being married to jack means sleeping on your tummy with one thigh hitched over his waist when he sleeps on his back. his broad hand & chubby wrist holding onto your warm skin, fingers curled around your thigh. you’re basically sleeping on top of him as he wiggles a little closer, lifting your leg up further so he can press his morning hard-on against the soft swell of your cunt.
one hand spreading your cheeks so he can wedge himself into you, while his foot plants flat on the mattress. a low, sleepy, raspy groan “fuuck.” oozing out of him as he settles himself inside.
when you stir, pushing your leg further into his tummy to keep him close, he’s instantly going for the kiss. hips bucking up in circles as he lazily laps at your tongue, “good morning, baby. kiss?”
slooooooooowwww makeout and fucking at 8am on his off-day </3
older!simon who absolutely adores how much smaller petite!reader is than him. well, typically everyone is smaller than you when you're six-foot-three and counting. doorframes are smaller, airplane seats, ceilings—you get the gist. simon is used to maneuvering the world with his eye-level far above crowds since he was in middle-school by now, but it's with you that he suddenly doesn't know what to do with himself. feels like his huge, lumbering hands are too big for your body, like he'll snap your limbs in half when he takes both of your wrists in just one of his own and pins them above your head. it's like handling fine china, two meaty fingers awkwardly pinching the entire handle of a too-tiny teacup. simon isn't particularly good with metaphors, but i digress.
he always swears he can't fit inside you, but well, you do fit like a gem in the backseat of his car and the opportunity is too good to pass up. it almost feels cruel, you're so small and he's too big, but how could he not? fold you up nice and easy under him, et voila. you're so brave for him, and it just takes a bit of pushing past the initial resistance to bury his oversized cock inside you. you're tight as a fist around the head of his cock, just at first.
you're easy to manhandle, a real-life ball-jointed doll that even a brute like simon can bend to his whim, or bounce up-and-down on his cock. fun-sized, he'd call it, you're made for the fun stuff. it's a little reductive, maybe, but you inevitably bat your lashes and reply that you were made just for him. he can do whatever wants with you.
(from your fellow 5ft tall writer)
— a/n: based on a conversation i had minutes ago, except i immediately started thinking of ghost bc simon riley is better than any real life man. <3
╰ 18+ MDNI. its okay if you can’t handle it, hawks will talk you (both) through it!
keigo’s folding you as if he believes your body is malleable.
cock head hammering in and out of your greedy cunt, contorting the gushy walls inside that pretty lil’ womb he calls home, shaft snuggly squeezing throughout each little crevice it can find, stretching you wide open.
every last inch of skin is practically covered in him. dry trails of spit lingering on your clammy flesh, deep plum bruises blooming in the imprints of his teeth, the countless hours of devotion on your body claiming you for the world to see slowly yet surely leaving you deliriously slurring for more, drooling mouth pleading for his cock.
when he first entered you, it wasn’t gentle. thick tawny hands push, push, pushing! your thighs snug into your chest, tits smushed into shaky knees with skin sticking together as he folded you into the most ferociously intimate mating press of your life.
you had no time to breathe, the sheer circumstance of his fat cock tearing your poor pussy to shreds, the burn so deep in your tummy it churned, butterflies aimlessly swirlin’ around your abdomen.
and when he started to pick up his pace? you couldn’t bear it anymore, the feeling of his hips slapping into your ass each time his cock collided with your cervix had you seeing stars, drooling lips begging for him to stop.
“keigo! please slow down…” you’re trailing, whimpering when his cock pulsates in your cunt, hips gyrating into you, blond happy trial poking out between your thighs.
pelvis on pelvis, his presses into your clit just right, leaving your mouth gaping, mewls slipping from your exhausted throat. “oh, like this?” keigo’s questioning, tongue swiping against his lips, leering down at you with a look of false confusion, smiling when you meet his gaze.
“yeah—”
“—yeah, noooo. i think this would feel wayyyy better,” he abruptly cuts you off, reeling his hips far enough his tip almost slips out of you, and slamming right back in, this time humpin’ against you with the deepest strokes he’s ever given you, loudly giggling when he’s pressing you silly down into the mattress.
“not like this!” you’re screaming, gripping his wrists to push him away even though he’s far stronger than you especially in your current state, feeling the top of your head begin to gently hit the wooden headboard, “keigo! mmpfh—i can’t!”
“come on angel, don’t tell me you can’t.” keigo’s girthy cockhead smooches snuggly against your g-spot, sloppily making out with your syrupy cunt, filing your belly with his crimson-red tip, cute beads of pre mixing inside your sticky pussy.
sighing when he feels you clench around his cock, he can’t help but push his teasing further, fingertips grabbing ur chin to look back into his golden irises, “kept going on and on about how much you wanted this, now you’re saying you can’t take it?”
“always fuck ya deep, don’t i? here—let’s see,” he smirks, the same hand against your chin traveling down, down, down, until it’s resting beneath your navel, pressing hard into the flesh, feeling his cock through your flesh, “there we go, how’s that for deep?”
you both moan in unison, the pressure perfectly pushing your cunt down on his cock, the pleasure so suffocating you feel your eyes roll back into your skull, mouth slurring. “keigo!”
he keeps his hand there, biceps tensing as he holds himself up, cock drilling into your pussy, “you got it, lemme take care of my girls, yeah?”
“no! no, i can’t!” choking, you can barely get a word in, the violent attack on your pussy causing your eyes to roll backwards, toes curling.
“you can’t? i think you caaan—looks like you can,” he’s slurring, head dipping backwards to stare at his cock stuffing you full like he’s checking for a problem under the hood of a car, shrugging when there isn’t one, “so why can’t you?”
“too muchhhh—you gotta stop!”
“aww, my poor baby,” he grins, cockily dipping his head to the side and pouting, “you really wanna stop?”
deliriously nodding your fucked out head, he’s instantly stopping, pulling his cock completely out of your tight pussy. winching at the loss of contact, your eyes widen in horror, clammy hands grabbing at his chest to pull him close. “w-wait—fuck! no, no, no! please don’t stop kei—”
“—who said ‘m stopping?” two skilled digits prod at the silkened flesh of your stretched pussy lips, thoroughly pressin’ into the neglected nub between them.
massaging your clit with just enough pressure that your legs begin to spasm in place, he moves around the flesh like he knows it—like he owns it, cockhead whimpering and dripping when he sees your empty hole clench around nothing.
“you—go faster.” feeling warm and fuzzy inside and like you’re going to cry out of both ends, you begin to beg, thrashing around the best you can, ass wriggling off the sheets.
“faster?” he shakes his head, fingers angrily pinching your clit in a silent warning to lay back down, only continuing to rub at your clit when you respond correctly. “nah, i think you’re gonna cum just like this.”
looking at him with a look that physically pains him, you push out your bottom lip, “l-like this? without you inside me?”
“hmmmm…” he ‘debates’ mouth moving from side to side, ignoring the feeling of his balls churching at the sight of your cute pleading, “actually—no, that’s a pretty good idea,” ripping his fingers away from toying with your pussy to stick his cock right back inside ya, leaving you breathless and silent as it rips you apart in one feverish thrust.
“fuuuuckkkk!”
“keep breathing pretty,” keigo’s humming, placing a soft kiss to your ankle, praises after praises lazily falling off his pink tongue. “doing soooo damn good f’me, love this pussy baby girl. fuckkk—can tell you’re close, relax for me? please?”
you’re so fucked out he’s sure you aren’t even listening to him until your narrowly relaxing your tight walls, letting him massage your g-spot with his thick cock just like you love it, fingertips finding that sweet spot between your lips again, rubbing it even slower than before. “there ya go, good fuckin’ girl.”
keigo always knows how to make you swoon, cheeky words going straight to your obedient cunt, the pleasure making you lose your goddamn mind—
“—mhm, gonna cum right now, aren’t you? let me feel it, soak me angel.”
“…right now?” nose twitching, pleasure suddenly lolls throughout your body, orgasm hitting you with a heart shaped arrow straight to the core, a silky purrrrr roaring from your chest. “oh—oh fuck!”
he’s fucking into you like a mad man, abusing your pussy like he hates it, cock meanly snapping into your cervix, fucking you through your dizzying high.
“keigo! slow downnnn—” slapping at his sculpted body, he doesn’t slow his feverish thrusts, words of praise turning into incoherent babbles as he throws his head back, muscles flexing, abs tensing.
so numb and fucked out you realize keigo is cumming inside of you. thick and sappy seed easily mixes with your extra sticky slick, the creamy concoction pouring right out of your gaping slit and down the mattress.
he looks back down at you, amber eyes looking black the way his pupils have blown up practically triple in size, “can’t-can’t with you lookin’ at me like that sweets.”
keigo doesn’t seem to notice his balls emptying just yet, too busy talking you… or more like himself through the high, teeth chattering, lips stuttering, “mmmm—give me another one real quick, please baby?
