down into the frazzled woman he’s observed. Before it became studied instead of felt. A series of points and calculated risks, a numbers game that you understand better than most. An expert on what works for everyone else but never quite trusting enough to let it work for you.

It’s why you throw yourself into your work. Why you obsess over climbing a ladder built on the successful couplings of others, measuring fulfillment in repeat dates and engagement announcements. If you can’t have it for yourself, at least you can manufacture it for someone else.

The problem is, he does believe in love.

He’s just never been any good at it.

It’s one of the few things he’s never let go of, even if he’s never known how to hold it properly. He’s always been better at destruction than construction—an arsonist, never an architect. He sets the foundation only to strike the match and burn it to the ground. That’s why his ex-wives only speak of him through intermediaries. That’s why his relationships have been more like wrecking balls than anything resembling stability.

It’s why he throws himself into his work.

It’s why you’re perfect for him, even if you fuss about it and tell yourself otherwise. Insist you want nothing serious to do with men again.

He knows better. Knows that under all that steel and sugar, there’s a heart that wants and aches, no matter how stubbornly you try to deny it.

This time, you surprise him. The dinner is pre-expensed on a company card. The grief that stirs with his ego ends smothered by the victorious look on your face when he pockets his wallet.

It makes you bold.

You suggest a pub a street over for afters, and he lets you lead. Men shrink away on the walk with him beside you, a hand on the small of your back. 

The tables are smaller here, giving your legs nowhere to go when he spreads his underneath and cages them in.

Another round comes. Time slips by. The noise of the pub hums in the background, but his focus never wavers. With every sip, the distance narrows.

Inevitably, the conversation returns to speed dating and its apparent science. You try to stick to your principles. Too bad he has years of experience in bending those. It doesn’t take much more prodding.

“I can’t tell you what your dates said, word for word.”

“Then summarize.”

“You were…” You vacillate, searching. “Largely described as, um, curt, reserved, and distracted.”

Not inaccurate. He’s had worse appraisals and assessments.

He chuckles. “Must’ve had my eye on someone already.”

“Oh?” you say, trying for nonchalance, but it falls flat, hovering awkwardly in the air.

John shifts, stretching his legs out and closing them back into your space like he owns it—owns you. 

God, you are so close. Skirting his reach. 

You’ve reached a critical juncture. Make or break. Two dates, that’s all it takes, isn’t it? Two dates, and life itself stretches out with endless possibilities. Weeks of wanting have led to this. All the work he’s put in to get you here, to this goddamn table, where he can almost taste what could be.

His ring on your finger. His baby on your hip. Your own success story.

No one’s ever gotten anywhere worth going without a push. Without a nudge to take that last step and get over that line they’ve drawn for themselves.

John licks his lip. “Think you know who, sweetheart.”

It will take time, he realizes on the way to yours, to fully tear down the walls you’ve built around yourself. He feels it in the tentative kiss you place on the corner of his mouth at your building’s door, and again in the lift. 

He’s no stranger to controlled demolition. This time, he won’t half-ass it. No more mistakes or half-hearted efforts. Third time’s the charm, and he’s ready to make sure of it.

Whatever backsliding occurs between the pub and your front door, he erases mouth-first. For a split second, he catches that flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, the subtle hesitation that says you’re not sure whether you should give in, but he doesn’t give you the luxury of doubt. You’re here. He’s here. It’s inevitable.

With both of you starved for something—anything—there’s no room for second-guessing. The barren years of your dry spells? Tinder, piled high.

Between fervent kisses, he steals glances at your place, cataloging details. Every corner of your world is his to explore now, but the bedroom is the prize. The view is better here, inside. No longer looking up at some unreachable, untouchable version of you from the outside. He has access now. Control. It’s a quiet triumph that settles in his chest, a thrill he can’t quite suppress. It seeps into his touch, his hands finding the hem of your dress, claiming inch after inch as if he’s laying claim to the territory he’s finally breached.

All it took was a little patience—and a hell of a lot of persistence.

John pushes you until your legs hit the bed, hands dimpling into your hips, half-tucked under your dress. He tugs at the fabric. “Want to take this off f’me, baby?”

“Yeah, okay…”

While your view is obscured by the dress, his eyes roam your bedroom. It’s exactly as he imagined—sophisticated and cozy with shades of rose, peach, and marigold. A collection of framed photos on the bureau he’ll study tomorrow. On your nightstand, a tray with jewelry and lipstick tubes. Dog-eared books—romance, unsurprisingly.

The dress pools at your feet. John takes in the sight of you, his smirk widening. Rubs circles with his thumbs on the skin exposed by the high arches of your deep plum panties.

“You wear this for me?” He abandons the bottoms, touch drifting up to cup your breasts through the matching brassiere. “All dolled up, planning on getting lucky?”

His thumbs roll over your hard nipples, coaxing a gasp from your lips, and your hands fly to his wrists. Not to stop him, but to steady yourself. Your legs tremble, barely holding you up. 

“No, it’s not–I didn’t want to assume–“

“Mm.” He hums, eyes half-lidded. “But you hoped.”

Your weak denial dies on your lips when he guides you down, gently but insistently. He maneuvers you like he owns you already, coaxing you to sit, then easing you back until your spine meets the mattress. His hands work their way down your legs, kneading the goose-pimpled skin of your thighs and calves. Each press of his thumbs is purposeful, a silent reminder of who’s in charge now.

And then he sinks lower.

John shoulders between your legs, prostrating himself on the floor, knees hitting the carpet as if this—you—are worth worship. His head dips, lips grazing along the inside of your thigh.

“Easy, love.” His hands are steady as they hook behind your knee, lifting and folding one of your legs over his broad shoulder. The angle opens you up to him and reveals the damp staining the cotton. He sets your other foot on the edge of the bed. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath hitches, and that’s when he sees it. The moment you let the reins slip.

“Good girl,” he praises. His grin, hidden between your thighs, stretches with a kiss.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

He called it like he saw it then. He’s smug that it’s true.

Even filtered through the thin barrier of the gusset sopping up its share, you are a wonder on the palate. A delight on the senses. He noses over the slight springiness of the curls trapped underneath, tongue laving over every dip where the fabric clings. Everywhere but where you want him.

“John, John, please,” You’re gasping on the bed, bright whines spilling out. Hands strangling the duvet. 

“Need somethin’?” He puffs over your drenched panties, rubbing his rough, bearded cheek on your thigh deliberately. “Gotta ask.”

It’s another minute of torture for you to work it out. It comes out in a whisper. “Take them off, please.”

“There’s a girl. Lift up.” 

The panties come away and promptly disappear. In the low light, your cunt’s a mess, shiny with a mix of soaked-in spit and arousal. Perfect like the rest of you.

“Oh,” the single word you manage when John gets his mouth on you unimpeded.

Victory tastes like burnt sugar melting on his tongue, slow and rich, heating into syrup. He groans into your cunt, digging one hand into your thigh to keep it hooked over his shoulder. His other hand wraps around your ankle, anchoring your other foot in place.

You twitch, moans pitching higher and higher, trying to press yourself closer into his mouth. He doesn’t let you. He keeps you right where he wants you—pinned open with every tremor and gasp fueling that molten heat rolling down his spine and thickening his cock.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing skin. His thumb strokes soothing circles over your ankle, a mockery of tenderness compared to the ruthless way he’s devouring you. His tongue works with intent, coaxing you to the edge.

His grip deserts your thigh, and you clench around the finger he slips in while you’re nice and distracted. Lets off your clit with a pop, pulling back to admire your face scrunched in pleasure.

John kisses the crease of your thigh. “This what you’ve been doing all by yourself, baby?” His taunts, dripping with satisfaction as he works you open. “Bet they weren’t enough, were they?”

His smirk deepens when he adds a second, savoring the way your pussy almost sucks them in. When you don’t answer, he stills. “Were they?”

You’re a quick learner. “No, no, they weren’t.”

“Thought so. Gonna give you one more before I fuck you, gonna need it.” 

You take the third with a quiet thread of praise. His cock’s pulsing hard against the zipper of his trousers, aching to switch places with his hand. It’s magnetic. The whole world centers on your weeping cunt, squeezing three of his fingers to death with how badly you want to come. It’s a miracle you still haven’t yet, given how you circle the edge. He’s an inkling of what you need, but he won’t let you backpedal.

You speak in front of rooms of lovelorn strangers. You will speak to your man.

He gingerly pumps his fingers into you as deep as they’ll go, curling and petting in all the right places. Your clit twitches, abandoned. 

“John–” Yes. “–will you–mouth, please.”

“Hm?”

“My clit, please, need your mouth–”

He’ll work on articulation another time. He dips his head and licks a broad stripe over your neglected bud, then molds his mouth to it. Grunts around it when your fingers thread into hair and tug down.

That’s when the floodgates open, and you finally give into everything you’ve held at arm’s length for too long. Toes curling, muscles tensing, a heel digging into one of his vertebrae. Must be a relief.

John rises to his feet as you come down, knees popping in the silence. He licks his lips, wiping them off on the back of his hand. He towers, intentionally overwhelming and blocking out the room as he looms. Casts a shadow he hopes you feel on every inch of your skin.

He works his belt open while you piece yourself back together, though there’s no point in that. It’s a bright spot when you awkwardly reach behind your back and free your tits without being asked. 

