You meet Price in a supermarket. Bumping right into him, more like slamming into him. The pint of chocolate ice cream and box of extra soft tisses that were safety tucked in your arms going all over the floor. Moving rather swiftly for a beefy man of his size, he quickly darts to the ground to grab the dropped items.
Heâs so careful about the way he gives them back to you, holding them out to you with a small smile. The comfort items look so much smaller in his hands than they did in yours, he doesnât even have them all the way out to you. Theyâre practically against his stomach, unconsciously encouraging you to come to him for them.
Then you look into his eyes and you think you feel your knees going weak, he definitely feels his buckling. The way you blink up at him with your pretty eyes all teary with smudged mascara and your soft lips formed into a sad little pout.
The words who did this he instinctively wants to say die on his tongue when he realises you arenât his to protect, you donât even know each other. Strangers, and he already wants to fight your battles without even know what they are.
âMâsorry.â You sniffle.
âNot a problem little darlin.â Itâs a deep rumble from within his chest when he speaks. Thin lips curving up slightly, his bushy moustache moving with them, those thick mutton chops and that full beard catching your attention too. His voice is gruff and accented. You reckon you could listen to it every second of the day and never want for silence.
John was there from then on. He was just there, had inserted himself into your life, almost like a stray cat you feed once and suddenly it comes back everyday. This gorgeous older man had simply become a part of your day to day life.
Youâre heading to work? Heâs giving you a lift in his black chevy truck. Youâre on your lunch break? Heâs luring you outside for a cute little picnic in the park. Youâre finishing work? Heâs taking you back to your place and staying. Heâs cooking you dinner, massaging your tired body. Lingering touches and longing stares. He wasnât even trying to hide how much he fancied you.
Especially when it came to you dating other guys. Heâd hate when youâd come home after a date, heâs in your apartment obviously waiting for you to return, and youâre all sad it didnât work out. Questioning yourself and your worth or beauty. It would have Priceâs ruggedly handsome face contorting in anger.
He would tell you no man would ever be good enough for you. He would also say no one was deserving of you. John would express that although he very much believed that, he would love it if you gave him the chance to try.
You would be so confused what he meant. Only understanding when he would hover over you, caging you in with his tall, burly figure and repeating the words âbe mineâ over and over again like a mantra.
He caught a look in your eyes at his words, similar to the one he saw when he first met you. It was clouded with confusion and want but it was there. Price knew. It was so obvious he wondered how no one else had seen it. But he knew, one look into your pretty eyes and he knew you needed taking care of. And the retired vet was more than happy to fill that role in your life.
More Price thots𼾠because who wouldnât want thisđ
You stir the milk into your tea while you wipe the sleep from your eyes, big heavy knitted sweater hanging from your tired frame. It was his and though it had been in the wash, the sweater reeked of him. His fucking delicious smell that you wanted to roll around in. All his clothes fucking reeked of it.
You loved the strong musky spiced stench that came with him, it was everything. Especially while you were waiting for him to return home from his mission. Every day had been so long and so exhausting without him at home. You couldnât sleep properly at night without your big warm pillow, his strong arms wrapping around your frame and easily coaxing you to sleep.
Any house work felt pointless without him there, why did the house need to look spotless? Why did the dishes need to be washed straight away? What was the point if he wasnât there to give you a big kiss as your reward, after complaining that he could have done it instead.
Because of this Price isnât at all surprised when he comes home to find the house a total mess, and his sweet little wife nowhere in sight. âDarlin?â He listens hoping to hear you reply but thereâs nothing but silence in reply, he sighs dropping his black gear bag.
Pulling off his dark brown leather jacket and placing it on one of the coat hooks next to the front door, he enters the house shuffling out of his heavy boots incase you might be asleep. Creeping through the messy home quietly, he makes it up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Your shared bedroom to find you finally passed out from exhaustion, he smiled softly at you. Thin lips curving up, his bushy moustache moving with them. He truly loved coming home to you.
Price showered away any last specs of dirt or blood on him so he was clean for his woman. He dried his burly, muscular body not bothering to put anything on before slipping into bed with you. Instantly you flinched waking up only to find your husband staring at you with those beautiful blue eyes of his.
âItâs okay darlinâ Iâm home,â he soothed pulling you into his big arms, you happily allowed him to manhandle you nuzzling against him as he turned you, your ass slotting against his hips perfectly. Like you were made for him. âSleep now love.â
âSorry the house is a mess.â You slurred gripping onto the hairy thick arm that had wound itself around you.