“seriously?” you’re asking, falling back down into the sheets, the thin cotton sticking to your shoulders as you shutter, keigo showing no signs of slowing down any time soon.
canine hybrid!reader getting put into a mean prone bone by ghost all because you've been having issues biting people lately during trainings. your usually so good, but lately you've been acting up.
when he realizes what's up after talking about it with gaz, soap, and price while you look all sad and guilty in front of them, he's smacking himself in the head. "shite...can't believe i didn't realize it sooner," is all he grumbles before getting up and dragging you to his room
"all you needed was a little bit of command, right? no one fulfilling your needs by taking control...everything just got too big for ya, didn' it, pup?" all you can get out is a mix of a growl and whine, your eyes in the back of your head as he pounds you nice and deep, arm around your head.
"yeah, tha's it, jus' let me fuck it outta you, sit there and be good," he grunts, squeezing your head a little bit. "poor thing...'m sorry, sweetheart, i forgot my lil' thing doesn't like being in charge. go stupid for me, jus' like that..."
simon riley and his spouse don't wear wedding rings.
work makes it risky for him. you simply don't want anything between your skin and his when he entwines his fingers with yours.
instead, you get matching tattoos. small, black hearts on the inside of your ankles, and identical ones tucked behind his ears - hidden by the mask at work, and by tufts of blonde hair when he's at home.
no dates. no names. nothing that would obviously link the two of you.
now he’s got you folded in a mean mating press - knees crushed to your chest, legs hooked over his shoulders, cock buried as deep as it can go. every thrust makes you whimper, nails biting into his biceps, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. your ankles press against the sides of his head; the hearts tattooed there lining up perfectly with the ones behind his ears - permanent reminders of your favourite position to be in together.
author's note: This has been in my drafts for one and a half years man. Never say never 💀 And thank you so much for 10k, lovelies! 🤍 xx
The ad is three lines long.
You agonise over it for a week—drafting and redrafting on the back of a grocery receipt at the kitchen table while your husband is on deployment, crossing out words and rewriting them until the paper is soft and furred at the edges from erasing.
Three lines. That's all the local paper allows for the personals section, which is a relic from another era that you didn't even know still existed until you were flipping through the classifieds looking for a vintage bookshelf and your eyes snagged on the column header.
SEEKING CONNECTION
You'd laughed at first. Then you'd read a few. Then you'd read them all, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with your tea going cold in your hands, and something small and sharp turning over in your chest.
The ad you eventually submit reads:
Married woman, mid 30s, seeks interesting conversation and perhaps more with a like-minded gentleman. Discretion essential. If you enjoy good food, dry wit, and don't mind a woman who can out-drink you — I'd love to hear from you. Reply to Box 64.
You pay for four weeks in advance and feel sick the entire drive home.
Because here's the thing about being married to Captain John Price.
You love him desperately and completely, in a way that has settled into your bones over the better part of a decade and become indistinguishable from the architecture of who you are.
Adore the way he smells—stale cigar smoke and sandalwood and old gun oil, a combination that should be repulsive and instead makes you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there. Love his hands, broad and scarred and capable of violence you'll never fully understand, and how gentle they are when they cup your jaw or fix the clasp of your necklace.
And you melt for the rumble of his voice on the phone at two in the morning when he calls from whatever godforsaken corner of the world he's operating in, tired and tight-lipped but always, always asking about you first.
You love him, and he loves you, and it hasn't been enough for a long time.
Not because the love ran out, because he did.
John Price gives everything to his work. Every deployment bleeds into the next. The gaps between homecomings stretch longer—three weeks become five, five become eight, eight becomes ‘I don't know yet, love, I'll let you know when I know’.
And when he does come home, he's there but not there; hollow-eyed and distracted, reaching for his phone at dinner, falling asleep on the sofa before nine, making love to you the first night with a desperate urgency that fades by the third morning into perfunctory kisses on the forehead and an apologetic mumble about an early briefing.
Someday, you stopped asking when he'd be home six months ago; stopped leaving the porch light on four months ago, and you stopped wearing the nice knickers three months ago because what was the point again.
Two months ago, you realised you'd gone an entire week without hearing his voice and hadn't noticed until Thursday.
That's when the panic set in. Not the sharp, clean kind, but the slow, creeping kind. The one that makes you lie awake at three a.m. staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is it, if this is what the rest of your life looks like. A nice house in Hereford with a well-maintained garden and a husband who exists primarily as a name on a bank account and a voice on the other end of an increasingly rare phone call.
You don't want to leave him. The thought alone makes you nauseous.
You just want someone to see you again.
John finds the newspaper three days after he gets home from a six-week deployment in eastern Syria.
He's not snooping; he's looking for the TV remote, which has migrated into the crack between the sofa cushions again, and his hand closes around the folded section of newsprint wedged beside it. He pulls it out, intending to toss it on the coffee table, and his eyes catch the circle of biro ink around one of the small ads in the personals column.
John reads it, and then again.
Then he sits down very slowly, the remote forgotten, and stares at the far wall for a long time, connecting puzzle pieces like his life depends on it, which it very well does apparently.
Married woman, mid 30s. His wife is in her thirties.
Dry wit. His wife is the driest, sharpest-tongued woman he's ever met. It's one of the first things he fell in love with—the way she could dismantle a man's ego with a single raised eyebrow and a well-timed "Bless your heart, love".
Can out-drink you. He's watched his wife put away Whisky Sours at the SAS Christmas do with a composure that made seasoned operators look like lightweights.
Discretion essential.
John sets the newspaper down on his knee. His jaw works and his eyes don't leave the wall.
And he doesn't confront you.
Not over dinner nor in bed that night when you roll towards him and press a kiss to his shoulder—a habit you've kept even through the worst of the distance, even when you're angry with him, even when he doesn't deserve it.
Instead, he waits, and he replies to Box 64.
The letter that arrives for you a week later is postmarked locally. Plain envelope, no return address. Inside, a single sheet of paper, handwritten in a bold, slanted script you don't recognise.
I enjoy good food, better whisky, and I've never met a woman who can out-drink me, but I'd enjoy watching you try. Friday, 8pm, O’Malley’s on St. George's Lane. I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh. — J
Your hands are shaking when you finish reading it, and you have to sit down at the kitchen table and press your palms flat against the wood to steady yourself.
You could throw it away. No. You should throw it away. This was a mistake—a stupid, reckless, selfish mistake born out of loneliness and too much wine and that ugly, gnawing ache in your chest that flares up every time John leaves.
But John has left again. Three days at home, then a call from Kate Laswell, then a bag packed and a kiss on your forehead and a quick ‘Be back soon, love’ and the sound of the front door closing and the silence that rushes in to fill the space he used to occupy.
You read the letter once more.
I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh.
Something warm and reckless curls in your stomach, and you hate yourself for it, and you fold the letter into the pocket of your cardigan and carry it around for three days before you decide you’re going.
Friday night. O’Malley’s.
You arrive twenty minutes early because you're a control freak in crisis, and you take the farthest booth in the corner because your back needs to be against a wall and your eyes need to be on the door—a habit you picked up from your husband without realising it.
You order a gin and tonic to give your hands something to do, and you check your reflection in the blank screen of your phone for the third time. You look good, like you tried again—not the kind of effort you make for John when he comes home, all desperate and over-polished, but a quieter kind; wearing your favourite dress with subtle makeup and your hair done the way you like it, not the way you think someone else wants to see it.
You look like your old self, and that's terrifying, because the whole point of tonight was supposed to be about being someone else.
When your wedding ring catches the light as you reach for your drink, and you stare at it for a long moment, the slim gold band John slid onto your finger nine years ago with steady hands and unsteady eyes, and you don't take it off.
You should, but you can’t, and you did say you’re married.
Eight o'clock comes and goes. Five past, then ten. You're about to convince yourself you've been stood up, which would be both a relief and a humiliation, when the pub door opens and a man walks in, and every nerve ending in your body fires at once.
Because the man standing in the doorway, scanning the room with those sharp, assessing eyes, is your husband.
John is wearing civvies. Dark jeans, a black henley pushed up to his elbows, boots that have seen better days.
He looks like he came straight from the base, which he probably did. His hair is freshly cut but his beard is full, and there is a tiredness around his eyes that you can read from across the room, the same bone-deep fatigue he carries home from every deployment and tries to hide and fails.