A wild look in your eye. Smudged makeup, hair coming unstyled. The loss of composure he’s waited for. Naked hunger in your gaze, eating him up as his clothes hit the floor. You’ve been with boys, sure, but John knows what he looks like. And he looks like a man.

He doesn’t ask about a condom. Gentleman enough he has one in a pocket, but not enough that he’ll do the decent thing and remind you about it.

You squeak in his neck when the steel wool above his cock scrapes your inner thighs. He grinds against you lazily, holding you in the band of his arms to kiss and share your taste. 

“It’s a lot, baby,” John warns, rutting himself through the mess between your legs. He swallows hard when he prods your hole with the tip, squeezing the base to warn himself. It notches, your body yielding despite your squirming. Skittish even now. From there it’s a smooth, slow glide.

Still knocks the breath out of the both of you.

“Oh god, John, f-fuck, it’s so–”

Your cunt’s hot as an oven. Wet and fitted for him. Gives in easily now that the right man’s filling it. Knows he’s it for you, meaning it’s only a matter of time for your head and heart to catch up. 

His chest and belly meld to yours as he keeps you pinned, hips pushing until they’re flush, and he’s sunken to the hilt, grinding in to claim whatever space is left.  “Good girl. Let me in.”

“S’good, big,” you sound delirious, slurring as nonsense tumbles out in a breathless rush. 

He barely lifts his hips those first minutes. Warming you up for what’s coming, what he’s been starving for this whole time. Getting an eyeful of your sweet, dumbfounded expression, coming to terms with it. Figuring it all out while your pussy stretches around his cock and greedily swallows it whole.

John readjusts, peeling his sweaty skin from yours, keeping himself pressed deep into the spot that’s got you strangling his cock. His hands wedge under your knees and push, allowing himself to finally build up to his desired pace. An urgency that speaks to his need to usher in the future and slip a ring on you.

“Feel like a dream,” he pants, staring down at the bounce of your tits through half-shut eyes. The smell of sweat and sex and your cunt under his nose. “You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart. Yeah, look good under me.”

You struggle to breathe around his thrusts.

“Knew the moment I saw you, y’know. Took one look and knew. Knew that not a single girl I’d speak to would measure up to you.” His rhythm never faltering. “But you made me work for it, didn’t you?”

You pant, fingers clawing the pillow above your head. “You–You made me work, too–you didn’t come up–ah, that night.”

John laughs, the sound rough as sandpaper, deep and throaty, and it rattles through you. It drives him to push a little harder, to coax more of those desperate sounds out of you. “And look where we are now, baby.”

Tears slip out of your eyes, painting black streams of mascara on your cheeks. You’re wrecked and he’s barely scratched the surface.

You shouldn’t have ever mentioned babies if this isn’t where you wanted to end up.

Your second orgasm builds similarly to the first. Shaking legs, head sinking into the mattress, spine arching. Stars appear in your pupils, shiny under the glass of tears, and lock onto him, transfixed. A whole mess of big feelings. Uncertainty, confusion, disbelief. Fury, ardor. He can tell, despite everything, a part of you does not want to want this. But gravity doesn’t ask permission before it pulls.

He fishes spit out of his cheek and drops it under a thumb on your clit to bring it home.

“Gonna come on my cock, pretty girl? Squeeze me tight?” 

“John, I’m gonna–I’m gonna–”

“You can do it, too good of a girl not to–Christ.”

Whatever plea you utter gets lost in a feverish rush and a full-throated moan. You go tight as a vise, clamping down on him as you come. Liquid heat rolls down his spine and his pace turns choppy. Fingers slipping from your knee and clit, taking bruising handfuls of your hips he’ll kiss better later. 

He plugs himself deep, coming to a sudden halt to spill. Every muscle in his body goes rigid as he plants himself at the root, filling you in hot, desperate spurts. It goes on longer than he thought it would. You milk it out of him, and it leaves a stringy, sticky mess, tagging over your folds when he reluctantly withdraws.

A whimper sputters from your bitten lips when he lets his drooling tip spew its last over your winking, fucked hole.

The two of you catch your breath in silence.

You said—I don’t know if I’m ready.

He wonders what you’ll say in the morning.

John coaxes a third and final orgasm out of you as he massages his cum back into you, shushing when you cry a little more on his shoulder about it. Whining about it being too much. Same as when he wipes you clean and you go shy on him. Only cracking your legs open again when he reminds you how proud he is of you for taking him so well. For everything.

He waits until you’re deeply asleep, mouth slightly open, completely immovable, to climb out of bed.

He pads through your flat bare like he owns the place. A glass of water to keep him company as he leisurely tours.

Your work bag sits, still packed, next to your desk at the window. He kicks it under. This will be the first weekend you don’t lift a finger if he has his way. 

At least. Not in the service of others.

John stares at the pill case on your bathroom vanity as he empties his bladder. His next hurdle.

He’ll let you keep your job. It makes you happy, and he’s not so cruel to take that from you. But if you ever change your mind, if your investment in it wavers, he won’t stop you. Between his pay and benefits, the handyman business—he’s more than capable of providing for the two of you. And when the time comes for more, when you need to feed, clothe, and house his whelps, he’ll take care of that too.

After all, there’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

‘you’ll get used to it.’ | captain john price

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”

WARNINGS - 18+ mdni. smut. so much smut. darker themes ie death. a super deep and twisted interpretation of a solider who’s being reckless in attempt to run from their feelings. captain price is bred to hunt so it’s futile. piv. mirror sex. multi orgasms. size kink. dirty talk. dubcon slightly. we shouldn’t be doing this trope. slightly morally grey. a lot of sleep token references. fingering. reader afab. mentions of blood, injury. slight brat/dom dynamic. overstimulation.

The first thing you register is the weight of him.

Not his hands, though they’re there too — firm around your arms, holding you steady — but him. The heat of him at your side, sweat and cigarettes filling your muddled senses with each laboured breath you gasp for. The quiet, infernal energy that pours off him, taking up too much space, too much air from your already airless lungs.

“You with me?” His voice rumbles close to your ear.

You try to nod, but the motion sends a fresh bolt of pain ricocheting through your skull. Your breath hitches, and his grip tightens.

“Easy.” A low murmur, meant to soothe. “Almost there.”

There being the med bay, where fluorescent lights paint everything sterile. Too bright, too fucking loud alongside the offset drumbeat in your ears. He doesn’t let you sit on your own — eases you down onto the cot himself, hands as steady as they always are, even when yours are the furthest from.

You wince as you shift, and his eyes flick over you. He’s still assessing.

“Shouldn’t’ve let that bastard get a hit in,” he mutters, half to himself.

You know what he’s thinking. The result of your own impulsivity. Reckless. “Yeah, I’ll try to avoid that next time.”

He exhales sharply. A shake of his head. “Could’ve been worse.”

You know that. Just like you know he’s only saying it to ease your dread. But you can see it in the way he looks at you, something unreadable tightening at the corners of his mouth, that he’s seen it. Many more times than you think.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. “You don’t have to—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Just gives you that look, the one that shuts people up without him having to say a damn thing. It’s something you’re still learning about him — the way he often communicates without words. How his silence and pointed stares hold more meaning than most people’s shouting. You’ve also learned the effort to argue with him when he’s like this is a futile one. You’re a part of his team. He’ll be with you through it all.

Then, without asking, he reaches for you — because he knows you’ll let him. One hand bracing your chin, tilting your head so he can get a better look at the damage.

And even through the agony, it’s all too much.

The touch, the closeness, the way he hasn’t taken his eyes off you for one goddamn second since you’d been hit. Your throat goes dry at the realization that it’s doing more to you than it should. But you’ll never get used to how he does it. How a man like him — a wartime killer with more bloodshed on his fingertips than skin covering his limbs — can still look at you with something even remotely soft, when he’s bred to be everything but.

“You always this stubborn?” His voice is quieter now. A rough rasp against his throat.

You swallow, pulse hammering. “You always this persistent?”

His lips quirk, but his grip stays firm, fingers cool against your fevered skin.

“You’ll get used to it.”

You wondered then, if you ever really would.

———————

Months later, you’re still wondering the same thing.

It’s been months since that night in the med bay. Months of keeping yourself at arm’s length. Of keeping things professional. Of projecting platonic renditions despite the cursed thing threatening to take its place.

Or, well, trying to.

Because if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that tension like this doesn’t fade. It festers.

No matter how deep you try to bury it, perseverance is its ally. Helps it crawl out of the grave you dug for it in every brush of his fingers against yours when he hands over a magazine clip, every order spoken gravel in your ear, every glance held a second too long when neither of you are fast enough to look away. It leaves claw marks in everything, has been ever since the day he carried you through crumbling stone and mortar — ever since you felt him so fucking close and you realized you didn’t mind it. Since the moment you learned more about him in twenty minutes than you have in the entire year by his side.

That night relinquished something. Made you see him in a new light. What was once a beacon is now a solar flare for dead gods.

And it erupts here. Now.

In the barracks washroom after a mission gone sideways. After a fight that took too much out of you — left your bones aching, your skull pounding with the remnants of a concussion you’re beginning to suspect never fully healed — skin still humming raw, soaked in adrenaline and something a little too fucking reckless.

After he follows you in.

