John Price’s favorite position is a mating press because he’s a fucking dirty old man with a raging breeding kink. The position allows him to fuck you real deep, kiss your cervix just so with his fat tip so that he fills your womb thrust after thrust.
And he keeps you there long after he’s finished, legs pressed to your shoulders, cock keeping you nice and plugged with his seed, muttering something breathless and ragged about ‘making a baby stick.’
John MacTavish’s favorite position is cowgirl because he’s obsessed with you and it gives him the perfect view of everything you. How your face scrunches when you sink all the way to the bottom or the way your tits bounce with each new thrust.
How your weight feels on top of him, so you’re in control. And the way you look at him, eyes determined, when he starts to get overstimulated, and begs you to stop, but you just fuck him harder.
Kyle Garrick’s favorite position is doggy because he’s an ass man after all and your hips are the perfect handles. He can’t stare at the way your ass recoils off his hips for too long or listen to the loud smack or else he’ll finish too quickly.
And he doesn’t even have to tell you; you just know he likes it when you bury your face into your arms and arch your ass that much higher. You don’t ever run too, just take the way his balls slam against you, meeting him with each deep thrust.
Simon Riley’s favorite position is prone brone because he can’t look at your face without immediately needing to finish. He’d rather take you this way, with your body trapped under his, weight suffocating you, so you have no option, but to take it.
Likes curling his hand around your neck and burying his face against your shoulder. Likes the way your legs kick out even more when he’s fucking you too roughly hands scrambling to find purchase on anything.
It isn't fair, Pearl thought as she cleared yet another path in the nether.
I didn't do anything wrong.
She hacked another pigman that was coming her way.
Physical activity was good for keeping depressing thoughts at bay, Martyn had said. Yet here she was, one the most wealthy residents in this world, able to do her business in nether like no other and yet.
Her soulmate didn't want Pearl.
—
Martyn usually wasn't one for much feelings other than mischief and rage. That was, until he stood face to face with the one he had felt this pull to during every trial and saw…the same rage directed back at him. For doing what he thought had been a good thing.
—
“Have you found yours yet?”
Green hoodie, blond hair, blue eyes. Kind voice and steady hands. They pulled her up from the hole she had fallen in and gave her aid. In another life, he could have been for her. In this life though, she had yet to find hers.
“No.”
Light touches on her ankle, bandaging it. Apparently she had managed to injure herself on a fallen branch and hadn't even noticed it while escaping a creeper.
“Thanks.”
A wide, kind smile.
“No problem.”
—
“Sooo, what do you think about teaming up for a while?”
“Team up? For what?”
“Well, it'll be easier to find resources, that's for sure..”
Pearl mulled this over for a bit.
Martyn continued, a little nervous of what he was going to say next.
“Besides, I was kind of thinking that we, uh, could go and get geared up and collect lots of resources so that when we meet our soulmates we'll actually make a good impression on them.”
Captain price who’s imaging bending you over his desk as soon as you’re assigned to his team.
It’s wrong, he knows it is, you’re his sergeant, but he tells himself as long as he doesn’t act on those thoughts he’s fine. He can imagine you all he wants, on your knees, mouth stuffed, eyes watering, gasping for air when he finally lets up.
He tells himself that atleast.
Tells himself that right up until you’re laid out on his desk, needy cunt grinding against the length of his cock because he told himself— told you, that it wasn’t wrong, long as his dick didn’t slip in.
But nothing soon turns into gritted comments of ‘Jus’ the tip ‘ts not wrong if ‘ts jus’ the tip darling.’
Except he can’t stop until he’s ball deep, head falling on your shoulder muttering something along the lines that he couldn’t help it, you felt too good sweet’art.
He doesn’t really know how to be. His father and mother never had a loving relationship.
You accepted that, knew that you were the one that had to initiate physical touch or be the one to use terms of endearment most of the time. You knew how to love him without it.
But you couldn’t even pretend mornings weren’t your favorite. When he was just a little softer around the edges in the morning sun, half asleep and groggy.
He’s told you he doesn’t sleep much on assignments— doesn’t sleep well in general.
So, when he pulls you in by your waist, pressing his face into your neck with a soft noise of protest when you try to climb out of bed, you can’t even hold in your giggle.
Those are the few times his wall comes down, when he’s too half asleep to realize he’s calling you his baby and murmuring not to leave him just yet.
You’ll hold your pee in for as long as he holds you.
He’s got crows feet and forehead lines. His knees and ankles pop when he stands. And his visions gone to shit.