He spots you and your stomach plummets.
Meanwhile, his expression doesn't change; not a flicker. He holds your gaze across the crowded pub, and then he walks towards you with the kind of unhurried, deliberate stride that you've seen him use in exactly two contexts.
When he's approaching a superior officer, and when he's about to do something that no one in the room is going to enjoy.
Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth. Your hand tightens around your glass until your knuckles ache, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run to the bathroom, to the car park, to another country, but your legs won't cooperate, because Captain John Price is walking towards you and you have never in your life been able to move when he's looking at you like that.
He reaches the booth, stops, and looks down at you. And a beat of terrible, electric silence follows.
Then he smiles, though not the tight, exhausted smile he gives you at the front door when he's been gone for weeks, but something warmer, something almost boyish, and then he slides into the seat across from you, settling in with an ease that makes your blood run cold.
"You must be Box 64," he says casually, calm, like he's meeting a stranger for the first time, which is insane, because he is your husband and he is sitting across from you at a pub where you came to meet another man and he knows. He fucking knows.
"John—"
"John," he repeats, tasting the name like he's hearing it for the first time. Then he extends his hand across the table. "That's right. Pleasure to meet you."
You stare at his outstretched hand, then at his face, and back at his hand.
"John, I can explain—"
"Nothing to explain." He keeps his hand where it is, steady and patient. His eyes don't leave yours. "I'm J. You're Box 64. We're here to have a drink and see if we get on. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? What your ad said?"
Your mouth opens and something inside you dies a little, along with the words in your throat; anything but one.
"John."
"You gonna leave me hanging, love? Already?" He nods at his hand, one eyebrow raised, and there is something in his expression—beneath the calm and the performance—that you can't quite read.
It's not anger, not even hurt. Something closer to resolve, like he's made a decision about tonight and he intends to see it through, and nothing you say is going to alter the trajectory.
You take his hand, shake it weakly.
His fingers close around yours, warm and rough, and he gives one firm shake before releasing you. Then he flags down the barmaid, orders a whisky neat, and turns back to you with that same easy, unreadable smile.
"So. Tell me about yourself."
You stare at him owlishly.
"I—I don't—" You can feel heat crawling up your neck, your throat tightening with the precursor to tears. "John, please, can we just—"
"Tell me," he says again, and his voice is gentle, but his eyes are steel. "What do you do? Where are you from? What made you put that ad in the paper?"
The last question lands like another slap, even though his tone doesn't change. You swallow hard, your fingers wrap around your glass for something to anchor to.
He waits for you to answer; patient as a sniper in a ghillie suit.
"I'm—" You exhale shakily. "I'm from here. I live in Hereford. I'm—" Your voice threatens to crack, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it steadies. "I'm a teacher."
"A teacher." John nods, like this is new information and not something he's known for the better part of a decade. "What age?"
"Year four."
"Year four. That's—what, eight? Nine?" He takes a sip of his whisky. The barmaid left it quietly and shot you a look like she sensed the tension. "Brave woman. I've faced insurgents with less fight in them than a nine-year-old with a grudge."
The laugh that escapes you is wet and startled and completely involuntary, and John's eyes soften for a fraction of a second before the mask slides back into place.
"What about you?" you ask carefully, because two can play this game, and if he's going to make you sit through this surreal performance, you might as well commit. Your voice is still unsteady, but there's a spark of something underneath the fear—defiance, maybe, or the stubbornness that made you put the ad in the paper in the first place. "What do you do?"
"Military," he answers briskly, which is what he always says at parties and barbecues when civilians ask, offering nothing further.
"What branch?"
"The kind that doesn't let me talk about it." He leans back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of the booth leisurely and looks at you with an expression that's half amusement, half something hungrier. "I travel a lot. Gone more than I'm home unfortunately."
"That must be hard," you reply, and you mean it in a raw way that has nothing to do with the roleplay and everything to do with the long years of lonely nights and unanswered phone calls sitting between you.
John hears it and you watch it land. A brief tightening around his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw before he takes another slow drink.
"It is," he says quietly. "Harder on the people who wait, I'd imagine."
Your breath catches. You look down at the table, at your ring, at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass.
"Yeah," you whisper. "It is."
The silence that follows is different from the others. Not tense or loaded. Just heavy, in the way that true things are heavy, settling between you like something solid.
Then John clears his throat. "Another round?"
You nod, not trusting your voice, and he waves the barmaid over again.
The second drink loosens something.
Maybe it's the gin, perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation, but somewhere between your second and third drink, the fear recedes enough for you to actually talk.
And John—your husband, who has spent the better part of a year giving you monosyllabic answers over dinner and falling asleep during films—is talking back.
He's always been charming. It's how he got you in the first place, at a mate's wedding eleven years ago, when he cornered you at the bar and spent forty-five minutes making you laugh so hard you snorted champagne up your nose. Though you'd forgotten what it looks like when he aims it at you with intent.
John asks about your students and listens to the answers. He asks about the book you're currently reading and offers an opinion on it that tells you he's been paying more attention to your nightstand than you thought. He tells you stories from deployment that are carefully scrubbed of classified details but still make you laugh; the kind of stories he used to tell you when you were dating. Absurd, self-deprecating, designed to make you think he's funnier than he is.
He is funny. You'd forgotten that, too.
"You've got a nice laugh," he says at one point, swirling his whisky, and the way he says it, like an observation, like he's hearing it for the first time, makes your stomach flip.
"Don't flatter me, J." The letter feels strange in your mouth, this thin fiction stretched over the truth of him. "I'll think you're after something."
"Maybe I am." He holds your gaze and doesn't smile. "That a problem, love?"
Your mouth goes dry.
Three drinks in, you're leaning across the table towards each other, and his hand is resting on the tabletop close enough to yours that your little fingers are almost touching, and you're telling him about the time one of your Year Fours brought a live frog to class in his lunchbox and it escaped during maths, and John is laughing—really laughing, with his head tipped back and his eyes creased—and for a vertiginous moment, you manage to forget.
You forget that this is a performance; that your husband is sitting across from you pretending to be a stranger because you put an ad in the newspaper looking for someone else. Everything except the sound of his laugh and the warmth in his eyes and the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the room, which is how he used to look at you all the time, before the deployments ate him alive and left you with the husk.
Then his eyes drop to your left hand, and the warmth doesn't leave his expression, but something sharper slides in alongside it, like the glint of a blade edge, and then he reaches across the table and takes your hand, turning it over in his.
His thumb presses against the band of your wedding ring, holding it there.
"You know," he says, and his voice is still easy, still conversational, but there's a new undercurrent to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, "if you were really going to go through with this little adventure of yours—"
He taps the ring once with his thumb, clicks his tongue.
"—you probably should've taken this off first."
The blood drains from your face. The pleasant haze of gin and good conversation evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, lurching clarity.
"John—"
"Bit of a deterrent, love. Even when you mentioned it in the ad." He's still holding your hand, still running his thumb over the ring, and his expression is unreadable—not angry, not hurt, just steady, the way he looks when he's holding a position and waiting for something to break. "Any bloke worth his salt would've clocked that you're not really in it five minutes in."
Your eyes are stinging. "I wasn't going to—I would never have—"
"I know." He replies simply and releases your hand. "I know you wouldn't."
The lump in your throat is enormous and razor-edged, and you have to look away at anything that isn't his face, because if you keep looking at him, you're going to cry in the middle of this pub and he will never, ever let you live it down.
"I'm sorry," you manage, barely a whisper. "John, I'm so sorry, I didn't—I was just—"
"Don't."
You look back at him. He's leaning forward now, strong forearms on the table, and the mask is gone. All of it, the J performance, the first-date charm, the controlled amusement. And underneath is just your husband. Looking at you with an expression that is not anger, that has never been anger, that is something far worse.
Guilt.
"I should've been home more," he murmurs; too honest for a pub on a Friday night. "I should've—" He stops, his jaw clenches before he tries again. "I should've given you a proper life. A family. A husband who's actually fucking present. And I didn't, and you—"
He gestures vaguely at the booth, the pub, the entire premise of the evening.
"—you shouldn't have had to do this to get my attention."
The first tear slips down your face before you can catch it. You swipe at it furiously with the back of your hand before the barmaid, who has become somewhat intrigued by whatever is happening at your table, can clock it.
"I wasn't trying to get your attention," you lie, and you both know it's a lie, and his mouth twitches; not quite a smile, something more tender and much more broken.
"Yeah, you were." He reaches across the table again and takes your hand, properly this time, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing. "And it worked."