The door slams behind him, the sound ricocheting off the tiles. You don’t turn around, just strip your tac vest off with more force than necessary, breathing hard, hissing under your breath as exhaustion begins smothering out the fire in your blood.

“You got a fucking death wish?”

You can feel him staring at you. You know he’s seeing red — the heat of his eyes on your back incomparable to the even the greediest hellfires.

You exhale, press your palms flat against the edge of the sink. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” He steps closer. “You ran straight into that firefight without cover.”

“I handled it.”

“You barely walked away.”

Finally, you turn, glare at him over your shoulder. “That what this is? Another fucking lecture?”

He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t snap at you like your previous COs would. He just watches. And somehow, that’s worse.

“That what you think I’m doing?”

You scoff, shake your head, turning back toward the sink. The mirror in front of you is cracked down the middle, splitting your reflection in two. And you think, rather ridiculously, that it’s a perfect fucking picture of how you feel. Torn. Between the persistence of him and the need to keep your distance. Between what you’ve spent months trying to ignore and the way it still catches you off guard—how you keep finding yourself watching him, noticing him, like something inside you has already made a decision you can’t retract.

Behind you, he exhales slow. You hear the shift of his boots against the floor.

“Can’t keep doing this,” he mutters. “Won’t.”

Something in your chest tightens.

“What, watching my back?” You force your voice to stay even. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“Not like this.”

The simplicity of that response has currency, and you know the behaviour. The familiar silence that tells you there’s more to this. Syllables pleading behind his teeth which he isn’t quite yet dignifying — but that slice along the back of his throat all the same. You meet his gaze in the mirror, and you see it then. In the dim light of his ocean eyes.

An emergence.

“I can’t watch you go down again.” There it is. Words coaxed out in that thick accent of his that inflicts them like a wound. He’s moving closer now, extinguishing the space. Stepping up behind you. “You haven’t been right for months. I need to know why.”

At that, you almost recoil — each syllable thrusting the knife deeper into your resolve, and you realize it’s not his accent that makes them cut, but the way he speaks them. Certain. As if he’s looking at you bare. No layers left to protect you. Like you’re nothing but sinew and marrow. Like your eyes and limbs are instruments to pick apart.

You stare at the sink. “So you are always this persistent.”

It leaves your lips exactly as you mean it — a callback, a test. You don’t watch his face, but the silence stretching long tells you it landed exactly where you wanted. A synapse snap back, an echo from the depths of whatever is eating you from the inside out.

“And you,” a pause, breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. “Are always this stubborn.”

He says it like an indictment.

You’re sure it’s because he knows you. Because he sees how you bleed and pretend you don’t. How you’ve been keeping yourself at arm’s length for months. Because you’ve cornered yourself — because you let the bruises fade without ever acknowledging how deep they burrow.

Your fingers tighten around the porcelain, like if you hold on hard enough you can keep the charade going. Pretend you don’t feel what you feel. But then, you glance up, and there it is — your reflection wavering in the split mirror, cut through by the fault line of your own indecision. Your own internal warfare.

“Yes,” you whisper. “But you knew that long ago.”

“I did.” His hand braces against the sink beside yours as he all but cages you against it. “But I keep thinking, sooner or later, you’ll let yourself stop.”

Another pause. A breath suspended in air too thick, in a space that feels too small.

“You want me to stop?”

He exhales through his nose. “I want you to want to.”

It’s an invitation. A quiet demand.

You swallow against the burn in your throat because it’s clear he knows what’s hiding behind your eyes. He’s just asking you to be honest. To pull the words from where they’ve been buried, to stop dissolving them like acid on your tongue. To let him in.

“Then you want for nothing.” Your voice is softer than you mean it to be, dangerously close to breaking. “Because you know I’d tell you anything if you asked.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror.

“Tell me what’s making you reckless.”

You’d expected that — or something like it — but it still takes you apart. Thread by thread, a rope cinched through the hollow of your ribs. Pulling, pulling —waiting for you to give.

And you almost do. Almost let it spill, let it take shape in the open air between you. The truth of it. The rot you’ve kept pressed beneath your tongue, the slow, patient decay of something you know you shouldn’t feel.

But instead—

“It’s the head injury,” you lie.

A hollow offering. Brittle. A crumbling thing in place of the real answer.

His fingers twitch against the porcelain, reflection sharpening in the mirror — cutting through the fractures he’s causing. He doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t accuse you of lying. And that’s worse. So much worse. Because it means he’s seeing you. Means he’s waiting — sifting through the hollow, the fractions of you that no longer fit together in search of the thing you hesitate to give him.

“You can’t lie to me.” It sinks deep. Sticks somewhere you can’t pull it free. He’s right. “We both know it isn’t just that.”

You exhale something like a laugh except it’s boneless and bitter, just nerves spilling out because they’ve got no where else to go.

“Didn’t know you were a medic now.” You break your eyes back to the sink. “Or a mind reader.”

“I don’t need to be.” The words come fast. Convicting. “I just need to know you.”

And that. That makes you look up at him again. Makes you meet his eyes. Makes you burn.

“Price—“

His lips are against your ear. “Tell me.”

Your throat closes. The rope pulls tighter. You know what he wants — what he’s asking. But the answer feels like it won’t fit in your mouth. The swell of truth too large. Too longly suppressed because god this is your Captain and all he did was save your life. You know you should just be grateful and yet the only thing on your mind is granting him more than the debt you owe.

Because when you can’t swallow your demons, they don’t just disappear. They turn to hunger instead.

It was his hands that had fed them. They’re still starving now.

“The truth will ruin everything, Captain.” The words tear from your throat like he’s ripped them out himself. “This isn’t something you, or anyone, can help me with.”

You feel him go still the moment the words leave you. Feel it in the hand bracing against the sink, the exhale of his breath against your neck.

“So that’s what this is.” Your stomach coils, something twisting tight as you turn your head to face him. He doesn’t move back. Just dips his gaze to your lips. “You’re feeling too much, yeah? Think by being reckless you can run from it.”

It’s startling, the way he sees right through you. Your silence is a telling confession and he reads it like scripture.

You’ve always known it would be hard with him. Knew it from the beginning, because he’s as sharp as he is skilled, because he knows how to look at a situation and read the words left unspoken.

You nod. All while wishing it was anyone else.

“You can’t outrun this.” His voice drops, dragging his free hand up the nape of your neck. “Can’t outrun me.”

He tugs you toward him, something dark flashing beneath his eyes — something like possession, something that makes your bones ache as his mouth ghosts over yours. A torturous, drawn-out motion, withholding what you know he’ll take.

A breath passes between you, your eyes closed, a million things unspoken. Spinning. Thrumming in the silence.

Then, he brushes his lips to yours. And there’s fire.

A slow-burning ruin, heat licking through your stomach, curling in your spine, and it devours you — every breath, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, to run. It’s all gone. Gone until the moment he pulls back. Presses his forehead against yours.

“I know.” You reply, and for a second you think he’s backing off.

He doesn’t.

Lips against yours again, he takes. Your mouth parts on a sharp inhale. Shock, surrender, his tongue slipping against yours, before he kisses you hard. Like he’s been waiting for this, waiting for your admittance. Like this is something he’s fought against just as much as you have.

Your hands find his shoulders, something to brace against as he pulls you in deeper. The breath is gone from your lungs, your pulse pounding for an entirely different reason now. You open your eyes as he pulls back again. Take in the sharp cut of his features — the shadow of a beard against his jaw, the darkness of his gaze, drinking you in like he wants to keep you there.

“You don’t get to die on me,” he murmurs, and it makes your world tilt. Makes you wonder if you hit your head harder than you thought, all those months ago. Makes you wonder if you’re hallucinating. “Christ.” His fingers flex at your waist. “You don’t get to be careless.”

There’s something in him you’ve never seen before. Something undone. Something you don’t understand but do at the same time — because you feel it too. The decades of loss. The battle scars. The countless near misses that linger for life. You weren’t thrusting yourself into open fire with some raging death wish — but you weren’t being as methodical as you should have been either, all to chase that fucking adrenaline spike. You didn’t think he’d have this reaction.

And there’s so much you need to say. So much you need to do. But all you can do is whisper, breathless against him. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. A click of his tongue.

“I’m not done with you.” His mouth finds yours again, something softer this time, but no less demanding. You don’t fight it. And when his free hand dips down your back, you tilt your head up into him, hands fisted in his shirt, wishing you didn’t miss the feel of it so devastatingly when he pulls back again. “You want reckless? I’ll show you fucking reckless.”

You don’t have a chance to answer before he spins you around and shoves you against the counter. A groan slips from your lips, but you relish the feel of him — the warmth of his chest as he steps into you, crowding you until all you know is his heat.

His hands slide down your sides, gripping at your hips, the heat in your gut burning hot as he holds you in place.

“This what you want?” He mutters against the side of your throat, his nose nudging your jaw. “Or do you still want to run?”

You swallow, mouth parted, breath coming hard. It’s a question, but you know he doesn’t really want an answer. Not with everything he’s doing. Not with the way he’s holding you, the way his hands slip beneath your shirt, calloused fingers grazing bare skin as he tugs the fabric up.