His doctor prescribed him glasses.
He hates them.
They fog up when he drinks tea in the morning and in cold weather. They gave him headaches, at first at least. He can’t even take a nap without them getting in the way.
And yet, there’s not a day he regrets wearing them. Not when he can finally see you clearly again, in all your flesh and glory. Finally see the curve of your nose or the corners of your lips turn when he kisses you without having to squint.
Johnny who makes it everyone else’s problem that he hasn’t got laid in weeks, that he’s so fucking pent up he can feel it in his teeth. Won’t stop his Scottish whining that his hand isn’t enough, needs a warm cunt to fuck or he’ll go insane.
So, you take one for the team, let him fuck all his pent up cum inside of you because you don’t think you can hear another description of how sad his hand feels. Hope to get him to shut the hell up.
But now he just won’t stop whining about needing to fuck your cunt.
Just thinking about Ghost having a shy, quiet wife. The glaring opposite of Ghost, painted in black and blood while you’re adorned in lace and frills. Smooth skin and delicate flesh, warm eyes and a bashful smile. Soft-spoken and so fucking sweet.
No one else knows about you, or that he’s married, not from lack of wanting people to know he has such a pretty dove waiting for him at home, but because he knows all the men on base would eat you alive.
But one day, he forgets the lunch you made him. It takes everything in you to refrain yourself from driving to base to make sure he has something to eat— you know he doesn’t have the healthiest eating habits.
You choose to message him, something he usually responds fairly quickly to. Always at your beck and call just in case his sweet girl needs him, but he doesn’t answer. Your lips are pinched raw with worry by the time you decide to get in your car.
So, imagine everyone’s surprise when a sergeant interrupts the meeting Ghost’s in— ‘Lieutenant, um, Mrs. Riley is waiting outside for you.’
Ghost is on his feet in an instant, it must be some emergency if you’re there. He rushes to the hallway, everyone else in the room stumbling behind to snoop through the thin crack of the door, see who their big bad Lieutenant is married to.
And there you are, Tupperware container in your manicured hands, white dress covering your frame with matching ribbons and bows in your hair. The look on your face is anxious, right up until you see Ghost, your eyes softening as he approaches you with wide strides despite the fact that he’s twice your size, hulking and threatening.
“Sweet’art, everything okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” He asks, brows furrowing as he does a once over your figure, checking for injury.
You exhale a quiet laugh, “No, baby. You just forgot your lunch, and you didn’t answer your phone so I got worried you would go the whole day without eating.”
He cups your jaw, a smile breaking out on his face. His sergeants are baffled for several reasons— they did not expect their Lieutenant to be married to such a sweet thing, nor had they ever heard their Lieutenant speak in such a soft, hushed tone, never seen him touch something with such care, like you were so fragile in the palms of his hands.
They would’ve thought it was all a joke if it wasn’t for the massive diamond ring on your finger, or the way you pushed deeper into his touch.
“Sorry, dove, just been in a meetin’ all day.”
He stamps a kiss against your lips, lets himself linger just a little longer than he should because he knows the whole room is watching from behind the door.
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, murder of animals eventually, eventual smut, religious guilt, infidelity, darker than most concepts I write
ch. 1 | masterlist | ao3
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You hate him.
Right down to the way he drinks his coffee, too many sugars, and likes his eggs, scrambled, in the morning. Even the way he does his hair, black combover like he’s some gentleman. Pretending to be a man of integrity.
Though you suppose that’s what happens when the man takes his anger out on you. Expects you to treat him like a king when he treats you as much less. Maybe the look fooled you at first. Pristine suits and smooth skin, charming smile and glimmering white teeth. An image that portrayed something he wasn’t.
You stay, there’s no other option. Not when the word divorce makes your mother turn her back to you. Not when she endured far worse and stayed longer.
You should be grateful, atleast that’s what he tells you, and some awful twisted part of you believes him. That this is all you deserve. That this is karma for kissing your girl best friend on the playground in primary school. Or for losing your virginity out of wed lock when you graduated.
You’re lucky— he tells you. Lucky that he married someone so tainted. You’ve heard it so many times that you don’t know what’s true anymore, the edges of your beliefs smeared and faded somewhere.
You don’t believe in a God. Never did. Even when your mother pushed it on you, forced her fears into your mind, and made you second guess all your actions. Maybe your lack of faith caused this. Maybe your marriage is punishment for the doubt in a higher power.
Maybe you should’ve believed.