You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sob, and squeeze back.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The pub buzzes around you. Glasses clinking, conversations flowing, some '80s song you can't name playing from the speakers. And you sit in the middle of it, holding hands across a sticky table, and the nine years of silence and distance and loving each other badly feel, for the first time, like something that could be survived.
"I need the loo," you announce eventually, because your mascara is probably wrecked and you need thirty seconds of privacy to pull yourself together before you dissolve entirely.
John releases your hand with a nod. "Take your time, love."
You slide out of the booth on legs that feel slightly unsteady with gin and adrenaline, and make your way to the back of the pub, past the bar and down the short corridor to the ladies'.
It's a single-stall bathroom. Small, clean enough, a lock on the door that you click shut behind you before bracing your hands on the edge of the sink and staring at your reflection in the mirror above it.
Your eyes are bright and glassy. Your mascara is, as predicted, smudged. You look wrecked and flushed and alive in a way you haven't in months, and you hate that it took this—a dating ad and a Friday night charade—to put that look on your face.
You run the tap and press your cool, damp fingers against your closed eyelids. Breathe. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish your drinks, go home with your husband, and figure out the rest in the morning like adults who have been married for nearly a decade and know how to have a difficult conversation.
You're drying your hands when the lock clicks.
You freeze. Your eyes snap to the door in the mirror's reflection as it opens, and John slips inside and closes it behind him with a soft, definitive click of the lock.
The bathroom shrinks to nothing.
He fills the space. Not just physically, though he does that too, broad shoulders and solid frame taking up far too much of the small room, but atmospherically. The air changes when he's this close, gets heavier and becomes charged, like the pressure drop before a storm front.
"John, what are you—"
He moves. One step, then two, and then his big hand is flat against your lower back and he's pressing you forward, gently but firmly, until your hips meet the edge of the sink and your palms catch the porcelain on either side.
His body moulds against your back. Chest to spine, hips to arse. One hand sliding from your lower back to your waist, gripping and anchoring, while his other forearm braces against the wall beside the mirror.
You can see him in the reflection; towering behind you, head dipped, mouth hovering at the shell of your ear, and your breath stutters at the look on his face.
"Gonna make you remember why you married me, darling," he mutters into your ear, and his breath is hot and damp on the side of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling your arse back against the hard line of his cock already straining behind his zipper.
"John—"
"Shh." His lips graze the spot beneath your ear. No kiss but a warning. "You wanted to be seen, love. I see you."
His hand slides from your waist to the hem of your dress and drags it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your hips until you're exposed from the waist down. The cool air of the bathroom hits your bare thighs and makes you gasp.
"John, we can't—We're in a pub—!"
"Should've thought about that before you went looking for a date, shouldn't you?" His voice is rough and threaded with something dark and tender at the same time, and his fingers hook into the waistband of your knickers, tugging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. They pool around your ankles, and he doesn't bother removing them fully—just leaves them there, tangled between your heels.
"Anyone could—"
"Door's locked." His hand trails up the inside of your thigh, calloused fingers dragging against the soft skin, and you bite your lip to keep the sound that wants to escape inside. "And you're going to be quiet for me, aren't you, hm?"
You hear his belt buckle. The clink of metal, the drag of leather through belt loops, then the rasp of his zip, and your hands grip the sink so hard your arms tremble, because the sound alone is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation.
"Nearly a decade of marriage," he murmurs against the back of your neck, and his free hand slides between your thighs from behind, two thick fingers dragging through your supple folds, finding you already embarrassingly wet. He lets out a low, dark sound of approval that vibrates against your skin. "And I let you forget."
His fingers circle your clit once and your hips buck back against him involuntarily.
"That's on me," he continues, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes your toes curl in your pumps. "My fault. My fucking failure. Not yours."
He presses one thick finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with a slow, curling thrust that makes your breath hitch and your walls clench around him. He groans quietly and his forehead drops against the back of your head.
"'M finally gonna put our baby in you," he declares, and the words are rough and raw and utterly certain, a promise sealed against your skin. "Should've done it years ago. Should've given you that. Should've given you everything."
He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss with a needy, desperate sound that you'd be mortified by in any other context, and then you feel the blunt, plump head of his cock pressing against your entrance and every other thought in your head goes static.
"John—" you mewl. John pushes in slowly.
He stretches you open around him with a fullness that borders on too much, and the sound that tears from your throat is muffled only because you clamp your hand over your own mouth.
More than a decade and his fat cock is still enough to make you go stupid.
"Fuck," John breathes, his hips flush against your arse, buried to the root, and his grip on your waist is bruising. He doesn't move yet just holds there, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body adjust around the thick, throbbing weight of his cock.
Then he starts to move, and it's not the perfunctory, tired sex you've been having for the past year. The kind where he finishes quickly and rolls over and you stare at the ceiling and pretend you came.
This is John Price. The real one, the one you fell in love with. The one who backed you against the wall of your old flat on your third date and made you see God by eating you out through your knickers before he'd even taken anything else off.
He fucks you deep and deliberate, one hand gripping your hip while the other wraps around the front of your throat lightly; his fingers curled against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart against his palm.
"Look at yourself," he orders, and your eyes—which had screwed shut at some point—fly open to meet his in the mirror. Pupils blown.
The sight of it is obscene. Your dress bunched around your waist, his thick forearm braced beside the mirror, tendons flexing, his body curved over yours, and the slow, powerful roll of his hips driving into you from behind with a rhythm that's making the mirror rattle against the wall.
"That's my wife," he grunts, and his reflection's eyes are fierce and fixed on yours. "Mine. Not some fucking stranger's from a newspaper ad."
You can't speak, only feel his cock dragging against your walls, his hand on your throat, his chest solid and warm and present against your back for the first time in what feels like forever.
He picks up the pace; harder and deeper thrusts, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small bathroom while his ragged breath puffs against your ear. And then his rough hand leaves your throat to reach between your legs, flicking your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make you bite down on your own fist to keep from screaming.
"Quiet," he reminds you, and the bastard sounds smug. "You want the whole pub to know what I'm doing to you in here? Huh? Want them to know ‘m fucking my wife?"
You shake your head frantically; cunt fluttering and squeezing his shaft, because dirty talk from John Price is its own kind of sweet torture.
"Then cum for me quietly, love. Right now."
A few more hard, precise thrusts with his cock dragging inside your quivering cunt, massaging that spot that keeps swelling inside you, and you shatter.
The orgasm rips through you so violently that your knees give out, and the only things keeping you upright are the sink under your hands and John's arm locked around your waist. You clamp your teeth into the heel of your palm and muffle the cry that wants to tear out of you, your walls clenching and fluttering around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.
"Christ—fuck—" John's hips stutter, his rhythm breaks, and he buries himself deep—so deep—and holds, his cock kicking and pulsing inside you as he cums with a low, guttural groan pressed into the curve of your neck.
He spills himself empty inside you, balls throbbing with each little jerk of his hips. Hot and thick, deliberate this time. No condom, no pulling out this time, and the significance of that isn't lost on either of you. His hips roll lazily through the aftershocks, working every precious drop into your messy cunt, and his hand slides from your waist to your lower belly, pressing flat.
"There," he murmurs, and his voice is wrecked and satisfied, unbearably tender. "That's where it belongs."
You're shaking. Your entire body is trembling, your legs are useless, and there are tears streaming silently down your face that have nothing to do with pain.
He stays inside you for a long moment; breathing, his lips pressed against the nape of your neck, beard scraping your skin, his hand warm on your lower stomach. Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you feel his cum start to leak from you immediately, warm and slick against your inner thighs.
He reaches down, picks your knickers up from around your ankles, and slides them back up your legs with an almost clinical efficiency. When they're settled back into place, he pats your arse once, light and proprietary, and tugs your dress back down.
"There we go," he says, like he's just helped you with your coat. "Good as new."
You let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, your forehead dropping against the mirror.
"How about a 'thank you,' love," he adds while he tugs his softening cock back into his jeans, and when you lift your head and catch his eyes in the reflection, the smug satisfaction on his face is so thoroughly, infuriatingly Price that you want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously, "for stuffing your pretty cunt full of my cum, hm?"
"John."
"Mm." He presses a kiss to your temple, achingly gentle after everything he just did to you, and reaches past you to turn on the tap. He wets his hand and wipes beneath your eyes with his thumb, cleaning up the mascara.
"Ready to leave, love?" he asks, straightening up and buckling his belt with the same unhurried ease he does everything. "Or would you like another drink before your husband takes you home?"
Your legs are still shaking, his cum is slowly but surely soaking into your knickers, and your heart is so full it might crack your ribs.
"N-No," you manage, small and hoarse. "I'd like to go home now, John."