Your breath hitches. “Christ, Captain—”

You feel his mouth brush against your neck, tongue lavving out to taste you. Like he’s hungry and you’re a goddamn four-course meal. You moan. It’s all you can do to stay upright, legs going weak when he nips at your jaw.

“No Captain.” A demand. His hand sliding lower, dipping under the fabric of your cargos. “John.”

John. You shudder at the implication of it. John is a rare thing—something you’ve only ever heard him give to a handful of others, and no one else. John is personal. John is when he’s no longer your superior, but instead, your equal.

“John.” Somehow, it rolls off your tongue like breathing, like it had always been waiting there for this moment. Another moan follows it, just as his fingers find your clit. “Ohgod, John—”

He hums, teasing you, fingers moving in paced, languid circles like he’s got nothing but time despite the way his chest is pacing against your back. Pressure building beneath his skin. You feel the tension in him — the way his muscles shift, the way he tenses in response.

“That’s it,” he grinds out, fingers speeding up just enough. “You like that?”

Your answer is an afterthought. You don’t speak, don’t need to. Your mouth finds his again, and he swallows the breath you try to take. All you can do is nod.

And you know you have no fucking right to know what he sounds like. How he tastes as your tongue wrestles his. Your head spinning too fast for you to think because he is everywhere, a heady mix of lust and need as you desperately try to chase the way he makes your blood race. It’s all so new. So fucking wanton. Needy. As if all the months of wanting have finally caught up to the moment, a wildfire that seems to burn all logic. You know this is wrong — but fuck you don’t care.

You know in a second, he’ll be pressing you against the granite and you’ll have to make a thousand apologies to whatever god may be listening.

But then he pushes a finger into you, and you only have one prayer on your tongue. “Oh, John.”

He exhales against you, a quiet growl that goes straight to your head. It’s the same sound he makes when he’s in a combat, and there’s something about the idea of being able to make him feel the same as he feels when he’s a man of war that makes fireworks light up behind your eyelids.

“Mm. She’s fucking tight.” He mutters as he curls his finger and presses deeper. You gasp, the sound swallowed between you. “This is what you needed, hm? Needed me to pin you down. Make you fucking feel.”

That— that’s exactly it. Your eyes dart up to his in the mirror because yes. In the fractures he’d caused he’d found what you were too afraid to verbalize. And it makes you keen — the way it’s like he can rip out your soul and hold it in his hands. You know you can’t hide it in your gaze, the desperation that comes with that kind of dependency.

Of course.

“You. Mm. You always know just what I need.” You moan out, as teasing as possible, while your climax barrels closer.

And he relishes it. Every second. It’s obvious in the sharp inhale he takes, the way his pupils dilate until the blue in his eyes look like a halo in a sea of blackened lust. Your head feels like it’s splitting in two, caught between the pressure building inside you and the heat that seems to be coiling so tight you could implode.

He adds a second finger, and you have to grip onto the counter if you want to still find your feet.

“Ohmygod—fuck, John—“

You don’t know how you look, can’t bring yourself to face your reflection — but you know how it feels, the way the world is tipping like you’re on the deck of a ship, the way your stomach clenches and your nerves light like fire under your skin. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on you. You spent months running from him just to end up here. You realize now that he’s always been a step ahead in a way you can’t understand, and you know you’re playing a game you won’t win.

“Let me feel it.” He purrs against your ear, fingers pumping. “Let it happen.”

You moan loud at that, clenching around his fingers because it already is happening. The pleasure is hot and blinding.

“Ohgod—“ your voice breaks between words, your head falling back against of his shoulder. “Fuck. I’m—“

He knows. The heat building in your gut so bright it seeps through your skin. So, he dips his other hand back beneath your shirt, palming your breast and you know it’s to make you fall even harder — and christ, he manages it. You erupt, climax hitting you like a train.

The bliss is blinding, and you want to scream — but can’t because his mouth is on yours, capturing every strangled gasp you give as you try to catch your breath. You’re trembling, legs shaking, your body trying to find some sort of ground as you gasp for breath — but then he’s pulling his hand out and sliding off to one side. You feel empty. Breathless. You think, in some dim place in your mind, that you should feel embarrassed now, but you’re too distracted to care. As your breathing returns, you can hear him sucking on his fingers.

Tasting you.

You can barely stand it, the noise curling through the fog in your head. You hear a soft pop, and suddenly his hand is on your jaw, tilting you towards the mirror, and you finally look.

You think you almost look the same. You can almost pretend that that this is what it’s always been — something fleeting and nameless and reckless — but there’s a flush on your cheeks, a gloss in your eyes, that you can’t deny. In fact, the only thing that breaks you out of the fantasy is the way John’s eyes meet yours.

As if there was ever any mistaking what you would allow to happen here. You know, looking at him, that that the hunger in your gaze would always give away the truth. That he would always know how to read you.

“Reckless.” He mutters, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, as if it’s something he’d known all along. You watch his jaw clench, his fingers digging into your cheeks. It’s not angry — it’s something more. A possession. “You do not get to leave me.”

You’ve known this man for barely a year, and yet he understands something you cannot. Something different from all your previous CO’s. Something that goes deeper than protection of a superior. And for the first time, you realize you can’t hide—not from him, not from whatever this is.

“Is that an order?” You whisper. Smirking.

He leans in, the heat of him branding against your spine, and you feel his words before he speaks them, rough and low on your throat.

“An order,” he echoes, hands sliding down to your hips. “And a threat.”

Your breath stutters, head spinning too fast to think. This is dangerous — whatever this is. It’s like the two of you are careening off the edge of a mountain, barreling toward something irreversible. You should stop this. You should pull away.

“Mm.” Instead, you arch your back, pressing against him with a low, breathy hum. “Now who’s being reckless.”

“Mhm. Knew you’d like that,” he mutters, mouth dragging against your jaw. His hands are already working, tugging down your zipper. “Brat.”

You should hate that word. Before him, you would have even more so. But something about the way he says it makes you bite your lip.

“You want to be put in your place.” His hands are purposed. Tugging down your cargos, undoing his belt. “That it?”

“Depends.” Your breath hitches. “Where exactly is my place, Captain?”

“Right here.” He presses you forward, palm splayed between your shoulder blades. His other hand grips your hip, dragging you against him, the thick weight of his need sliding along the slick between your thighs. You swallow a moan. “Right underneath me, Sergeant.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your head is spinning too fast to think. Then, he’s pushing inside you, and you lose the last of your breath.

“Fuck.” Your eyes catch in the mirror, watching as he sinks in, stretching you wide, splitting you open. The breath punches from your lungs, knuckles strained where you brace against the counter. Your head falls back, and he groans — a low, guttural sound that ripples through you. “Price—“

His fingers press into your jaw, turning your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at me.”

You do. And God. You wish you hadn’t.

Dark, blown-out pupils devour the blue of his irises. His chest heaves, the cords of his neck pulled tight. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more wrecked, more devastating, than the way he looks at you now.

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. His breath stutters. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”

You try. You really do. But fuck—

“Huge,” you gasp, tipping onto your toes for respite as he buries himself to the hilt. “Fuck—John—”

“Mhm. Don’t run—” his hand slides up your throat, fingers curling, just enough to make it dangerous. You gasp, pulse hammering against his palm. He knows. Of course he does. The way he knows everything about you. “You’ll get used to it.”

You’ll get used to it.

The words echo back at you. The same ones he murmured the first time you asked him if he’s always this persistent. If you could think, you’d laugh. But you can’t. Because now you know the answer. Yes, he is always this persistent. And no, you will never fucking get used to it.

Your moans have long since lost restraint, spilling from your lips in time with his thrusts, raw and wanton and so fucking desperate. He takes you like it’s not the first time, like he’s not far too big to be this deep — his grip bruising in the best way, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. You feel the fractures of yourself, a thousand pieces of you suspended midair, trembling on the verge of shattering. You’ve never been this close to the sun. And god, if it doesn’t feel like fire.

Then, he says your name.

Your name. Your real name.

And it’s like breaking the surface of water after nearly drowning—like oxygen flooding into starving lungs. It strips you raw, turns the world molten beneath you, sends you spiraling into release all over again, the pleasure so sharp it almost aches. His hand claps over your mouth, muffling your sob of a moan as your body locks up, trembling.

“Yeah. There we go. Let it all out f’me.” His voice is dark, rough with something that sends another sharp pulse between your legs. His hips slap against your ass, relentless. “I’ve fucking got you.”

And you know he does. In a way you don’t trust your breath or your bones. In a way that terrifies you just as much as it makes you need.

Your vision blurs, heat rippling through your limbs, but he—he is unmoving. Steady. Like steel. Like he can take you at your best and your worst. Like he could tame this thing between you, whatever reckless, nameless thing this is, and make it his.

“That’s right. You look at yourself,” he grunts, one hand digging into your hip, the other still clamped over your mouth. Your glassy eyes flick up to the mirror, catching his reflection behind you—pupils blackened, lips parted, gaze locked on you. “M’gonna dumb you out. Fuck you ’til you can’t walk, never mind run.”

Your nails scrape divots into the granite as he shoves you further over the counter, forcing you to take him deeper. A wrecked whimper slips through your teeth, body caught between overstimulation and desperate, eager want. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the slick drip down your thighs, soaking into your ruined cargos — you know he can feel it too.

