"wrong hole" reader meets "It's not the wrong hole if it takes me so nicely" john price
that's all i got for this one -🪶
John has a fascination with your asshole. He loves fucking you in doggy just so he can spread your cheeks open and look; spitting on it when you whine about him being dirty. "There, cleaned it up for you." He grunts as he spits again, rubbing his thumb against the puckered hole.
It doesn't take long for him to slip a finger deep inside when he's balls deep in you. You scrunch your face at the slight burn, whining for him to stop. "That's so gross, Dad!" You hiss as you fist the bedsheets tight.
"What's wrong, kid? Nothing I haven't seen before." He groans, teeth sinking into your neck, tongue eager when he tastes your blood on his lips. One finger becomes two. Eventually, he's lubing himself up as he lays you on your back, hitching your legs up to your shoulders.
"Dad, wait!" Your pleading is swiftly cut off by him thrusting inside, bottoming out with a satisfied groan. "That's the wrong hole!" You protest, weakly kicking at his shoulders to try and get him off of you. He chuckles into your ear, slowly rocking his hips so he can feel you squeezing around him.
"Is it? Stretched open for me, like it's supposed to." He thrusts hard, your body rocking underneath him, hole burning with the stretch. "Wraps around me so good... Feels like just the right hole for me."
You arch against the bed, grinding your hips desperately into his hips as they keep rocking into you. "Dad, it's -fuck!" His clamps a hand over your mouth, glaring down at you as he rocks his hips faster.
"Be grateful that I prepped you, kid. Papa wouldn't have been so nice."
divider by @httpssturns & I can’t remember who the second is from
captain john price, known for doing whatever he has to, to get what he wants is suddenly a softie for his five year old daughter
“daddy, look! It’s you!” she exclaims, lifting a sheet of paper marked by brown and green crayons.
price takes the paper and examines it like he’s analyzing intel. “this s’pposed to be me?” he laughs, pointing at a stick drawing of a man with a beard and a hat, very odd looking clothes.
“ya!” the little girl says. “it you! mama said you have to stick it on the fridge now!” she clings onto the leg of his pants and tugs at it.
john groans, not an annoyed one, as he reaches down and lifts the girl, placing her on his hip. “okay, big girl. I’ll put it on the fridge.”
she cheers loudly and he walks into the kitchen where you’re wiping the counter down from your latest attempt at chocolate strawberry danishes.
safe to say..
“mama burned the pies!”
…you failed.
you sigh and press a palm to your face as your husband laughs at you, sticking the drawing onto the fridge door with a magnet.
“is that right?” price walks over to you, pressing you close to his side and a kiss to your left cheek. “burned ‘em, eh?”
you sigh again, too embarrassed to even speak.
he looks at his daughter, who’s grinning sneakily. “look like we’ll have to show mama how to make em, ey love?”
squealing loudly, she nods eagerly, the two pigtails bouncing with the movement.
john laughs again and kisses her cheek. “go clean your toys up and let’s get started then!”
from the moment she’s back on the ground, she takes off.
“aye, our girl,” he says, pulling you into him, hands squeezing your rear. you smile and press a soft kiss to his lips. “reckon it’s time we have another, ey? just so she isn’t bored or anything-“
you roll your eyes immediately. “nice try, john.”
price laughs, undeterred. “growing up would be a lot more fun with a sibling!”
feedback/corrections are appreciated. feel free to send requests/comment/reblog ! :)
every time i see toxic!price fics and its mentioned that he has a kid i always imagine him being cursed with a daughter that fucking hates him.
being his only daughter, it was only natural that you were a daddy’s girl growing up. he spoiled you rotten whenever he could despite your mother’s protests, claiming that his favorite girl should always be treated like a princess.
it makes him so incredibly ill when he realizes too late that you’re not as forgiving as your mother.
it just absolutely kills him once he realizes that as much as you get your looks from your mother, you get your anger and spite from him.
oh john price, you are exactly the kind of man you raised your baby girl to hate.
summary: when price's wife suddenly abandons him and their two young kids, he hires a nanny to help him manage.
word count: 5.1k
tags/cw: age gap (early 20s/mid 40s), fluff, mutual pining. female reader.
He couldn’t do it alone. Not anymore.