He looks at you, really looks. And there is nothing left of the J performance, not the Captain Price mask, just John, your husband. The man who drove to a pub on a Friday night not to punish you but to remind you both of what you'd almost let slip away.
"That's my girl," he replies softly.
He unlocks the bathroom door, checks the corridor, and guides you out with his hand on the small of your back. You walk through the pub on shaking legs, past the booth where your half-finished drinks are still sitting, past the barmaid who gives you both a knowing look that you pretend not to see.
The night air hits you like cold water when you step outside, and you suck in a breath that fills your lungs properly for the first time in hours.
John pulls his car keys from his pocket, presses the fob, and opens the passenger door for you without a word. You climb in. He closes the door, rounds the bonnet, and slides into the driver's seat.
Neither of you speaks on the drive home. His hand rests on your thigh, squeezing gently every other minute, and your hand rests on top of his, your fingers tracing the ridges of his calloused knuckles and the band of his own wedding ring, which he has never, not once in nine years, taken off.
When he pulls into the driveway, the porch light is off. You haven't left it on in months.
John kills the engine. Sits for a moment, looking at the dark house.
Then he turns to you, and his voice is quieter now, stripped of the previous smugness, the heat, the performance. Just the raw thing underneath.
"I will do better."
No grand speech or a promise wrapped in flowers and apologies and all the things you've heard before and stopped believing. It's four words, plain and blunt and offered without decoration, and they land heavier than anything else he's said tonight.
You reach across the centre console and take his face in both hands, and you kiss him slowly, like you have time, because you're going to make time.
"I know," you whisper against his mouth.
And when you get inside, John turns the porch light on.
can see reader havin da teensiest bitsiest crush on simon . jus slight attraction rllie .
&& john noticing . but he’z such an old man abt it . jus shakes his head n scoffs a bit when you quickly walk upstairs 2 the bedroom each time simon’s foot steps past the front door . LOLLLL s so cute . can jus see dinner comin around n him goin to check on you , “come eat, peach.” n you’ll jus shake ur head while bundled underneath the covers n hugging ur plushie , “not hungry, pa.”
“you haven’t ate in seven hours. don’t go starvin’ yourself jus’ cause he walked through the bloody door,” he grumbles while crouched beside da bed to hold your pretty lil face in the dip in his hand. he squeezes your cheeks 2 make ur lips pucker out a bit. “. . . you shy?”
he feels them warm as you blush . you won’t lie, you can’t.
he’d jus sigh , lift his eyebrows , n press his lips together . it’s an expression that says ‘ well . . ‘ you like him. he knows . “yeah?” he gruffs. “how much?”
simon’s jus a passing daydream . one that makes your cunt warm when you recall the healed keloids on his tatted knuckles , his hooked nose , n lurking silence . “not a lot,” you whisper back. “not as much as you, daddy.”
expanding on this cuz i need to . [ slight size kink ]
but eventually john does get smthn set up for you and simon. smthn to satiate your needs.
when he explains this dire situation to his comrade a few days before it happens, simon barely even blinks . . only lets john's words settle between them both for a beat before he's cracking a crooked smile beneath his balaclava and liftin his hand to scratch at the back of his short tufts of dirty blond, "lil thing likes me, aye?" his voice'll be low . . . you're outside on the deck, sunbathing in a white bikini printed with red cherries on it whose tops pinch at the plump mounds of your tits. your ass is fat too — swallows the bottoms into a thong... and it doesn't help that you're tanning your back now. you lay on your tummy, arms folded beneath the side of your face.
you're sleeping, john can tell. lips parted open, sunglasses slipping down the slope of your nose, back rising and falling slow. the collar around your neck is a stark contrast against the warm brown of your skin.
him and simon talk a few feet away from the sliding door yet he knows you don't hear a word.
"you askin' me to humor her?"
john has to force himself to break his eyes away from your pretty face to focus back on the task at hand, "i'm askin' you to give her it . . anything she wants. within my bounds, within my rules."
simon looks at you, too. eventually, his head tilts. ". . . she's small."
john's lips curl beneath his mustache when he hears that, "small, mm," he murmurs, half to himself. his eyes narrow slightly when he turns back to your lazing form. "she's a trooper. takes all of me like a bloody champ damn near every night, ain't ever heard her quit. cries, sure . . but she never taps out. not my lil girl."
simon hums — a dark, low, considering sound. his eyes round over the curve of your ass as he folds his arms over his chest. between two of his fingers dangles a bottle of beer. he lightly swings it back and forth. "champ," he utters, tone dry as he tests the word on his tongue.
he'll see about that.
and when it finally does happen — when john is settled within his favorite recliner in the living room, cigar burning slow between his fingers.. only about eight feet away, simon'll be planted on the loveseat and have you straddling his lap, facing him, as his gloved fingers massage the soft skin of your ass. you bite your bottom lip all the while and pinch your nails into the fabric of a cushion behind him, nervous . . needy . . shy.
glimmering brown eyes will stay pinned directly on yours when he finally eases you down on his cock. it's a stretch that'll make your entire body seize and mouth fall open around a silent moan. your back arches as he pushes you down, down, down. then a whimper will fall free — small and frail. john doesn't flinch, doesn't move to help, simply lets a thick cloud of smoke leak from his lips as he watches.
simon huffs and presses a hand down in between the dents of your back dimples, making sure your ass smooshes against his balls. he needs you taking every inch. and he sets a slow rhythm at first, lifts you by the waist, makes you push back down . . until your fingers start to scrabble. you whine and hiccup and whimper and — oh, you sound precious.
he can't stop himself from leaning further back, gaining some leverage, and beginning to pound his cock up inside the tight warmth of your cunt. you'll squeak. and just like that, your mind is fogged.
john scoffs on a chuckle as he shakes his head and ashes his cigar.
when he hears it — that first teary "papa" . . he doesn't shift nor break his composure. his voice is gruff and even when he says, "take what you dished out, peach."
simon's so mean ):
gets a grip around your throat, makes you straighten your spine so that he can force your half lidded and glossy eyes up towards the ceiling. your nails drag feeble lines against his forearm as you tremble against the pressure.
your pussy starts to leak — just a nasty, fucking mess. squelches, gurgles, and puffs around the air that enters inside her with each thrust. "eyes open," simon mumbles. "you're a trooper, huh?. . lemme see it. show me what cap brags about — take it proper."
john exhales a thicker stream of smoke, eyes unmoving from your frame. you're struggling . . bad. he can't help letting a smirk slowly curl beneath the thick hairs that decorate his top lip, "that's it. make me proud, sweetheart."
your throat bobs against simon's palm as you fight to answer him but all that comes out is a broken gasp. he's relentless. your pussy squeezes around him, almost as if she were trying to convey her surrender. if simon felt it, you wouldn't know. he ignores it completely — lets your throat go to wrap his arms entirely around your torso and starts to force you to meet him pound for pound.
"p-ple — hic — simon — .. m’daddy-"
your vision blurs, caught between him and john's smoky, unwavering stare. all you can do is fall apart . . over and over. twice, thrice.
eventually, nearly fifteen minutes later, simon will drag you off of his cock to stand then force you on your knees. your thighs tremble beneath you as you heave for breath and he'll smear the underside against your face — painting your pretty features with your glittering slick and his pre cum. "open," he orders softly through his mask. his thumb presses against your chin until you let your tongue loll out, flat and waiting.
you barely manage to give a soft mewl before he's stroking himself, rough and quick while aiming right for it.
behind you, john exhales another cloud of smoke, watching your pussy leak a thin stream of your cum to the rug below. just filthy.
simon's breath grows ragged, "stay still," his grip on your jaw grows firm. ". . so pretty — f-fuckin . . . pretty thing."
a beat later, his cum paints both your tongue and face white. each rope is thick and hot, it all streaks across your nose, cheeks, and weighs down on your lashes. you blink through it, still out of breath, body beginning to fall limp now that you know it's over.
simon lets your throat go and not long after is a curt whistle from behind you, "painted up nice," john chuckles as he stubs his cigar out. "crawl back here. come on then."
weakly, you do exactly that. there's a little pout on your lips as he drags you onto his lap — it's blatant. it's cute. the cum is already half dry, therefore, he lets you sniffle and lay your sticky face onto his chest while patting at your ass. "got it out your system?"
It’s getting hard for you to breathe evenly, head fuzzy as Gojo laps obsessively at your cunt. Tongue delving deep into your hole only to pull out and lick at your clit, it’s overwhelming how good it is but he’s refusing to stay in one spot long enough for you to cum. Eating you like it’s for his enjoyment and not yours, groaning into your pussy when you twitch around his thick tongue.