“Shit.” He rasps, voice fraying. His hand leaves your mouth, slides down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding as his other moves. Fingers finding the mess between your legs, pressing slow circles over your swollen clit. “Tight little slut.”

Your body jerks. “Fuck—John—”

“That’s it. Gimme another,” he mutters, rolling his hips, hitting something deep inside you that makes your vision blur. “C’mon, sweetheart, I know you can.”

It’s too much. The thick, hot drag of his dick with every punishing thrust — the rough slide of his fingers. The weight of his body pressing you into the counter like he’ll never let you go. You can’t think. Can’t breathe—

And then he growls your name again, deep and needing, and it sends you over with a broken sob, body writhing, mind slipping into static as you cum again, clenched so tight around him it makes him stutter.

His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back so his lips brush your ear. “Good girl. Fucking perfect—”

You feel it when he loses himself. Through the fog of pure bliss. When his grip turns almost punishing, when his hips stutter, when the ragged groan tears through his throat. He grinds deep, burying himself to the hilt, body rigid as he groans and spills inside you with a choked curse.

And then, there’s stillness.

Both of you breathing uneven — more so him, heavy against the nape of your neck. And for a long moment, it’s just that. Just the sound of your bodies slowing, just the lingering thrum of pleasure untwisting from both of your bloodstreams.

Then, his fingers tighten on your throat. Just enough. Just to make sure you feel it.

“You ever pull some reckless shit like that again,” he mutters, voice raw, scraping against your ear, “you won’t be able to fucking talk when I’m done with you.”

Your breath stutters, thighs twitching at the promise in his tone.

“You got a problem, you come to me. You don’t run. Don’t put yourself into the fire just to fucking feel something.” His hand slides up, grips your jaw, tilts your head just enough so you can see him in the mirror — blue eyes all pupil, sharp jaw clenched. “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I take care of what’s mine. No matter what.”

A slow, shuddering breath leaves you. He watches your lips part, watches the way your body reacts to his words. Then, his grip on your throat eases. A slow drag of his hands down your body, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you ruined under him.

“Understand me?” His voice is quieter now, but no less dangerous.

You swallow. Nod. “Yes sir.”

He hums. Seemingly satisfied, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder.

“Good.”

Call of Duty: MWII + MW2019 ↳ Infinite gifs of Cap. John Price [17/∞].

Price: It has 5 bedrooms, three bathrooms, full basement with laundry room, but it has room for making a couple more bedrooms and a bathroom.

Price: Was thinking of using this bedroom as a guest bedroom for now.

Price: The other bigger ones for the kids someday.

Price: An open kitchen, very big, a little bare for now.

Price: This is my office.

Price: This would be your space. You can do anything you want with it.

Price: A reading room, a gaming room, art room...

Y/N: What?

Price: In the back there's a greenhouse and a big garden. Do you like gardening or just having flowers around?

Price: I can arrange someone to come every so often to take care of the yard.

Y/N: Wait...

Price: Let me walk you through it, you'll love it.

Price: I can build a gazebo riiiight there. What do you think?

Y/N: John, enough.

Price: (tilts head confused)

Y/N: This is literally our first date.

Price: (shaking his head) None of that.

Price: What's your ring size?

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

 It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity. 

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony. 

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place. 

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it. 

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had  always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it. 

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way. 

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway.  Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes. 

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything. 

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness. 

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention.  The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark. 

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would. 

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter? 

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness. 

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement. 

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him? 

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is. 

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago. 

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet. 

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine. 

It doesn’t. 

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot. 

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it. 

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all. 

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating. 

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you,  arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you. 

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline. 

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure. 

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees. 

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

 “Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug. 

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants.  “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes. 

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before.  “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs. 

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you. 

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.” 

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.  

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering.  “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him. 

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.” 

You could slap him. 

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him. 

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts,  “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

 “Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long. 

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before  shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder,  caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure. 

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you. 

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to  “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own. 

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

 “Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment. 

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls.. 

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried. 

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house. 

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

Small continuation to this. @nightunite @beloveds-embrace I remember your interest in Price’s divorce, so here we go

Thinking thoughts about ex-husband John, who’s never there, who’s married to his work in the best and the worst sense of the phrasing. He misses birthdays and Christmases and Valentines and everything in between.

He promises-promises-promises, kisses the crown of your head, eyes tired and deeply seated in the web of his crow’s feet — dark blue of his irises so unreachable it feels like choking when you try to even try and touch the bottom of it.

Pressure changes, pressure threatens to burst your eardrums, pressure promises to make you sorry for trying to push through it.

John sighs and turns away, shoulders a rough square, tension already lacing through him because yeah, of course, luv, not like he doesn’t know that he’s missing your anniversary.

Yes, he knows. Yes, he gets it, sweetheart, he really does, but didn’t you know who you are marrying?

He is not even angry, exasperation of his tone slicing through your chest and it almost feels like condescension — the way he keeps patting your head and trying to kiss it better, like a spare kiss and a kind word would suffice for everything he didn’t live up to.

Like it can reinstate your trust in him after another cancelled date and another lonely dinner when he swore he’d get a day off and never did.

Honestly, he has no one but himself to blame and all things considered some people would say it’s a miracle you lasted this long with him.

It’s wonder you loved him so much you forgot that you need some love too. A true miracle you always loved him and never looked the other way, god knows he had to fight a lot of potential suitors for your hand before you decided you want him.

Angry, stubborn, moody and controlling him.

You picked him up as an explosive sod in his mid twenties and made him the man he is now, carefully manoeuvring through the triggers of his and making him smile when it all felt like a big load of shite.

Why did you even settle for him?

Why does he now feel like you settled for him — a closed off git who spent his whole life proving that he’s worthy of respect and his rank and responsibility.

And you.

God, it’s been years and he’s still not sure if he really is worthy of you.

John stares down at the divorce papers on his desk and feels something very similar to hurricane unfurling in his chest, rage pounding inside his head, panic icing our all warmth that was there, ring on his finger suddenly so slippery he has to curl his fingers into fist.

Can’t risk losing it. Not when he’s already losing you.

Simon watches him sometimes, John notices, but Ghost never says anything or perhaps, he does, just not to John. Small mercies.

John can’t help but feel a twinge of acidic envy at Simon getting along with his bird so well — his pretty partner picking up the behemoth of 141’s lieutenant.

Simon’s partner who always murmurs something in his ear and Ghost’s eyes crinkle in the corners.

Simon’s partner who seems content with how things are and with how often Simon is absent and Price just doesn’t bloody get it.

Simon works almost as much as he does, Simon is always away, Simon is never home for holidays.

And yet Simon’s partner says “yes” to a proposal and grins like the happiest person in the world whilst standing at the altar.

And yet Simon’s now spouse is bringing him snacks and is kissing his jaw and doesn’t fucking plan to divorce Simon.

Drives John right up the fucking wall, it does.

But there is no way he’s going to ask his lieutenant why his marriage isn’t failing, why his spouse seems to still love him. Why John’s doesn’t.

John drags his feet through the whole proceeding, John watches you with heavy bottomless eyes but stays stubbornly silent because okay, that’s your choice.

You want to get rid of him so badly that even wedding vows aren’t stopping you? Off you go then, he’s not gonna tie your leg to a kitchen table and lock you in the house.

John just scoffs and looks away but still hides your car keys in his fatigues so you don’t leave after another fight.

John murmurs “alright then”, but doesn’t sign the fucking papers because “I’m sorry, love, I lost them” and asks for the seventh copy.

John nods and says he’s letting you go if that’s what you want, but he doesn’t take off his ring and shakes his head when you offer to give him back your engagement one.

Yeah, it was his mom’s but it’s yours now, alright, love? Always yours.

He’s yours.

John is the wickedest man there is because he says one thing thinks another and does the third one.

And never never admits what the fuck is going on, because he can’t, because there has to be something wrong with him if even his lovely spouse is running.

Because John must be sinking if even his better half doesn’t think it’s worth staying and he doesn’t say anything but just stays in the kitchen while you are shuffling around the house.

Drinks the same cup of earl grey for hours on end, twirling spoon in it mindlessly, nervous tremor to his left wrist getting harder when his head gets a little too dark.

You hover in tne doorway, eyes deep with something he isn’t sure how to reach and it would be so easy if you said something like always. If you made the first step so he doesn’t have to.

But you just stand there, awkwardly shifting weight from one leg to another before you finally leave upstairs to get ready for bed.

Feels just like another defeat for John and at this point he is not even sure he knows how to play.

His tea gets cold the longer he sits on a wooden chair, lower back aching in protest but he just stares out of the kitchen window in the darkness of the night.

John says he can do this, John says it’s nothing, John says that he will sign it all.

John promises-promises-promises and still crawls in your bed, wrapping arms around you and breathing in your scent.

John whispers sweet quiet things in your skin, pleads you to reconsider, murmurs that he can’t do it without you.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder and scoops you up in his embrace, covering your whole body with his (come morning, he’ll pretend to be thoroughly asleep when you pull yourself out from underneath him just to be able to leave the bed).

Price still kisses your temple before work, press of his lips to your skin is more of a ritual than a routine, a second nature of his to love your whole being.

Price sits at his desk for a good hour before realising he hasn’t been writing a single fucking thing, he just can’t.