He’d tried to — he really did. He’d tried to make it work, to juggle his work and his kids, his pride and his ego both too big, too stubborn to let him reach out for help, for assistance of any kind. He’d been wounded, too mistrusting, too naively comfortable; his once in tact dignity and self-respect cut to ribbons, shredded to pieces.
He’d never expected her to leave. Not like that.
They’d always talked about kids. She’d been the one who’d wanted them, begged and pleaded and kicked and screamed for them — not him. It’d been her dream to be a mother, she said. She wanted a little boy just like him, she said. A little girl, too, if they were lucky, she said.
He knew he hadn’t been the best father, hadn’t been the best husband. Sure, he’d given her what she wanted — a full, swollen belly; two beautiful babies with the chunkiest cheeks and the sweetest giggles — even if he hadn’t been so convinced, hadn’t wanted them so desperately. He wasn’t like her — hadn’t necessarily wished to have children, to have a heir to carry on the Price name. If it were up to him, he’d have been the last. It was easier that way, simpler.
But he’d married her, and he wanted to make her happy. Knew that he’d been doing a piss poor job at it, knew that she hadn’t been happy for quite some time, even though she assured him she’d known what she was signing up for. Days and weeks and months alone, in a house all by herself, little to no contact. She tried to put on a sunny face for so long, tried to welcome him with open arms and a big smile, sweet words and candied greetings whispered in his ear, his duffel still in his hand.
It began to catch up with her. The lengthy time apart, the uptick in deployments, the secrets he couldn’t share. She began to fade, to dull, to pull away.
So, he gave her what she’d wanted, what she’d claimed she craved nothing more in this world.
They had a baby. Then another. A little girl and a little boy, just like she’d always wanted, had always said she’d dreamed of.
And yet, she left anyway.
Left with nothing left behind other than a folded-up note she’d given to the neighbors — the older couple she’d thrown their kids into the arms of, their shared flesh and blood, until he’d gotten back from a mission in Las Almas. Written that she couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t bear it. That this wasn’t the life she wanted, couldn’t be the one she stomached for any longer.
She’d left them. All three of them.
He’d never expected to be a single father, let alone a father at all. It’d been easy while he was gone, uncomplicated — she stayed at home with the kids while he went off to work, to provide. An arrangement they were both more than happy with. He’d made plenty of money to support them, to give them the life they deserved.
A life that had crumbled to pieces.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love them — he did. There was nothing better than coming home to their sweet angel faces, their bright eyes and beaming smiles, their squeals and nonsensical babbling. Their innocence, their purity, their unbridled joy.
But they’d been her dream. Not his.
He’d never felt well-equipped to be a father, to bring life in the world when his job was to snuff it out. To squeeze and pinch their chubby little cheeks, to tickle their tummies. They were all that was good in the world, all that was pure — he was all that was dark, bloodied, dangerous; stained and sullied.
He didn’t want to taint them, to place his blood-soaked hands on their fair skin, their unblemished youth. They didn’t deserve that, didn’t deserve to have a father who’d seen what he’d seen, a soldier who’d done what he’d done.
But he’d done it anyway, helped bring them into the world. It’d been his choice, his doing, his decision to fill her up with his seed, to make sure it took. He could’ve said no, could’ve refused like he’d done for years. Could’ve listened to his common sense that told him that a baby couldn’t fix a marriage, couldn’t repair the holes that’d been slowly tearing open since that very day on the altar.
But he didn’t. And here he was.
It took him weeks to cave, to admit he couldn’t handle it all alone. That he needed some help, someone to balance the responsibilities, the duties of caring for two young children.
That’s when he found you.
You weren’t sure how you’d heard about the job in the first place, how you'd gotten your hands on his phone number. A friend of a friend of a friend, if you could remember correctly. You’d never met John Price before, never even heard of him. But, when you heard he needed a nanny, that a position was open and desperately needed to be filled as soon as possible — you’d jumped at the bit for it.
You loved kids, always had. You’d worked many jobs over your life that exposed you to them — a babysitter, a lifeguard, a summer camp counselor. You knew the basics and then some, had pretty much seen it all at that point. No, you’d never been a nanny, but how different could it be? It was the perfect gig for the summer — you were home from university and in desperate need of some cash.
That’s how you ended up on his front porch, having agreed over the phone to meet at his house so he could vet you, could feel you out. You knocked on the door, its black paint chipped and fading with age. Heavy footsteps sounded on the other side, giggles and playful shrieks.