He half chuckled half scoffed before replying in his accented voice, nose dragging up the side of your neck, inhaling deeply,âDonât you worry your pretty little head about that, Iâll sort everything tomorrow. Now go to sleep.â
Thirty-eight degrees in England, which was not a country built for thirty-eight degrees.
England was built for grey skies and sixteen degrees and the kind of rain that wasn't quite committing to being rain.
England was built for cardigans in August and being pleasantly surprised by a sunny afternoon in May.
England was not â had never been, would apparently never be, regardless of what the climate was doing â built for this.
Thirty-eight degrees and climbing, the radio had said that morning, which meant by afternoon it would be forty, maybe forty-two.
The hottest day of the year so far and the presenter had said this with the particular breathless excitement of someone for whom it was a novelty rather than a slow, humid, inescapable disaster.
You had turned the radio off.
The house was worse than outside.
This was the specific cruelty of a British heatwave â the houses, built for insulation, built to keep warmth in, became perfect traps for it.
The walls absorbed the heat. The ceilings held the heat. The air inside was thick and still and several degrees warmer than the air in the garden, which was itself several degrees warmer than any air a reasonable person should be expected to inhabit.
You had taken three cold showers so far.
The first at seven in the morning. The second at half past eleven. The third at two in the afternoon, standing under water so cold it took your breath, but by the time you'd dried off you were already warm again. Your body producing heat that the house simply stored, helpfully, indefinitely.
At half past three you had gone and sat in your car.
You were not proud of this.
You had sat in the driver's seat of your car in the driveway with the engine on and the air conditioning at full as your head tipped back against the headrest.
You had stayed there for forty-five minutes, which was simultaneously the most wasteful and the most necessary thing you had done all week.
The cold air had hit your face and your arms and you had felt, for the first time since the previous morning, like a person rather than a slowly melting thing.
Then the guilt about the engine and the petrol had gotten to you, and you'd turned it off.
Youâd gone back inside, and the house had received you like a warm, enthusiastic relative who didn't understand personal space.
You missed the air conditioning at work with a physical, specific ache.
The office; your shitty office.
Your carpet-cleaner-scented, recycled-air, fluorescent-lit office that you had never once felt grateful for had proper climate control.
The kind that kept the temperature at a steady, glorious, life-sustaining twenty-one degrees regardless of what the atmosphere was doing outside. You had sat at your desk on Friday and felt the cool air on your arms and thought: I could stay here. I could sleep under my desk. Nobody would know.
It was Saturday now. The office was closed.
You had done what you could.
Every window in the house was open. Not that it helped, the outside air arriving with all its own heat and adding it to the existing supply.
You had frozen water bottles and placed them in front of the fans.
You had three fans; the big tower one from the bedroom, the desk fan from the spare room, and the small ancient oscillating one from the kitchen cupboard that Simon had looked at once and said needed replacing and then not replaced it.
All of them were arranged in a semicircle around the sofa, all of them on their highest setting, all of them doing their absolute best and making almost no discernible difference.
You had taken off everything except a thin t-shirt and your underwear, because dignity was a winter luxury and it was now thirty-nine degrees.
You had laid down on the sofa.
At some point, despite the heat and the fans and the general ambient misery, sleep had found you anyway.
You were asleep when Simon came home.
He smelled the heat before he opened the door.
The specific warmth of a house that had been sun-facing all day.
The smell of warm cotton and the faint electrical hum of multiple fans working harder than they were designed to. He opened the front door and it was, demonstrably, warmer inside than it had been on the pavement.
The base had air conditioning. He'd been comfortable all day, which he now registered as a kind of guilt.
The sound of the fans reached him before he'd cleared the hallway â the tower unit's low roar, the desk fan's higher whirr, the ancient kitchen oscillator doing its arthritic best â and he followed the sound to the living room doorway and stopped.
You were asleep on the sofa.
The three fans were arranged around you in a formation that he recognised, immediately, as something you had put genuine tactical thought into.
Angles considered, coverage maximised, the frozen water bottles sweating in front of each one. Your approach to problems, applied to the problem of existing in now forty degree heat.
You were in a thin t-shirt and underwear.
He could see your hard nipples through the sweat soaked t-shirt. Your legs were bare. You'd pushed the square sofa pillows to the floor at some point, presumably because fabric was an enemy today, and you were lying directly on the cool surface of the sofa cushion cover with one arm over your face and the other hanging off the edge, your fingers barely touching the floor.