Not when his stomach churns at the thought of you right now packing up your things.

Of you leaving the house and leaving him.

Simon watches him carefully and at this point, it’s bloody annoying, can’t a man at least go through the divorce in peace?

Ghost huffs air out, rolls a fag between his teeth, tilting his head to the side — eyes heavy bottomless nothing, eyes the colour of graveyard soil, eyes-dark-holes that lead to a darker place of Simon’s head.

“Thought you didn’t want to divorce ‘em.”, Simon hums out like it’s a fact, like John hasn’t been missing every important date and important thing for the past few years.

Like John has been a good husband that deserves to have good things and deserves you.

Truth to be told, even before he became captain, John never fucking deserved you.

Could have lived a thousand lives and never earned the right to call himself your husband.

Still did though.

(Doesn’t matter if he deserved it if he really fucking wanted it, right?)

John rubs his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms down until the kaleidoscope of his ganglion cells doesn’t start to dance with flashes of colour.

Fucking hell, what is he even doing here? How did things turn to be so complicated?

“I don’t.”, he doesn’t realise he has said it out loud until he pulls his hands off his face and Ghost is still watching him with the same unnerving intensity.

He will get his lieutenant sunnies on one of these days and will never have to deal with this headache of a gaze.

“Then why do you?”, Simon asks like it’s simple, like it’s a fucking fairytale that Price can fix with a snap of his fingers or a kind word or a kiss of true love.

What’s the point of his true love if he’s not sure you can even feel it?

“How do you do it?”, John asks instead, words tasting like acid in his mouth, scraping his tongue and tender insides of his mouth, bleeding down sickening weakness down his throat.

His father would have smacked the taste out of John’s mouth if he heard the way he sounds right now.

But Ghost is not his father, Ghost just watches him silently, the only indicator that he even heard the question is a raised eyebrow of his. This cunt.

“Your spouse.”, John adds grumbling, dragging his feet through the whole conversation because god, he hates having talks. “They seem to be happy. Mine’s aren’t. ‘ts like I’m snuffing out their fire”, admitting it is even worse than thinking.

Admitting it is his personal defeat, his biggest flaw, his grandest fuck-up. Admitting it is a weakness.

Yeah, he deserves this fucking divorce all right. Miracle you put up with his arse for this long.

Ghost watches him with annoying understanding, with something almost akin to amusement, the same way you watch a dog run into clear glass doors repeatedly and then whimper on the porch in confusion.

“When’s the last time you talked?”, the question catches John off guard because it is so…normal? He honestly expected more silence or something more obscure but instead he is just awkward again.

But before John even gets to answer, Simon adds “Actually talked, John. Not snapped at each other like a pair of miserable toads”

Price has half a mind to tell Ghost to go fuck himself and his fucking talks but coincidentally Ghost is the one of them who is not going through the divorce, so John shuts his fucking gob.

“Think when you two actually connected like people. You’ve been together longer than some live in our line of work, sir”, Simon presses a cigarette butt down the ashtray, thin thread of smoke still rising off his desk.

“But when you are together this long you start forgetting that the other party can’t read your bloody mind. Goes for both of you by the way”, he chuckles, crossing arms over his chest, muscles rolling under the dark sweater of his.

“Reckon it’s third time they’ve been wringing you through it, isn’t it? Why’d you think they won’t back down now? What changed, eh?”

Price keeps rolling this pep talk on repeat the whole day, his mind a broken record speaking with the voice of his lieutenant and watching him from inside out with your eyes.

When was the last time you talked to each other?

When was the last time he asked you about the book you were reading? When was the last time you asked him about the op he came back from?

What changed?

John rubs his face, anxious sharp coils crawling up his arms to his heart, tremors getting worse before he has to physically force himself to stop and take a breather.

Not as young as he has been once, can’t just power through it anymore.

John shifts his weight from one leg to another, standing in front of the front door to your house and hates his own arse because what is even going on with him.

Price doesn’t want to think about the possibility of house being empty when he steps inside.

He will burn this bridge when he gets to it.

John gets inside and slowly pulls the heavy boots off, carpet cushioning his steps to the kitchen, warm glow of it welcoming him the same way your arms usually did.

You sit with his cup already filled up, steam rising off of his Earl Grey, something in his chest clawing from inside out in the open.

You don’t say anything but just raise to your feet and get ready to leave. So he can have his evening sit down with a cup until you fall asleep.

So you can hover for a moment longer in the doorway like the ghost of your own marriage before taking your leave and pretending later that you don’t melt into John’s embrace. That you don’t curl into him at night.

Price watches you, eyes heavy and dark, fingers of his right hand twitching involuntarily.

Here it comes. Now or never, John.

“Would you…do you want to have a cuppa with me? I bought these biscuits you seem to fancy, saw them on my way home, I—”, oh for fuck’s sake and now he’s rambling. This is just prime, John, that’s exactly how you were supposed to sound.

He coughs in his fist trying to mask the embarrassment, available hand still gripping the poor baggy of biscuits like it might run if he doesn’t do it.

What does he even think he is doing, offering his spouse fucking biscuits halfway through their divorce? He’s gone mad, that’s for sure.

“You are probably tired though. Must have had a long day with…everything.”, he adds softer, eyes down in his cup. Giving you an out.

Giving himself an out.

No need to have all these awkward conversations with your emotionally inept husband if you get divorced, right?

He’s a fucking coward when it comes to you. Always has been. Maybe that’s part of his “charm” you bought into?

“I can stay for a cup.”, you murmur quietly and plop himself down next to him. No cup in sight, John’s cheeks aching in a way that feels entirely too unnatural but your eyes crinkle and god, you are the prettiest, aren’t you, sweetheart? “Gonna make me one or you plan to stand there and look handsome?”

Teasing snaps him out of it, force of his smile just getting harder and he must be beaming at you like a proper idiot. But you don’t seem to mind too much.

Maybe you still like him after all.

“Just a moment, love”, John says, kiss to your cheek making his heart flutter, warmth spreading in his chest when you ravage through the baggy and bite off half of the biscuit.

Got them right this time, didn’t he? Seems like he’s still good for something.

John spends his whole life proving to himself that he deserves you and never asks whether you think he does or no.

John knows how to make your tea since your third date and knows what kind of biscuits his love fancies since the second one.

John decides he’s going to marry you on the first date you two have.

There is something bittersweet in brewing tea for a spouse he will always love and will always fail.

Because that’s what he does, because he never learned how to talk it out and he isn’t sure a daft old dog like him can learn any new tricks.

Coward’s way out.

No need to watch him claw his chest open and present you the infected wound of his heart if you get divorced, right?

Yeah, he never deserved you. But he always wanted.

John presses a dozen kisses to your face while he moves around the kitchen.

Each one a haste warm thing, more of a breath on your skin then actual touch.

That’s as much as he can muster up of actual tenderness without crumbling at your feet and swallowing his pride.

It all feels like a dead end. Like there is nowhere to go from here, he’s looking straight in the wall and he’s never been one to barrage through the obstacles.

Maybe that’s what was lacking. Maybe that’s why Simon’s spouse still loves him.

“You are thinking awfully hard there”, there is no malice in your voice, only quiet laughter and it spreads through Price’s achy bones like hot bath water, bubbles raising to his thorax.

Prettiest fucking thing you are with laughter like a hundred bells. Absolute darling.

John hums quietly, eyes meeting yours and he has a thousand different blunt questions that wary in degrees of hurt and confusion but you are still here.

Sitting in your kitchen, sipping tea he made for you, wearing his bloody sweater.

His spouse, his love, his partner for life.

“I got really lucky, didn’t I?”, it’s a rhetorical question, but there is choking tenderness the size of Jupiter in John’s mouth and he isn’t sure how to tell you that he’d kiss the soles of your feet every day the same way he kisses your forehead.

That bathes with you felt holier than any baptism, that he was closest to god when he was with you, your fingers combing through his hair like he’s something precious. Like he’s something you love.

John doesn’t know how to express the enormous amount of love he feels when you smile at him, when you yell at him, when you push back and snap your fingers in his face, his cheeky treasure.

John doesn’t think he earned the right to pleadask you to reconsider.

“I got more than most people ever did”, he murmurs softly and laces his fingers through yours, softly squeezing — callouses of his hands rubbing on the skin of yours.

There is a small twitch in the muscle of your jaw, your eyes intense enough to make him sorry if he tries to push harder and reach the bottom of your head.

“What’s that?”, your voice cracks the same way it usually did when you’d catch flu, cough ravaging your throat, rasp weaving itself in your vocal cords.

John looks at you for the first time in a very long time and there is no exasperated condescension in his eyes, crows feet of his eyes melting into a smile so gentle you feel like crying. This bastard.

“You.”, he murmurs, thumb circling the knuckle of yours, eyes soft in a way they haven’t been in forever and this is so unfair, he could ask you anything and you could never say no when he does it like that. “I got you.”, he adds quietly and his smile gets gentler. “Even if I never deserved to, I just want you to know that I always wanted it. Always wanted you. Always will”

John holds you like your are precious fragile thing, his skin warm from holding his cuppa, palm cupping your face when he angles your face up and kisses your brow.

Like it’s a goodbye.

“You deserve to be happy, love. You deserve to feel loved, not just know that you are”, Price says and wipes away a stray tear of yours, his eyes creasing in the corners to hide the redness of them, sharp lashes wet with something he would never admit.