It swung open, the warm greeting you’d prepared shriveling up and dying on your tongue.
He stood there, an adorable baby in his thick, muscular arms, a worn threadbare tee stretched across his broad chest, his full beard dusted with specks from of gray.
It was the hottest sight you’d ever seen.
A quick once-over, a nod of his head, his eyes sweeping over your face, your body. “Hi.”
You blinked, once then twice, shaking yourself out of your trance.
“Hi.” You mustered up a smile, cheeks flushing, hand swiping a stray hair out of your face. “I’m, um — I’m here for the…the nannying job.”
A squeal, a flash of a body — a little one darting out between his legs, tumbling forward on her stubby little feet. She flew towards you, giggling like a little manic as you caught her, swooped her up in your arms, slightly startled but laughing all the same.
“And now you’ve met the other little rascal.” John smiled, the corners of his tired eyes crinkling with humor and with love — and most notably, with bone-deep exhaustion.
“Hi!” The small girl clung to you, tiny arms wrapped around your neck like you weren’t a stranger she’d just met, had never seen before in her short little life. “I’m Winnie!”
You chuckled, balancing her on your hip as you smiled warmly at her, her hair wild and her eyes sparkling. “Hi pretty girl. It’s very nice to meet you.”
Her teeny little hands explored your face, pressing and squishing your cheeks. “Are you our new nanny? Please please please! Can you! Can you!”
You stifled a laugh, eyes darting towards her father still standing in the doorway, watching you and his daughter with amusement glinting in his gaze.
“Um.” You bit your lip, looking back down at her, pupils wide and bottom lip pouted. “I don’t know, honey. I’m not sure yet.” You smoothed a hand down her tousled locks, strands askew in every direction, her cheeks pink and rosy. “Let’s talk to your dad first, ok?”
She nodded excitedly, a wide grin lighting up her face before she began to squirm in your arms. You set her down on her feet and she shot off like a bullet, dashing back inside, practically leaving a trail of smoke in her wake. The laugh you’d been holding slipped out, your giggle light and unguarded, your gaze drifting back to John — his already fixed upon you.
Your heartbeat stumbled, quickened its pace.
He held the door open for you, telling you he was just going to put the baby down for a nap. You stood in the small foyer of his home, eyes scanning and perusing every corner, every inch you could see.
Toys scattered in every corner, dust and sticky fingerprints on every visible surface. Shoes and more shoes lining the wall, toppled over and scattered around. Abandoned sippy cups and milk bottles tucked into random crevices, jackets spilling off of the hooks near the door, tangled like clumps of seaweed washed ashore.
He needed help — desperately.
John came down a few minutes later, his steps heavy on the creaking wooden stairs, the navy fabric of his shirt riding up to expose just a sliver of a toned, meaty stomach, dark hair twisting and curling, diving and disappearing into the top of his cargo shorts.
You had to look away, forced yourself not to stare.
He guided you into his office, a small room just down the hall. Bookshelves lined the dark brown walls, novels and papers and piles of miscellaneous documents scattered about, half zipped duffel bags and gear thrown haphazardly to the side. You recognized a set of dog tags peeking out of one of the pockets, the various military awards and paraphernalia hung on the walls like a display in school auditorium.
You weren’t surprised — everything about him screamed soldier.
You took a seat in one of the worn leather chairs across from him, the hide cracked and faded in spots. He explained to you his situation, how he’d gotten here — wife had left him six weeks ago, taking off before he returned from a deployment. His elderly neighbors had been watching them then, having been unexpectedly tasked with childcare in their old, retired age. He’d been trying to make it work, to balance it all, until he realized he couldn’t do it alone anymore, couldn’t handle it.
You’d honestly been surprised he’d made it this far.
It was a thought you wisely kept to yourself.
He shared with you his expectations, what he was looking for. He was gone a lot with work, traveled quite a bit, so you’d be alone with the kids for days, likely weeks at a time. As he told you that part, his eyes flickered over your face, narrowing slightly as he seemed to scrutinize you, to wait for your reaction.
You hadn’t flinched. It wasn’t an abnormal request — not one you hadn't expected. He was a decorated soldier, clearly high up from what you could ascertain by all the accolades displayed, so it made sense to you.