There was sweat beaded at your hairline.
Simon stood in the doorway for a moment.
He was a man who had operated in desert environments. He had been in places where the heat was a physical force, a thing you moved through rather than existed in, where the air itself seemed hostile. He had acclimatised to those temperatures with the methodical efficiency he brought to everything operationally necessary.
This was different. This was you, in your living room, in your thin t-shirt, flushed and damp-haired and entirely, completely unaware of him in the doorway.
He set his bag down quietly.
He went to the kitchen. Filling a glass with cold water, the coldest the tap would give, which was not very cold, but colder than the air. He put ice in it from the freezer, the last of it, the tray almost empty. He looked at the freezer and thought about what else was in there, what could help, what you would need when you woke up.
He came back to the living room doorway.
You hadn't moved. The ancient oscillating fan turned toward you and then away and then back, doing its inadequate best. The tower unit pushed air across your legs. A small tendril of hair was stuck to your cheek, held there by the sweat.
He crossed the room, crouching beside the sofa and he looked at you the way he looked at you when you didn't know he was looking. Like you hung the moon in the sky. Like you were the best thing to ever exist.
He reached out and moved the tendril of wet hair from your cheek. Gently.
You stirred.
Your arm came off your face. Your eyes opened, slowly, the way they did when sleep had been deep rather than light. You blinked and the first thing you saw was Simon Riley crouched beside your sofa in the fan-stirred heat of your living room, holding a glass of iced water and looking at you with that expression. The one he kept for you.
"Hi," you said. Your voice was thick with sleep.
"Hi, sunshine."
He held out the water. You sat up slowly, your body registering the heat again immediately, the brief mercy of sleep evaporating and took it. The glass was cold against your palms. You pressed it to your cheek before you drank it.
"How long have you been home?" you asked.
"Few minutes."
"It's horrible," you said, with great feeling. Not at him. At the general situation. At England and its thermal inadequacy and its forty degrees and its houses that were essentially slow cookers. "I sat in the car for forty-five minutes this afternoon."
"The air con," he said with quick understanding.
"Don't judge me."
"I'm not judging you. Could never judge you love," he said. He was doing the almost-smile. You were too warm and too newly awake to be properly affected by it, but the potential was noted.
"The shower doesn't even work anymore," you said. "I mean it works but by the time I'm dry I'm alreadyâŚâ you sigh, âit's pointless. It's completely pointless. The house is hotter than outside. I checked. I stood in the garden and then I came back inside and the garden was cooler. Our house is generating its own heat. We're basically a radiator."
"I'll look at getting a unit," he said. Meaning an air conditioning unit. Meaning he had already, somewhere in the last thirty seconds, decided this was a problem to be solved and had begun solving it.
"It'll be winter by the time it arrives," you said. Which was probably true. British logistics and British weather and the specific comedy of their intersection.
"Probably," he agreed eyes tracking you and your movements. Something youâd had to get used to when you moved in.
You drank the water. The ice clinked against the glass. Outside, through the open window, the light was going golden in the particular way of a summer evening that would have been beautiful if you had any capacity left for beautiful.
Simon was still crouched beside the sofa.
You were in a thin t-shirt and underwear and you had been asleep and you had sweat at your hairline and your cheek still held the cold print of the water glass and your hair was doing something you were fairly certain wasn't its best work.
He was looking at you like you were the best thing he'd seen all day.
Which, given that base had air conditioning and he'd been comfortable, probably said something.
"Simon," you raised a brow.
"Yeah." He replied tilting his head to the right slightly.
"It's too hot," you said.
"I know," he nodded.
"Whatever you're thinking," you spoke carefully, "it's too hot."
The almost-smile became the real one. The rare one. The one that you had spent years of your life engineering because it was so completely, unreasonably good.
"Cold shower," he then said.
You looked at him. "What?"
"Cold shower," he said again. He stood unfolding from the crouch with the ease of a man whose body did whatever he asked it to and he held out his hand. "Come on."
"I've had three," you sighed. "They don't work. By the time you dry offâ"
"You won't need to dry off."
You looked at his hand. You looked at his face. The real smile still there, and turning into a smirk. Certain and warm and very, very aware of exactly what it was doing to you even in forty degree heat.
"Simon Riley," you scoffed.
"Sunshine," his eyes tracked yours and damn it you gave in.