He’s got you panting like a dog, whining as he sucks your clit. Knowing just how to drive you wild, tongue flicking at it and focusing in on your nerves for long enough that you feel like you might cum. Only for him to pull away at the last second, eyes bright as he watches your cunt tremble and weep for him. Blowing cool air on your clit just to tease you that little bit more, grinning at how your body jolts.
Your stomach flips and you want so badly to close your legs and squirm, but you’re forced to keep them obscenely wide as Gojo watches how you struggle through your denied orgasm. When you stop twitching so much, he pushes two fingers inside you, immediately quirking them up and rubbing against your walls. Your reaction is visceral as you nearly shoot up before falling back into the pillows.
His hand on your stomach keeps you pinned to the mattress, not allowing you to move and only take what he’s giving you. Stroking you deep and hitting all your sweet spots that he’s so familiar with, his fingers are long and reach so far inside; places you can never hit on your own. You wonder briefly why he’s being so cruel; you don’t even know why he’s decided to edge you so hard.
Gojo can tell your mind is wandering, scissoring his digits inside you and opening your hole wide, “Woah,” he comments, “you’re so wet it’s crazy.”
“Don’t– hnn– don’t talk like that,” your admonishment falls flat when you’re moaning through it.
He giggles at you, still teasing, “It’s just that you’ve never been like this before,” he hums, pulling his fingers out as you approach your orgasm again, ignoring your sad whimpers to continue, “your cunt is so creamy right now, bet it feels so fucking good inside you.”
Taking your opening and whining at him, almost pleading, “Then–”
“–Are you feeling needy?...” his fingers slip back inside you and you’re keening into his touch, “Don’t answer that actually, I already know the answer.”
You’re panting and struggling to breathe, worked up immeasurably and hoping fruitlessly that maybe this time he’s going to let you cum. Hips wriggling down into his palm, slick leaking onto him lewdly. Eyes feeling wet as your stomach flutters, your orgasm is building so easily with how many times he’s denied you of it.
Gojo asks suddenly, “Don’t you wanna know how I know?”
“Huh?” your head feels foggy, and you don’t even remember what he had asked you until he’s talking again and answering his self-imposed question.
“Your pussy told me,” he nips at your thigh, “so honest with me, sucking my fingers right back in like you’re begging for it.” Teeth biting into your thigh harder before licking over it, “Though I don’t think I’ve heard you say please even once.”
Pouting at him, having a more formed question to ask but only managing to sputter out, “Hnn– Why?”
“Why what? Why do I want you to say please or why am I edging you?” Grinning as his fingers slip from your cunt right before your high yet again. His tongue lolling out of his mouth to lick his fingers, small groan slipping from him, “I’ll answer both… in a second.”
You don’t get to question why the pause until he’s dipping down and latching onto your pussy with his mouth again. Tongue licking the whole length of your slit, swirling around your clit before prodding at your entrance and repeating that over and over. It’s maddening, you’re twitching so much with how his frantic and unprecise touching is making your hole flutter in anticipation of cumming.
Gojo licks inside of you one last time, tongue curling to slurp down your sweet taste before pulling off you. Knowing very well that you were so close to cumming that he could probably tap your clit a few times and have you falling apart. Keeping your legs open so you can’t rub them together for stimulation, he’s not willing to undo all his hard work now.
Your eyes are wet and pitiful when you ask him again, “Why?”
He smiles bright at you, “I think you should say please because it’s polite and you’re pretty when you beg,” kissing up the length of your body, nuzzling into your chest before resting his chin on your sternum, “and I’m edging you because I thought you’d have a cute reaction.”
The look on your face lets him know just how much that answer has pissed you off, unluckily for you; he finds that expression cute too. Laughing at your indignance with him, crawling the rest of his way up your body to press kisses into your pouty lips. When you don’t soften for him or reciprocate, he licks your lips and sucks on the lower one.
His hand reaches up and cradles your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge of it to open your mouth for him. Tongue sliding inside and meeting your own, kissing you deep and getting a little dizzy with how much he enjoys it. Hips grinding down into you, his still covered cock rutting into you.
Your mouth parts from him in a shocked moan and he takes it personally, chasing after your lips. Not done tasting you up here, devoted in every way that he drinks from you. Still concerned with licking against your tongue when he’s quickly shoving his pants down and fucking inside you desperately. Your nails claw at his bare back and it only has him shoving himself inside you deeper, stuffing you to the brim.
He's depriving you of oxygen, head swimming and pussy crying. Feeling so much relief when he fucks into you, walls clinging to his dick lovingly. Already grinding up into him, trying to coerce him into moving. Gojo only weighs you down with his hips, pinning you still.
He can’t help but delight in how you writhe under him and how your cunt trembles, he was right earlier. You’re so creamy and warm inside that he feels insane, beyond ready to be fucked. Especially if your needy little ruts were anything to go off of, though he’s not ready to start moving for two reasons. One; he’s worried he’ll cum, and two; …
Lips parting from yours with a pop, saliva connecting you both until he licks his lower lip, “You still haven’t said please.”
“Are you– hah!– are you serious?” He’s so unbearable, having tortured you with denied orgasms on a complete whim and now asking you to beg?
The smile on his face almost looks like a snarl with how his canines show in it, “Deadly.”
“You’re awful,” huffing at him, trying to keep your pride despite how much he’s already ruined you.
Just to ruin you a little more, Gojo starts rutting down into you. His pelvis grinding into your clit, your cunt desperately clings to his dick at it. Already, he can tell you’re getting close, a little stimulation enough to have your body begging him for release.
“You’re so honest down here,” he tuts, “all you gotta do is say please, sweetheart.”
Denied again because you don’t answer him soon enough, still caught between pride and pleasure. Lashes sparkling with the tears sat on them, blinking them away as you shudder under him. Whimper pathetic and so needy, walls throbbing around him for it.
“You’re unbelievable,” giggling at your stubbornness, “You want it this bad and yet you’re still holding out because you don’t wanna say please?”
It sounds stupid when he says it like that, “Shut up.”
“I feel bad for your poor pussy,” he frowns like he’s being genuine, “weeping for release, already begging me for it. Your plead won’t tell me anything I don’t already know, sweetie.”
“Then– hnn– you don’t need it.”
“Oh, I need it.”
Gojo’s eyes light up with his words, completely sincere in how he says it. You might think it unnecessary and maybe it is, but he wants it so bad that it might as well be need, spine tingling in eagerness of hearing you say one simple word. To have you broken and pathetic and desperate enough to plead for it, he wants you to be like him; needy.
You’re not even getting a taste of how desperate he is for you, how frantically in love with you he is. How badly he needs you, all of you. He just wants you to beg a little, beg a fraction of how much he wants to beg for you. Maybe he hasn’t deprived you enough…
“I’ll edge you until you beg, pretty,” eyes wandering to where he’s inside you, your cunt stuffed so full it bulges around him, “I’m content to just be inside you,” he’s telling the truth and lying at the same time.
The idea of being denied again is horrific, insides twisting in a distressed kind of want for him. Lower lip wobbling a little when you whisper out, “…please”
Gojo’s head snaps up to yours, having been distracted by the view of you hugging him so divinely. “What was that?”
You frown at him, but you’ve already said it now, repeating reluctantly, “please.”
He considers, “I don’t know if you meant it.”
“please!”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he smiles at you politely.
Going to give him a few choice words before he’s resting back on his knees and pulling almost all the way out of you, just the tip of him left inside. The heavy drag of his cock withdrawing from your cunt is enough to nearly have you cumming, hand clamping over your mouth as you moan obscenely loud.
Gojo’s eyes are coated in a heavy fog of lust, his spine shuddering at your visceral reaction to him just pulling out of you. A little dazed when smirking before slamming back into you all at once, the slap of his pelvis into you and his cock hitting your womb has you cumming. Squirming under him, clawing and pulling at the sheets as you cum so hard you feel like your brain short circuited.
Breaths stuttered and head spinning as you moan and whine. Leaning into the orgasm fully, the pleasure crumbling the world around you, hips rutting into Gojo as he keeps thrusting into you. Helping you through it. Done with edging you now and fully committing to fucking you properly.
Your orgasm has him dizzy, pussy so tight that his hips struggle to keep thrusting into you. Almost choking on how it feels to have you cream around him, his cock twitching inside you. He’s absolutely delighted by how quickly you came, breathless chuckles leaving him that turn into whimpered moans. He can’t believe how perfect you are, dick growing bigger inside you that bit more.
He hisses at how you clench down on him, surprised sound leaving you at how he somehow gets more erect. The noise you make spurs him on, finding it cute. Wanting to hear it again and trying to angle his hips just right so that his tip will hit that spot that has you squealing for him. Shuddering when he finds it and gets to hear you fall apart even more for him.