Not to mention, the proffered pay was enough to make your brain short circuit and your eyes light up like slot machines at the casino. For the amount he was offering, there was practically nothing he could ask of you that would make you turn down the job.
Seemingly satisfied with you and the resume you’d rattled off — he hadn’t required you to bring it on paper — you left that afternoon with a job and a more than generous advance in your back pocket.
You started the very next day, arriving first thing in the morning with a large coffee in hand and a warm smile. John answered the door a minute later, his salt-and-pepper hair disheveled and his beard half-shaved, the foamy white shaving cream still lathered on the lower half of his face.
“Sorry, doll.” He apologized for his appearance as he held the door open wider for you, moving aside so you could step in. “Didn’t expect you so early.”
“Told you I’d be ready.” You beamed, trying to ignore the way his arms looked in the gray tee he sported. The man was buff. Totally drool-worthy eye-candy. Thank god he’d be gone for most of the time — you didn’t think you could handle it otherwise.
The corners of his mouth curved upwards — not quite a full smile, but as good as you’d get. He still looked exhausted, most likely having been up late with the baby. The little boy was just under a year old — John had mentioned as much yesterday.
“Kids are still asleep.” He said, closing the door behind you, the house no messier than yesterday but still in a desperate need of a deep clean and some serious organizing. “Winnie’ll probably be up in an hour or so.” He blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Little girl tears through the house the minute she’s up, that one.”
Even though it may have sounded like he was complaining, he wasn’t — you could tell, could see it in the way his eyes shone brightly with amusement, with pride. You obviously hadn’t spent much time around John or the kids, but you knew he loved them deeply — that much was true, was as clear as day. Even when he’d spoken to you about his situation, why he’d suddenly needed the extra help, there was no bitterness, no resentment in his tone — only honesty, a mere divulging of the truth of what led him to where he was.
He left you downstairs, assuring you he’d be right back after he finished shaving the rest of his face, telling you to make yourself comfortable. You kicked off your shoes at the door and ambled through the house, giving yourself a tour. You’d gathered bits and pieces when you’d been there the day prior, but you hadn’t seen too much, hadn’t gotten a full look around.
Living room, kitchen, bathroom, laundry room, his office — all full of life, every room cluttered with visible signs of children. Couch cushions astray, unfinished crayon scribbles and mini art projects lying around, blocks and dolls and stuffed animals covering the carpet.
You heard him coming before you saw him, his heavy leaden footfalls carrying to the kitchen as you poked through his cabinets, making a mental note of empty cardboard boxes and missing essential items. John appeared through the doorway, freshly trimmed beard and no sign of shaving cream.
He led you through the home, even though you’d explored half of it already. He pointed out where the important stuff was — first aid kid, baby formula, the drawer with emergency numbers taped inside. The medicine cabinet, the stack of clean linens, the bin of clean diapers tucked in the corner, the basket of mismatched socks. He showed you the back door lock, the light switches that never worked right, and the spot on the counter where he usually left notes or schedules.
Upstairs was next, you following behind as he guided you down the hall, his voice low as he pointed at each door. Four bedrooms — one for him, one for each of the kids, a guest room that you’d stay in for the overnights — and two bathrooms. It was a sizable home, a real nice one at that. You’d imagined he made quite a bit of money, but that was never something you’d actually make a point to ask, to mention.
Not long after you finished your tour, Winnie stirred, and, as promised, hurtled out of her room the second she heard your hushed voices in the kitchen, her hair darting in ten different directions as she dashed inside.
“Nanny!” She squealed excitedly, all but launching herself into your arms. “You’re back! You’re back!”
You couldn’t help but chuckle, her rambunctious energy infectious regardless of the early hour. “Hi honey. It’s good to see you, too.”
John scoffed in faux outrage, his hand propped his hip. “Just like that, I’m chopped liver, huh?”
Winnie giggled, burying her face against your shoulder, bright eyes peeking out just enough to peer at her dad. “No!” She squealed through her laughter, the sound ringing out like winter bells.
He smiled softly, stepping closer to ruffle her mop of tangled curls. “Sure, princess.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, your eyes locking with his, his smile widening a fraction. “I’m gonna check on the baby.”
You nodded, watching the back of him as he retreated, your gaze dropping to his round, firm ass.