Perhaps this would all make sense if you did.
Though, the doubt isn’t from lack of trying. You’ve prayed on your knees, seeking questions that have gone unanswered. Even wear the cross on your neck, a silver thing that you play with when his words become too harsh and voice too loud.
You think you loved him at one point. It’s all blurry now. You hope you did. Maybe then you’d have a valid excuse for staying other than a religion you don’t believe in.
It’s all you know at this point, all you’ve ever known watching your parents. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be, how this God intended. Tight lip smiles, ducking heads, and shaking fingers out of fear.
You’ve stopped crying long ago, dried up all sorrow and buried it somewhere else completely. You’ve learned to deal with it— you think, if wrapping up all the emotions that threaten to spill from your throat tightly wound with a pretty bow on top to mask your true thoughts counts as ‘dealing with it.’
You’re used to it, despite how draining it is.
You won’t divorce. That’s not an option. Not like this. You weren’t raised that way.
You don’t know how to leave, can’t leave, so you find escape in the small things. The way the sun shines through your kitchen window, casting beams from the sun catcher your husband hasn’t torn down yet. He will, in a stupor rage, and you’ll have to save up for a new one again. Or the bunny that’s found sanctuary in your backyard, a white innocent thing, covered in dirt. Even visiting the small flower shop on the way to the butcher, the same one you get your sun catchers from, is better than any of this.
The bunny’s there now, creeping out of the bush its made its home, branches dented where it crawls. Slowly, hesitantly, it approaches the lettuce you had tucked away for it, nose twitching as it inspects the contents. It draws a smile, the first in a while thats not forced at your new little friend’s bravery.
The smile falls fast, torn from your lips when the front door slams shut loudly. It makes you jump, makes the bunny run from the noise, lettuce falling from its grasp and back on to the ground. You swallow thick at the sight, the man finds a way to ruin everything that happens to bring you joy.
The clock on the stove reads 4:30. An hour early.
The tension in the rooms already shifted before he’s even entered, wooden house creaking under him. You feel it in your spine, an anxiety that only he manages to claw out of you, curled around your back firmly.
“What’s for dinner?”
It’s the first words he speaks. Not even a hello. Grunting them out like it was a chore.
You turn to face him, drying your hands with a rag, tight lipped smile on your face, feigning a warm welcome. “Chicken Gnocchi.”
His ties out of place, white shirt you pressed this morning wrinkled, hair disheveled. You ignore it. Pretend you don’t notice any of it.
He scoffs. “Don’t want it.”
Your smile falters, brows meeting in the middle. “Sweetheart, I’ve already made it. You told me you wanted it before you left this morning.”
“Don’t care. I want rib-eye steak.” He cuts you off, dismissing your words with a wave of your hand.
“We dont—there’s no steak in the freezer.”
He looks at you like you’re dumb. “Then go to the butcher?”
You pause, inhaling deep, fingers tight around the rag. You’ve learned not to fight it. Your response is weak, meager, putting on the same forced smile.
“Okay.”
You take a final look through the window. You wish you could join the bunny, hide away in the bush until the big bad man leaves for work the next morning and you both can enjoy the sun again.
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It’s dark by the time you arrive, cheeks and fingers numb from the winter air. Sighing under your breath when you see the long line.
You’ve never been this late, your husband expects dinner to be made before he gets home, so you don’t recognize the person behind the glass.
He’s big. Awfully big.
There’s blood smeared on his apron, red splattered up his blue gloves. It’s a sight you don’t normally see with the morning shift. A bit sickening, filthy, but you watch him anyways.
Eye’s trained on his brows, squished together with stress, or maybe it’s annoyance. Wrinkles deep on his forehead, scars gashed along his lip and down his arms like he was cutting practice for apprentices.
His shoulders are broad, pulling the white t-shirt he wears under his apron taut. Head shaved, crooked teeth. The tattoos curled along his arm flex with every shift, veins prominent each time he slices a new slab of meat.
He’s brooding, intimidating. In a far different way than your husband.
You can’t look away from his hands. Swallowing thick as you watch him slice slab after slab. A weird part of you, somewhere deep, warms your skin. Licking your lips instinctively because you can tell how thick his fingers are even under the gloves.
It’s like a moth to a flame, the way your eyes zero in on his movements. Inhaling between your teeth, breathing deep like some animal, unlocking something you didn’t realize you had.
The tag on his apron reads ‘Simon.’
It takes you two seconds to realize it’s the owner of the shop when he stares at you expectantly.