It all feels so good that you’re not convinced you’ve stopped cumming, pussy truly weeping around him as you struggle to contain any sound you might make. Eyes rolling to the back of your head as you let yourself get fucked. Jumping suddenly when Gojo’s hand is on your stomach and pressing down, insides jolting at it and eyes widening.
He finds your reaction amusing, using that hand to grab yours and press it down where his just was. His larger hand over yours, you can tell he’s enjoying it, looking unhinged in how he grins. Feeling like he’s planning to eat you whole.
“Feel that?” he asks, pressing down a bit firmer, groaning as he does, “I’m all the way inside you, just like you begged for,” he chuckles low.
“You’re– hnn– ah!– you’re insane,” you mutter at him.
He dismisses you, “Whatever you say, dear.”
Too focused on fucking your sweet cunt until you can’t physically take it anymore. Finally letting his control drop completely now that he can stuff you full, able to let it slip and just nail you into the mattress. Biting into his lower lip as he watches you squirm, pinning you still with both your hands still on your lower stomach. He hums appreciatively, enjoying how much larger than you he is.
You’re so pretty when you blink at him, words soft but needy when you simply say, “‘Toru, please.”
You don’t even know what you’re begging for, but he does, and it works because you softly begging him has him suddenly blowing his load. Stuffing himself deep into your cunt and cumming, shiver running through him as he cums an obscene amount inside you.
His orgasm forces yours, cumming again at how his dick twitches and throbs inside your walls. His cum hot as it coats your insides, whimpering as you finish all over him. The mess sticky and lewd as it leaks from you and down onto the sheets, too fucked dumb to care even a little bit.
Gojo’s hand is still on your stomach, and he presses down, fascinated by how more of his cum leaks from you. truly having stuffed you to the brim with his seed, still feeling impossibly hard and beginning to thrust again.
Your eyes widen at him, surprised, “What–”
“–I’ll make you cum as many times I denied you,” he promises.
Normal bf x horny as fuck gf. He's so chill and never pushes for sex, but you are constantly craving it and he loves it sooooo much. Every movie night turns into you playing with his cock before he fucks you nasty the way you like it. You buy cute sexy little outfits to wear just for him. You have a plethora of toys that he uses on you almost every night bc he just loves how you get when you're drunk from your orgasms and so whiny and needy. Just a sweet chill guy and his nymphomaniac gf
you’re sitting on the edge of the couch in your oversized t-shirt—not yours, actually his kid’s merch—scrolling on your phone and trying not to look annoyed. he left you sitting here for an hour longer than he said he would. something about a job. something about traffic.
and then he walks in—half buttoned shirt, sweat at his temples, muscles shifting under the fabric like he’s been moving fast. like he’s been fighting. or fucking. you wouldn’t be surprised if it were either.
"hey," he mutters, kicking his shoes off, tossing his keys somewhere behind him without looking. "thanks for stayin'."
you shrug. "he’s asleep."
“yeah?” he asks, voice low, eyes already dragging over your bare thighs. “you look bored.”
you don’t answer.
he walks closer, slow, heavy steps like he’s giving you time to change your mind. like he knows you won’t.
“been thinkin’ about you all night,” he says, now in front of you. hand already sliding under your chin, tilting it up. "sitting here, all cute. little shirt. no pants. legs spread like you're asking for it."
your cheeks burn. but your thighs part just slightly. instinct. permission.
"that so?" you mutter. "you think about your babysitter that much?"
he chuckles deep and smug—and kneels down between your knees like he’s praying. or prowling.
"you’ve been teasing me for weeks, sweetheart,” he murmurs, hands gliding up your thighs, rough thumbs stroking the skin. “thought it was about time i gave you somethin' to do with that mouthy attitude."
and then his fingers are under your underwear—your pretty little cotton briefs that suddenly feel soaked. he doesn’t ease in. just strokes once, slow, middle finger pressing up through your folds like he wants to test your limits.
“already wet?” he says, grinning. “fuck, you have been waiting.”
"shut up," you whisper, but your hips twitch into his hand.
he tugs the fabric to the side. one thick finger pushes in—just enough to feel the stretch. he watches your face when you gasp, watches your knees tremble and spread wider.
“tight little thing,” he mutters, and slides in deeper. “how the hell haven’t you been fucked raw already?”
“maybe i was waiting for you,” you say before you can think.
he groans and pushes in another finger.
you clench.
“fuckin’ soaked,” he murmurs, fingers pumping slow, wet sounds obscene in the quiet. “and you’re gonna sit here like a good girl and let me play with this pussy, yeah? after all your teasing?”
you nod, lips parted.
he curls his fingers just right, and you choke on your next breath, thighs shaking.
“look at you,” he growls, “already twitching. bet you’d cream on my cock in two minutes flat.”
"then fuck me," you gasp.
he smirks, presses his thumb to your clit—tight, filthy circles.
"nah, baby. not tonight."
another curl. another whimper.
"tonight’s just fingers. next time?" he licks his lips. "i ruin you completely."
Don't get it wrong, he's a complete amateur when it comes to sex. The first time you two fucked, he cried. So this little discovery, it was an accident, truly. He didn't mean to get carried away but you were squeezing him so good, and the pretty sounds you were making had his knees giving out.
At first, he had you face down, feeding you those deep strokes, the kind that leaves you breathless. But then he began to move, pushing at the curves of your hips, then your spine, forcing you down until your tummy presses against the soft sheets. And he can't help it, naturally wherever you go, he follows. So he lays himself right on top of you, he's so big too. Big thighs cage around your ass, grinding real deep and slow. It’s downright sinful. Jason Peter Todd in all his 6'1 glory, smothering you against the mattress and it's like something inside him clicks. His mind won’t shut the hell up because suddenly, you’ve gone all soft and pliant, and he’s whispering real filthy, “just needed some good dick, huh?”
His mind is so fucked out, he hasn’t realized how good he’s been fucking you until he registers your squirming and soft whining beneath him. Sometimes he forgets how big he is, all of him. Because in this position, he basically kisses your cervix. He’s taking his time, it’s torturous, the slow drag of his hips, and the way he bullies his way back in- pushing up against that sweet spot that makes you cream.
He’s got his lips pressed against your ear, cooing and shushing you so sweetly when you say you can’t take anymore. One hand pushing past your hips to pet at your sensitive clit, and you paw at his wrist- a weak attempt at pushing him away. It’s too much, he’s too big and he’s talking so fucking nasty in your ear you just can’t take it.
But every time you try to shut your legs in protest, his thighs flex and his ankles lock around yours, easily pushing them back open. Wordlessly saying, “take it, take it, take it”.
And after fucking you through your third orgasm, this man has the audacity to blush. Shoving his face into your neck but at some point, his mind gets all hazy. He latches his canines onto your throat and you cum. Still fucking you through the mattress, he works you up to your fourth. And when you finally come down, you sob out a half-hearted “mean”, but he doesn’t budge- just hushes you with a sickly sweet “did so good, baby”.
periods can be unpleasant at the best of times, but you have access to a special remedy—your loving boyfriend, jason todd. he’s always happy to help out with a little endorphin therapy…maybe too happy.
contents: period sex, fingering, blood kink
warnings: blood play, brief mentions of pain
jason todd remembers the first time he fucked you on your period. it was unexpected, catching both of you by surprise; it wasn’t until his cock slipped out of you coated in blood that you realised aunt flo had come to visit. once his initial concern had subsided—“fuck, did I hurt you, ma?”—and your embarrassment had reached boiling point, he’d looked to you with a crooked smile and a cocked eyebrow, and the rest was history.
it took you a while to come around to the idea after that first time, but he kept bringing it up month after month. “jay, it’s messy,” you’d argued, grabbing his wrist before his hand could slip into the waistband of your pyjama pants. he just laughed dismissively, continuing to kiss your neck in that spot that makes your belly turn. “y’think I’m afraid of a little blood, princess?” god damn it. you had put up a good fight, but the battle was lost; you were sensitive and needy and horny, and the solution to your problems was right next to you.
now, jason looks forward to your cycle like it’s christmas. he tells you he’s unfazed by your period, which is only half true; in reality, he’s fascinated by it. there’s something about seeing his skin smeared in your blood that makes his abdomen tighten—it’s raw, intimate, violent. you’re so delicate, so vulnerable, and your body is so sensitive during that time, it awakens something primal in him.
and, fuck, your pussy is so warm and wet when you’re bleeding, it’s unlike any lubricant money could buy. the way your walls hug him makes his eyes screw shut in ecstasy, and the little sounds you make at the heightened sensitivity drive him wild. he’s always gentle on your period, kissing his way down to your tender breasts and working your cunt open slowly with his fingers, relishing in the crimson gloss that coats them when he pulls out of you. he knows his fixation is a little more than twisted, but he tells himself it’s good for you—“helps with the cramps, right, baby?”—so it’s okay.