God, you were screwed.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁
John was only home for a couple of more days after that, mostly leaving for work in the early morning and returning late at night, well after dinner was finished and just before bedtime.
He had to be gone before dawn, so you arrived extra early, your overpacked suitcase and duffel in tow. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone — a week at best but could be longer. You’d brought more than enough of your belongings, ready for whatever, for whenever he’d return. He seemed to genuinely appreciate how easygoing you were, how unruffled you seemed by his cryptic and unspecific timeline.
You didn’t mind at all, weren't bothered by the ambiguity of it. He was a hardworking man, a busy one. His job was untraditional, even for the military — he was high-ranking; you’d peeked at the awards in his office, the honors he’d collected, had been decorated with. Captain, you’d seen. A man who carried more than his weight, had unspeakable and unthinkable tasks to handle, to tackle — all on top of being a single father to two young children. They were the world to him, but his job couldn’t be stopped, couldn’t be delayed any longer, any further. Not when he had business to attend to.
You respected it and you respected him, all that he put on the line for his kids, all that he sacrificed. You didn’t judge or moan or complain when he couldn’t give you a straight answer as to when he’d return — it was part of his job, just as it was yours.
Taking care of Winnie and her baby brother, Henry, was a treat — truly, it was. The little girl was full of energy, yes — she loved to run around, to play, to talk your ear off, to be stuck to your side at all times — but she was a genuinely good, well-behaved kid. She rarely had temper tantrums and almost always slept through the night. She didn’t whine when it was time for bed or to leave the park, and she never cried over what she was given for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. As far as babies were concerned, Henry was an angel, too. There were tougher nights than others — one in particular where he’d kept you up for hours, refusing to settle even after you gave him a bottle and rocked him until the sun rose above the horizon — but they were few and far in between.
That first time, that first trip, John ended up returning a week and a half later than anticipated, much to his frustration. He hadn’t wanted to be away for that long — not because he didn’t trust you. He did. Much more than he thought he would, thought he was capable of. Before he’d left, he’d seen you with his kids, watched the way you bent down to listen to them, the patience laced through your voice, the ease with which you folded yourself into their little world, blended in like you’d always been there. How you played and giggled and ran around with them like you never tired, were never worn out — that big, warm smile always stretched across your pretty face, no matter the time of day, no matter what life threw at you.
And maybe that was what unsettled him the most. Coming home, seeing how quickly they’d taken to you — their clear comfort, their contagious laughter, their tiny hands reaching for you without hesitation. It filled him with relief, with gratitude at how well they’d adjusted, especially to the first woman to spend time with them, to enter the house since their mother — but underneath, there was a tug of something else. Something heavier. A hollow ache he couldn’t quite shake, couldn’t brush off.
They hadn’t just managed without him — they’d thrived.
He hated being away from them, from you. The sight of you in his home woven so seamlessly into the fabric of his children’s lives, their every-days — it felt right in a way that scared him, terrified him. Right in a way that lingered long after he tore his gaze away, told himself it was inappropriate.
He couldn’t deny that you were beautiful. He’d thought as much the second he’d seen you on his front step, cheeks flushed and eyes twinkling. You were young, attractive, kind — but when you had his kids in your arms, twined around your legs?
You were absolutely breathtaking.
Every time he left the house, every time he was shipped away on yet another mission, he couldn’t help but think of you. Think of what you were doing, what you and the kids were up to. What you were baking, what you were wearing. Those pretty little dresses of yours, the tiny little shorts. The way your legs seemed to stretch endlessly for miles, your smooth, silky skin always on display.
He had to remind himself that you worked for him, that you were essentially his employee. You weren’t there to warm his bed, to scrub the house clean — the latter of which you’d done without being asked, every inch spotless and organized unlike it had ever been before; a surprise for him when he’d gotten back from that first deployment. You weren’t there for his pleasure, to throw your arms out wide the second he stepped through the threshold and dumped his gear at the door, to welcome your captain home from war.
No. You were there for the kids. Just the kids.
They absolutely adored you. Winnie barely freed herself from your side, as if you were her real parent — completely and utterly obsessed with you. Henry, even though he couldn’t talk yet, cooed and babbled and grinned from ear to ear whenever you held him, never once fussing when you were around.
It was like you were magic — living, breathing magic that sprinkled sunshine over his once cluttered, messy, and colorless home.