Weakness that bleeds down his throat and chokes him out. Tenderness he never learned because men aren’t about the sappy talk.

John thinks one thing, says another and does the third one so he never mentions that he knows you have the stack of copies of divorce papers in your nightstand and never mentions that he left a signed one on top of them.

You deserve better than silent signature and stubborn husband.

You deserve better than him. But god, if it doesn’t kill him to admit it.

Just one more thing John Price will never talk about.

you're sick for this pinterest

young, shy reader and price who is just a little too old for it be considered fine. it’s not like that’s stopping either of them. soft spoken, jittery shy reader who’s really sick and tired of boys her age—she can barely hold a conversation with them—who is just so taken aback at how assertive price is. they meet, and plans for a first date are cemented before the end of the hour. he actually comes to pick her up—and while she’s scrambling to get shoes on, thinking she needs to rush outside to meet him, he knocks on the door.

he’s brought flowers. the whole thing seems like something out of a movie. everything about price is so… gentlemanly. the way he holds doors open, pulls chairs back, walks on the side of street closer to the road. the way she doesn’t have to fret and die over bad communication. no, he does all of that, without even being asked. it’s a little dumb, but that’s the state of dating right now. so this is such a breath of fresh air it’s like getting the wind knocked out of you. as enamored you are with him, you hope you’re not reading into it too much—is he like this with every girl he picks up in a bar?

but then days turn to weeks which turn to months—and john price has become the most consistent part of your life, the best part of each day and whose voice can lull you to sleep each night. and you settle nicely into the role—a cute pretty thing in a sundress that fits perfectly on his arm, attached at his side. and maybe you are just a little too young for him, but you can hardly care when he has you creaming all over his dick once, twice, three times a day, sometimes. yes, your boyfriend is a little older. just a little.

TW: age gap (John is in his late 40s and reader is in her early 20s), cheating, unprotected sex, slight breeding, reader cheating on her boyfriend with his dad

Imagine that you are dating a CEO!John son. He is an awful boyfriend who doesn’t take care of you, but he sometimes buys you gifts, and he pays every time you go out. He has his dad's money, and you are comfortable in that relationship. You don’t love him, but you're bored so you date him anyway.

When he invites you to his parent’s place for a party his mother is organizing you agree. You never met his parents, but you googled his father when you started dating. You saw the pictures of John in his expensive black suits looking like a god of sex. He is so attractive with his piercing blue eyes and silver in his hair and the body. He is built like a bear, with broad shoulders and muscles with a little layer of fat.

When you arrive John's wife greets you, and you start to see that your boyfriend is the exact version of his mom. She is the typical neurotic mother who is obsessed with her baby boy, who has everything in life but still shoplifts underwear and cheats on her husband with some Pilates instructor (because he reminds her of her son). It is very clear that your boyfriend's parents don’t love each other, and they stay together just because they don’t have time for a divorce.

Your boyfriend leaves you at the bar. He orders you a drink and tells you to stay here and wait for him. He must go speak with his boys, and he doesn’t want you to ruin their vibe. You know they need some bro time. You stay at the bar texting your friends, promising that you will break up with him the moment he comes back because you just got the biggest ick from his bro time.

That’s how John finds you, Alone, sipping on your sweet drink and paying no attention to the party. He sits next to you, and when he asks you if you are one of his wife's friends from the yoga group you tell him no. He is relieved because you look like a sweet girl. Then you tell him that you date his son, and he thinks that his luck just run out. What he doesn’t know is that it is your 3rd drink of the night, you’ve been waiting for your boyfriend for more than 40 minutes and you are so over him. So you start to complain, you say that he doesn’t spend time with you, he only wants to have sex and when you finally agree, he can't get his dick hard because he is drunk or high. You also think that he is cheating on you and you couldn’t care less about him.

When John asks you why you are still with him you simply tell him that you enjoy his money. John orders you a glass of water and makes you drink it, then another and another. He has plans with you and he needs you sober. He moves his chair, so he sits closer to you, and he starts to tell you that if you want man's money you should find someone who will treat you well. Not only on the financial side but on the emotional as well. He slowly starts to touch your hand, and he leans so close you can smell his cologne. You are intoxicated by his smell, the closeness, and the alcohol you drank. When you realize that your boyfriend's father is in fact flirting with you start to flirt with him too.

You ask him if he knows how to take care of women. He plays your game, and he tells you that if you want to know you have to find out by yourself. You sit at the bar for another half an hour, you’re not allowed to have any more drinks only water, but when you beg John for a sip of his whiskey he gives in. He finds in very sensual how you drink from his glass, your lipstick leaving a mark on the glass and he wonders how your lipstick would look on his dick.

When you see your boyfriend talking and flirting with some other woman you have enough. You get up from your chair and you stand between John’s spread tights. He puts his hand on your lower back and starts to gently touch you. When you get close to him, he thinks that you are trying to kiss him but you only whisper asking if you’ve been good girl and if he will finally take care of you.

He walks you to some bedroom on the upper floor when the guests are not allowed, and the moment he closes the door behind you, he pines you to the wall. He kisses you like a hungry man, he’s tongue is immediately in your mouth, and he lifts you, so your legs are around his waist. He gropes your ass, squeezing and slapping and you’re getting so wet. You start to grind on him, feeling his bulge through his pants. You can feel how hard he is getting and how big he is. After he is done kissing you, he moves to your neck. He leaves there so many hickeys and little bruises from biting, and you know that he is marking what is his.

John gently places you on the bed and he starts to work on undressing you. When you are only in bra and panties, he takes a second, like he is enjoying the view, imagining what will happen next. You beg his to not tease you, to already do something, and when he finally takes your underwear off he spreads you legs and looks at your pussy. He asks you if his son ever eaten you out, and when you tell him no, you hear him say that he will make it up to you.

You hear him say how nice and wet you are for him, and he starts to gently bite your inner thighs. He slowly works his way to your centre and when he licks your clit you know you wont last long. John sucks and licks and when he adds his finger, slowly pushing in you, you start to feel your orgasm approaching. He fingers you with one hand, adding another finger, stretching you and with the other one he starts to massage your tits and when he pinches your nipple you come.

After that he slowly unbuttons his shirt, he unzips his pants, and he takes his boxers off. He grabs your ankles, and he pulls you to the side of the bed. John touches your nipples between his fingers, pinching them hard, and when you gasp you hear him laugh and say “So fucking sensitive for me.” His hands then slips under your legs and he spreads you wider for him.

He wants to fuck you raw, he doesn’t care if you are on birth control or not, he needs to feel your wet pussy around his cock. He starts to slide his tip between your fold teasing you. Then slowly he pushes in. You feel the stretch and you are very glad that he took his time preparing you for this. You feel so full of him as he pushes his way deeper and deeper. Once he is settled all the way in, he starts to pull out. His trusts are slow but rough,

John puts almost all his way on you as he starts to kiss you again. His hands are holding your legs as he fucks you. He puts your nipple in his mouth gently sucking and biting while his cock is pounding at your cervix. You fell him so deep, and you know that he is ruining you for any other man. The sex with his son couldn’t compared to this.

It doesn’t take long for you to be approaching your orgasm again. His hands are on your hips holding you still while he fastens the tempo, and you can feel, that he is close too. “That’s it come for me, be a good girl” you hear him say as he starts to rub your clit again. That’s when you come again, spasming on his cock milking him dry.

He cum inside of you, you can feel him throbbing as he spills his load inside. He doesn’t pull out, he just shifts your position so now he is laying on the bed and you are on his chest his dick still inside of you. When you try to get off him, he grips you harder and you can’t move. “I may not be 25 anymore but I still can give you another round” you hear him say. You can feel him getting harder in you again and you know, that you will be here for quite some time. “Now be a good girl and show me how can you ride my cock”

You just hope that your boyfriend won’t come looking for you.

Part two Masterlist

Part three of CEO!John Price

Part one | Part two

CW : smut, oral sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, mating press, little power imbalance, reader is a female

After you read the note that John left for you on your table, you are left feeling quite nervous but also excited. You were prepared for this. When you were getting ready for work this morning, you put on your favorite underwear. Lacy pink panties and matching bra that made your tits look great. You put on a lot of perfume, the one John had bought for you. You wore your best outfit, and you felt sexy and confident. You wanted to impress John, yesterday took you by surprise, but now you were in charge. When the time for his lunch break came, you were ready, so when you went to his office you knew what you wanted. You wanted him.

You find John sitting behind his table, working on his laptop. He looks good, so fucking hot without even trying. When he realizes that it´s you, who just walked in, he immediately shuts up his laptop and his full attention is on you. “Suddenly my day just got a lot better” he says and walks to you.

He gently places his hand on your cheek, and he kisses you. It’s nothing like the kiss you shared yesterday. This one is soft and gentle, like now he has time to taste you properly. He takes his time kissing you. When you try to touch him more, he pulls away. “Not now sweetheart, we have plans don’t we”. John walks out of the office with you. His hand on your back walking you through the whole floor like you’re his wife and not his secretary.

You’re confused. You expected a quick sex in his office, just like yesterday, you expected him to just pull your skirt up and fuck you on the desk. But now he is taking you somewhere in his expensive car and you’re wondering what the hell is going on.