“jay,” you whine, snapping him back to earth. he looks up from between your legs, two of his fingers buried to the knuckle inside you. your expression is pouty, but he knows what it means; you need more than fingers. grinning, he withdraws from your pussy, his eyes darkening at the sight of his red-stained digits. you bite your lip, your face getting hot as jason positions himself above you, licking his fingers clean when he’s inches from your face. you want to be embarrassed, but the slightly starved look in his eyes sends arousal pooling in your cunt.
he presses a kiss to your forehead before prodding your leaking entrance with the head of his cock, pushing his way in gently. your hands find his biceps, and you gasp softly as his substantial girth inches into you. jason groans when he bottoms out, your pussy squeezing him just the way he likes. “fuck, princess, y’feel so good,” he rasps, glancing down to watch his cock slide out of you. his skin prickles at the sight he loves so much—rich red painting his length, marking him like he’s yours.
you know you’re making a mess on the towel he’d laid down under you, but the shame you want to feel is pushed aside by the unbelievable sensitivity taking over you. every thrust into you feels electric, like your senses are dialled up to eleven, and the dull ache deep in your belly that had tormented you all day is just a distant memory. you moan, arching your spine off the bed at jason’s cock hitting all the right spots each time his hips roll forward.
he reluctantly looks away from the blood that’s starting to coat his pelvis, taking in your pleasured expression instead, and it makes him smile. your eyes have fluttered shut and your brows are relaxed, like you’re finally letting yourself enjoy this. he runs his thumb over your lower lip, careful to keep his hips at a slow, steady pace. “startin’ to feel better, ma?” he asks, acutely aware of the lewd, wet sounds of your pussy swallowing him with ease. you nod mindlessly, letting your head loll back on your pillow.
“atta girl.”
a/n: really had to dig deep for this one bcus i truly cannot relate to anything less in this world than the desire to be touched on my period #endometriosis #debilitatingcramps 🩷
clark kent is the perfect man in basically every sense; he’s kind, handsome, intelligent, funny. but there are moments you’re reminded he’s not a man at all—far from it. those kryptonian genes run deep.
you claw helplessly at clark kent’s shoulders, struggling to communicate anything other than your desperate moans. you’re caged under his massive body, legs forced apart by his hips as he sinks into you over and over again, his cock pushing out more of his last two loads each time it disappears inside you.
his blue eyes are fixed on your lower belly, watching in awe as he realises he can literally see himself sliding in and out of you—from the outside. the sight makes his skin feel even hotter, and he feels another orgasm tugging at his core. your pussy just feels so good, and you take him so well—he can’t resist filling you up until you’re leaking. “look, baby,” he says breathlessly, and your eyes go wide when you follow his gaze to your bulging lower belly.
you’re beyond sensitive at this point, your cunt responding to every thrust and twitch of clark’s hips; you know he has virtually no refractory period, but you’re still always shocked by just how much he can give you each time he cums. your legs clamp around his waist as your walls start tightening around him again, too easily stimulated by his cock, and you whine weakly. “clark,” you plead, your body getting overwhelmed.
“you’re doing so good, baby,” he coos raggedly, his biceps tensing as he speeds up his pace, chasing his release. “you can do it, come on. just a little more, okay?” his voice is gentle, conscious of your exhaustion, but the energy surging through him demands more. there’s something deep inside him telling him to keep going, like an imbedded command—last son of krypton, carrier of the bloodline. the biological urge to reproduce, dialled up to metahuman proportions—and your womb gets to suffer his efforts.
he feels you start to shake beneath him, and he does feel guilty for working you this hard. but the moment your cunt starts spasming around him, the guilt gives way to pleasure; when you feel this good, how can he not breed you to oblivion? the message rings out in his mind, clear as day: last son of krypton, carrier of the bloodline.
“just a little longer, baby, I promise,” he tells you, knowing he’s far from done.
a/n: accidentally summoned my period thanks to that jason blurb so DON’T say anything about this being a day late or I WILL jump. ok ily bye
clark kent hates condoms— which seems unlike him, because he's all for being safe during sex, but can you blame him? he's just so needy. why would he let some rubber keep him from feeling the warmth of your gummy walls squeezing and clenching around him. plus, he's just so big— it's so hard for him to find the right size...
clark doesn't even realize it— he isn't doing it conciously— but he eats you out and fingers you a little extra so you're already too fucked out to realize that he's going in raw. and by the time he's all needy and thrusting in and out, with his head buried in the crook of your neck, whining because of how wet and squishy you feel around him. and you can't even complain, because he does feel good, and you find yourself wrapping your legs around his waist and pressing your feet into his back to feel him deeper.
clark rubs your clit in tight circles, catching your lips in a messy kiss, while his own thrusts grow sloppy and his voice gets more breathy and higher pitched. he whispers praises about how good you feel and how you're taking him so well.
clark pulls out, trying to tune out the sound of your little whine as the feeling of emptiness. he strokes himself in long, sloppy stokes before he's spilling over your stomach, mind going a little haywire at the sight, before babbling about how you can trust him to always pull out, and how he doesn't need some flimsy rubber when inside you.
nanami making you feel it / cw: deep penetration/cervix kissing, choking kinda (not intense)
full nelson is kento’s favorite position for a reason. he gets to have you like this: eyes rolled back, body completely succumbing to his ministrations, cunt wrapped around him so tight that it feels like it’s trying to kill him.
he doesn’t relent. won’t relent. how could he when his beloved is submitting to him like this? not like you have a choice, really. he’s making it so intense, so hard to focus on anything besides his thick cock and fat balls slapping your clit.
but kento won’t go fast or hard. he’s more of the slow and so-deep-you’re-gonna-cry type. thick tip smooshing right up against your cervix, making you almost tap out. and as much as you love your husband and his dirty talk, he overwhelms you with how much he talks you through it.
his thrusts and the hand on your throat and his sack hitting your clit are all too much by themselves, but then you add in his filthy mouth and you’re squirting on the sheets till you’re just cumming blanks.
“i know, honey… feel how deep it is? mmh.”
that’s the other thing. he doesn’t seem to understand how much sensory overload you can take. when tears are streaming down your hot cheeks and you’ve already squirted three times (not including the other two orgasms), he just tells you to keep taking everything he gives.
“don’t start crying, baby, i haven’t even touched your cervix.”
when fratboy!jean first started dating you, he always would let you know how he thinks it’s so cute how much of a nerd you are. he loved how your glasses would sit on your face and he couldn’t help but tease you whenever you got all shy. he was the sweetest boyfriend you could ask for— he was always complimenting you and making you feel like the prettiest in the universe. he constantly went on and on about how you were “so smart” and, in comparison to him, much smarter than him. but, it never phased him.
not when he was the one fucking you so good there’s not a single coherent though in your big, smart brain.
“mhm, i know. sooo full, huh?”
“m-mmph~! too mu-uch~..!”
your glasses started to fog with how warm the room got, being trapped under him as he bullies your now dripping, sloppy cunny. he almost laughs from above you, huffing with each harsh slam of his hips. your plush thighs bounce with his thrusts as he effortlessly holds them in place, watching as you take him like the good girl he knows you are.
“nuh uh, take it.”
he plunged his dick deeper into you— if even possible. you cried and moaned helplessly as he coaxed more of your cream to ooze onto him, creating strings of white slick connecting him to your weeping hole. he licks his lips, completely focused on getting another orgasm out of you.
“look at thattt… such a pretty lil’ pussy..”
his thrusts were unmerciful and deep, repeatedly hitting that spongey spot inside you that he always was on a mission to find every time he fucked you. he placed his hand on your lower stomach, failing to hold back his smile from your guttural, pathetic moans. the feeling of him filling you up entirely with him is so overwhelming, yet so good.
“so big~.. mmmfuckk~..”
“awww i know baby… you feel me right there? huh?”
you only respond with moans that spill out your mouth like water— parallel to the way your soaking hole continues to coat his dick white as he stuffs your pussy completely full. he takes his hand on your stomach and takes the opportunity to stuff your mouth with his fingers as you practically drool for him. the smile on his face never leaves, him being happy with himself for being the reason you have such a cock-drunk expression on your face with your cute little glasses and sweet little face.
“my dumb little slut… can’t even talk t’ me, huh? my poor baby..”