You looked so good there, so in your element — in his kitchen, his yard, tucked onto his living room couch. Running around and chasing Winnie through the sprinkler without a care in the world, your clothes soaked to the bone. Feeding Henry bottles of warm milk, rocking him in your arms, cooing softly in his ear as you burped him gently, the rays of sunlight encircling you like a halo for the angel you were.
You were a saint, his saving grace. Divine in every way. Just the person — the woman — he needed, the kids craved.
He found himself counting down the days, the hours, the minutes until he saw you again. Found you curled up in the sofa with a cozy blanket and a sleeping baby tucked into the crook of your arm, Winnie snuggled up at your feet. You heard the door open the night he arrived back home, your head turning to look at him over the back of the couch. You smiled when you saw him, eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples carving into your cheeks. The volume on the TV was low, barely audible, as the blues and purples and silvers on the screen illuminated your face.
“Hi.” You mouthed, not wanting to wake them. Not when they were sleeping so peacefully, so contently. The serenity, the calmness that had settled over the house was palpable, washing over him and instantly relaxing him, loosening the rigidness in his spine, his body.
“Hi.” He crept towards you, trying his best to keep his steps quiet, to avoid the parts of the floor that creaked the loudest. You watched him as he rounded the couch, carefully and gently scooping Winnie up and into his arms. She stirred but didn’t wake up, just made an unintelligible sound, her head nestling against her father’s chest, eyes still closed.
You thought your heart was going to burst at the sight.
A small smile pulled at his lips as he looked down at his daughter lovingly, rocking her just slightly, his big hands holding her like she was breakable, like she might disappear into thin air if he wasn’t careful.
His gray eyes found yours, the two of you quiet as you shared in the soft comfort, reveled in the peaceful lull. Neither of you spoke, content to share in the hush of the moment, wrapped up in the serenity of it — as if even a word might break the spell.
Watching him with his daughter — so small, so fragile compared to him — the softness in his gaze, the reverence in the way he held her; it unfurled something in your chest, tightening with something you weren’t supposed to want, something you couldn’t dare speak aloud. Warm and tingly, like a sunset over a tranquil lake; a cup of hot chocolate by the fire on a rainy day.
You rose, Henry still fast asleep in your arms, the two of you wordlessly heading upstairs, John right behind you.
He carefully pushed open Winnie’s bedroom door, the room completely dark except for the flower-shaped nightlight plugged into the far wall. You stood in the doorway, gently bouncing the sleeping baby as you held him close to you, watching as John lowered his daughter onto her bed, tucking her beneath her sheets. Affection bled through you, at the way he kissed her forehead so tenderly, so lovingly.
He followed you into Henry’s room, stepping beside you at the crib. You angled your body toward him, tilting your head back to meet his gaze, his height looming close enough to make the space between you suddenly feel even smaller. You wordlessly offered the baby to him, knowing how long he’d been gone, wanting him to have this closeness, this moment with his son. John’s eyes softened, filling with warmth and gratitude as you carefully passed the baby into his arms.
It was so domestic, so achingly tender — the way he cradled him, the way his eyes shone with affection, with adoration. He pressed his face to the baby’s hair, breathing him in, eyes fluttering shut as the tension in his shoulders dissipated.
With a soft kiss to the top of his little head, he put Henry down, placing him in the middle of the crib, the baby not so much as blinking as his chest rose and fell steadily, his little feet twitching in his sleep.
The two of you slipped out of the room, John closing the door behind him, a faint click spilling into the quiet hall.
“Thank you.” His voice was gruff, gravelly — as if he hadn’t spoken in awhile, the words rasping against his tongue, his throat. Something about the sound of it, the throaty, husky tone, brought a blush to your cheeks, a flush creeping up your neck.
“Of course.”
You were grateful for the darkness of the house, most of the lights having been long switched off. It was late, much later than you should’ve been awake. You should’ve had the kids long tucked into bed, but they had been so peaceful, so blissful on the sofa that you hadn’t wanted to disturb them.
John didn’t seem to mind, though — he was just happy to be home, to be able to put them to bed. He hadn’t had the opportunity in far too long for his liking, having been gone for weeks now. The kids were going to be thrilled when they woke up.
“I should—I should head out.” You didn’t know why you were stumbling over your words, feeling pathetic at the way he always had you flustered, fumbling; your tongue always tied in a knot around him.