You don’t know how John is feels about dating. You always thought that he was the type who just had casual sex with different partners. Since you started working for him, he didn’t have a girlfriend, but you heard from your colleges that he enjoys a company of beautiful women. Sometimes the relationship lasts longer but mostly there were a few weeks hook ups.

You stop in front of some Italian restaurant. He opens your door for you and like a true gentleman he helps you to get out of the car. The restaurant is lovely, there are only a few people inside and it looks really cozy. After you order your food he asks about your day, how did you sleep and what are your plans for the evening. He acts like you’re on a normal date and not on a business lunch. “I can see that something is bothering you, you don’t like it here?” John asks you after he notices how out of the place you look.

You tell him that you don’t understand what is going on, why are you here and what are you doing. “Well, I know that you don’t go out for your lunch break, so I wanted to take my girl out, take care of you.” He says it is not a big deal. “Your girl?” you ask. “What did you thought that I’m just going to fuck you in my office, when I am will be bored? John asks and your face goes red. That is exactly what you thought he would do. “I take care of my partners. I want to spoil you. Since you started to work for me you have been such a good girl, making my life so much easier. Now it is my turn.” You’re left speechless.

After the lunch, he takes you back to the office. His hand is on your thigh while he drives and it’s making you insane. Yes, you do like that he took you out but you’re so horny. The whole morning you imagined what he would do to you, and you were excited. And now he is teasing you with his fingers lightly brushing over your skin and each time he goes higher and higher.

At one moment when John’s hand is almost all the way under your skirt you moan. He looks at you with a playfulness in his eyes. Now he is teasing you on purpose. He continues to drive while his hand is slowly making its way in your panties. “Fuck love, you’re soaked, you could tell me that you wanted me so much.” Gently he starts to circle your clit and you’re opening your legs more for him.

He slowly puts two of his fingers inside you and after a while he starts to move them. You’re almost at the office building when he makes a turn and starts to drive in a different direction. “Where are we going?” you ask. “I made a promise to you yesterday, haven’t I. Were not fucking in my car. I am taking you to my place, so we don’t have to worry about some of your colleagues catching us fucking. We would want Janice from finance to see how good you take my cock. Am I right?”

To be honest you don’t care if Janice saw you. You’re so close and you can feel your orgasm approaching. John still casually drives while his fucking your pussy with his fingers. When he pulls his fingers out of you, you’re desperate, you just need a little bit more and you know that he knows it too. “You will come on my face in a minute don’t worry” John says.

And he is right the drive to his house is short and you both quickly get out of the car. When the door to his house closes behind you, he is immediately on you. Kissing you passionately and lifting you up so your legs are wrapped on his hips. He walks with you up the stairs not letting you go.

 “Everything off, I want to see you” he says when he lays you on his bed. You’re quick with your clothes and now you lay before him in nothing but your panties. “Fucking beautiful, and I bet you taste even better than you look.” “Spread your legs for me, sweetheart, let me see you” he gently pulls your panties, and he shows his head between your thighs. You’re already so wet and when he finally starts to lick your pussy your gone. You arch your back, and you can hear him whisper fucking perfect for me.  

When his tongue finds you clit you’re gone. He looks up at you and you can see your wetness on his beard and it’s the hottest thing you have ever seen. He quickly brings you to your orgasm and as he promised you to come on his face. When you finally come down from your orgasm you can see him taking his shirt off. He unzips his pants and quickly takes them off. He is on you naked, and you can see his hard dick leaking precum.

“I want to see your face this time, I want to see how pretty you’re going to look when I make you come on my dick.” He slowly pushes in you. “You were made for me honey, youre going to be the death of me.” he growls, and he starts to move in you. John is a big man and the way his stretching you is amazing. You can feel him everywhere and you are full.

It’s completely different than the sex you had yesterday. This is slow, his thrusts are hard, but it’s not rushed like the last time. He plays with your nipples, and you can feel that your second orgasm is approaching. “I am going to cum” you tell him, and you can feel that he is close too. He pushes your legs to your chest in a mating press and you can feel him so much deeper. “I need to come in your sweet pussy, please sweetheart be a good girl and let me” he says and you just nod. His fingers start to rub your clit and your orgasm hits you. He follows shortly after you spilling his seed into you. When he pulls out of you, he pulls you to his chest and he holds you so tight. You just lay there and you on his chest and his hands holding you.

You don’t go back to work that day, you stay at his place the night and the next day he drives you to your apartment. He tries to convince you to take the rest of the week off, so he can enjoy your company, but you tell him that he is the boss, and he needs to work, and he can’t take a vacation just because he is horny.  You go to work and when you go to your desk you see a note there, just like yesterday. But this time it says: My office now! And loose your panties on the way.

Masterlist

my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around. 

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry. 

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long. 

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare. 

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for. 

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried. 

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could. 

Domineering. Grossly possessive. 

He has you already, but that's not enough. 

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be. 

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse. 

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out. 

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life. 

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous. 

Dismissive. 

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe. 

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only. 

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm. 

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time. 

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy. 

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time. 

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away. 

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content. 

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him. 

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile. 

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce. 

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut. 

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable. 

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct. 

Good girl. 

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye. 

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

something borrowed, something blue masterlist

john price, head of the price mafia family, needs a wife. luckily, simon riley has an unmarried sister and a need for resources. only problem? prices and rileys don't exactly mix well...

AO3 LINK

the proposal

the meeting

wedding week

the wedding

the honeymoon

a week of friendship

a bookstore in the making

mended bonds

an almost fresh start

past dreams and current nightmares

snitches and rats

found you

baby steps

a new chapter

this is an enemies to lovers, arranged marriage mafia au! john price x f!reader. reader is simon's half sister. all of our four boys will be featured (eventually). the "enemies" part is mutual disdain, not life or death enemies. lots of cheeky banter here. it is medium burn, since the lines of "hate" and passion can be easily crossed. the rileys are a smaller manchester gang and the prices are in charge of london's biggest mafia. i am american so some places/slang/logistics might be not be right!! don't hate me! i am googling manchester/london slang but if you have some recs, feel free to comment. more to come <3

tag: fic: sbsb mafia price

taglist is closed, pls turn on notifs <3

John who fucks you raw for the first time.

You've been dating for a year now, and you always tried to be safe. But now, he came home earlier from a mission, and you didn't have the time to buy the condoms.

But how you can say no to him, when he begs you to let him fuck you. He says how much he missed you and your pussy. So, you agree that you will give him a pussy job and he can push the tip inside.

John thinks that he never felt anything better than your pussy raw on his dick. Everything feels so intense, and he can't control himself. With few hard thrusts he is completely inside you and he can't hear your whimpers when you remind him that he is only allowed just the tip.

Now he has you under him and he promises that he will pull out, but he slowly starts to realize that it won't be possible. He thinks about you full with his child, with your breast getting bigger and his load spilling out of your pussy. How lovely would you look with his fat baby on your hip while being pregnant with another one.

He never thought he had a breeding kink but once he tried your pussy without a condom everything changes.

He pins you down to the mattress pushing his dick deep inside your pussy and when he feels you reaching your orgasm and squeezing his cock he spills his seed inside of you. With few more thrust he fucks the cum deeper inside of you.

And when you moan his name so overwhelmed and sensitive, he knows that he needs to make sure that it sticks. It doesn't take long and he is spilling another load into you.

And than another one in the shower while he has you pressed against the glass. And another one on the couch when he makes you ride him, while he smokes his favorite kind of cigars.

When the next day you come home with a pack of condoms, he quickly hides them away from you when you're not looking. He needs to make sure that soon enough you will be fat with his baby.

Masterlist

being john price’s secretary who’s running on caffeine from the bottom of the mug, boredom, and spite from an unloyal partner who decides it’s a good idea to mess with her boss.

bending a little lower when delivering papers, soft skirts suddenly become skin tight, unbuttoning your shirt so the whisper of your cleavage is barely visible- enough that you catch him glancing at it while at the water dispenser.

it was harmless right? a stunt to remind yourself that you were desirable after the shit your ex pulled. nothing could penetrate his resolve- he had the thickest grip on self control you’d ever seen.

you and your sore cunt are proved wrong. regret and slick reeking up the work restroom- as you wipe ointment on the bruises that stamp your hip bones. they’re reminders of how he bent you over his desk and showed you just how thick his grip could get on something that’s had his full attention for months.

BARRY SLOANE as Joe 'Bear' Graves in SIX (2017—2018) Episodes 2.01/2.08

cw: unedited, mild misogyny? if you squint?

price x fem reader thoughts

John Price definitely loves being a little bit of an asshole. He just adores being the traditional dominant provider type for you and spoiling you, but sometimes you get a bit to spoiled. If he doesn't like your attitude he'll fuck you from behind with your face buried in his bicep, whispering the filthiest shit in your ear. " is this all ya needed luv? hmm? big strong man to fuck you silly? little miss independent needs to be reminded who this pussy belongs too, yeah?" he has your face covered in drool and his arm covered in bite marks. He especially loves to grab you by the hair and pull your head back. "want to hear those pretty sounds luv. Make sure the neighbors know I take good care of you" all you can do is whine and steady yourself in his arms as the sounds of his fast pace thrusts fill the room.