He shook his head. “Nonsense.”
His hand closed around your elbow, stopping you — his thumb brushing against your skin and your heart beating so rapidly you were worried he could feel it, could feel the effect his simple touch had on you.
“You’re staying.”
His words left no room for discussion, for debate. Usually, you left when he returned home after a deployment or from a night at work — it was his house after all, and you didn’t want to impose. It wasn’t like you were in a rush to return to your own place — you lived with your parents when you were home for the summer, and they knew where you were, knew about your job.
But he was paying you, and you didn’t want him to feel obligated to keep the clock running when he was under the same roof.
“It’s too late for you to be on those roads,” He told you, as if he needed to provide a reason for you to stay, to keep you there. “And you’ll have to be back in the morning anyway.”
While that was true, you were a grown adult — you didn’t have to stay. It wasn’t like you hadn’t driven at that hour before; not to mention, it wasn’t even midnight yet. You were more than capable of getting home safely, of driving the relatively short distance back to your childhood bedroom.
Truth was, John just wanted you there. Wanted you close, just a thin wall between his room and yours, the guest suite you’d taken over. Wanted to know that you were there, within reach; safe and sound and right next to him. Accessible, reachable — close enough to touch, even though he’d never do a thing about it, to you. You were all that he could think about, all that consumed his thoughts while he was gone, when he’d needed a tether to his humanity, to the man outside the fatigues and the war zone.
He thought of his kids, yes — of course he did. But when the darkness pressed in, when the world he lived in was too ugly to let their faces and pure, innocent hearts touch it, it was you his mind drifted to. You he carried with him.
“Okay.” You finally spoke, too pliant under his gaze, in his presence. It made sense, after all.
He smiled, satisfied as he nodded. “Good.”
And that was that.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁
A/N: this trope is so overdone ik but i was itching to write my own <3 hope you enjoyed!
Autistic Reader and their overstimulating bright ass room that they LOVE.
All done by themselves, btw. They took hours to perfectly paint the room, watched through tutorials to properly tape the outlets into safety. Its a soft, calming pink on its own, but the posters covering it after are diabolical.
Printed papers, self-bought pictures, all taped nicely onto the walls before shelves are pushed in front of them and filled with plushies and figurines. There's a desk littered with an expensive set-up and trinkets, as well.
The LEDS are fucking blinding btw if you even care.
The first time the boys come over, they find your entire house decorated up with shiny furniture, organized furry rugs, etc.
Simon looks overstimulated immediately, awkwardly sitting on the couch until you told him there's a blank room specifically for overstimulation and guide him. He seems happy to watch TV there, at least.
Kyle and Johnny have a blast, poking at everything and asking you how much your figurines were. When you tell them, they nearly choke and die.
"This is what you spend your money on?" Price questions, but without any bite. He settles easily in the decked out home, looking obscenely out of place yet also at home. Likely for being surrounded by his teammates and feeling trusted enough to be in one of their homes. He looks like a father more than a captain.
You later dress him up in your clip ons and headbands while he sits there gruffly, not even bating an eye to his sergeants taking photos. He's extremely happy to be your Captain.
I want to meet this boy a grade or two above me. I want to meet at my school or at my party. He'd be old enough to drink and if he there babysitting my older friends.
I want to leave the crowd with him back to my apartment. I want him to fuck deep enough into me that it makes me hurt him with my nails. I want him groaning at the feeling of the scratches that it makes him groan and loose his rhythm. I want him to be deep enough that he's feeling my cervix and it makes me cry that I love him right against his neck. I want him pausing and hugging me tighter in a bear hug as he cums without a condom and a groan at the thought of being loved.
I want him stuttering that he's sorry, that he's never done that before. That he meant to pull out, I want him apologizing as he's backing away from me.
I want him to jump into his jeans even though he's still hard and leave me in a daze after experiencing the most incredible feeling with a man.
I wanna be Prices daughter with few friends that comes to meet the team in a little dress and a clearly rounder belly. I want to invite my dds friends to my baby shower. I want my nails to already be painted light blue and pink.
I want Ghost filling out his pants so fast that it gives him a headache from the blood rush.
I want to ask what I did to offend him to make him run off so fast. I don't want to recognize him with his mask on. I want to stay confused for a little while till he breaks to his Captain and guiltily confess that he's already met me.