You took his hand.
He pulled you up from the sofa in the way he did everything; without effort, without ceremony, your weight nothing to him. As soon as you stood the heat hit you immediately, the brief mercy of the fans falling away as you moved out of their range.
âIâm sweaty,â you said. A statement of fact. A mild protest.
âI know,â he nodded.
âAnd disgusting.â
âYouâre not disgusting.â He frowned.
âSimon, Iâve been lying on that sofa since two oâclockââ
âSunshine.â He looked at you. That look. âCome on.â
He kept your hand and he moved and you followed, through the living room and into the hall where the air was slightly cooler, marginally, just enough to notice, and up the stairs where it was warmer again because heat rose and your house was committed to the bit.
The bathroom was stifling. The small window was open and doing nothing.
The mirror above the sink had a faint fog to it that wasnât steam, just the heat, the ambient, inescapable heat.
You caught your reflection briefly and confirmed that you looked exactly as youâd suspected: rumpled and hair doing several things at once.
Simon reached past you and turned the shower on. Cold. The pipes took a moment and then the water came through.
He looked at you.
âStill too hot?â he asked.
âStill too hot,â you confirmed.
He reached for the hem of your t-shirt and you let him pull it over your head. It pealed away from you like a second skin.
Simon repeated his actions with your underwear, getting down on his knees, still in his uniform, pulling the damp cotton down your legs and chucking them in the washing basket.
You squealed hands pushing against his buzzed head, since he was called to his last mission he had to cut it again, as he pushed his nose right against your crotch.
âSimon! Thatâs gross!â You whined. He slid his hands up your ass and squeezed to keep you in place as he breathed you in.
Something youâd learned about Simon, living with him for the past year, is that he is a dirty man. He loves your slick, and sweat and spit. Loves anything that comes from you. Loves your natural musk, as he so calls it.
But right now, youâd been sweating for the last six hours since your last shower at 2pm. You knew your musk was definitely stronger than usual.
Simon didnât reply to you, he simply moved forward and licked a strip up your slit and over your clit.
âSi get off! Thatâs dirty!â You pushed at his head, he moved away before looking up at you with a grin.
âTaste so fucking good Sunshine.â He squeezed your ass one last time then stood grabbing your jaw and placing a kiss across your lips, âGet in the shower love.â He ordered before unbuttoning his lieutenant jacket.
You moved on autopilot the way you always did with Simon and stepped into the walk in shower. The cold water hitting your overheated skin in the best way. You closed your eyes and let your head tilt forward against the cool tiled wall.
Simon had told you heâd had to get special guys in to make this walk in shower bigger than standard size so he could be in it comfortably with you.
The water against your back felt like heaven after being in the hot heat of hell all day.
You said a little prayer in your head that tomorrow would be cooler, unrealistically that it would rain or snow. That there would be a blizzard. As long as this humid heat went away.
Simonâs large hands slid around your body, over your waist and hips, down your thighs and back up to your arms until a shiver ran down your body.
âMy poor baby,â he cooed in your ear, âstuck in this heat all day. Shouldâve come to my office. Could have had lunch together in my air conditioned office-â
âFuck you.â You scoffed.
Simonâs fingers curled in your hair and pulled your head back against his chest, too tall for your head to touch his shoulder. âThen I wouldâve bent you over my desk and made you cum on my cock.â He sucked your earlobe into his mouth.
âSi!â You gasp, his fingers moving over your clit now in slow circles.
âWouldâve looked so pretty with your cheek pressed against my cold metal desk. Pretty slut for me. Fuck I love this pussy Sunshine.â He groaned into your ear, kissing up your neck. âWas kept from me too long.â
Your eyes fluttered close, the way his fingers moved around your clit and the cold water trickling down your body had you moaning. Your hand pressing flat against the tiles in front of you.
âPlease Si, want you.â You try to turn round but he keeps you in place hooking his arm around your waist.
âWant you to cum like this first Sunshine.â His chest rumbles as he speaks.
âFuck.â You gasp, your chest jutting out as your back arched, hips rolling and jerking.
âYeah thatâs it. Ride my fingers lovie.â He pressed firmer against your clit, from tight circles to rubbing side to side quicker just the way heâd watched you do to yourself last week when he came home from base to find you touching yourself. He acted accordingly by wrapping his hand round his cock and telling you to keep going until you both finished.
âPretty girl fucking herself on my hand.â He groaned, his cock pressing against your lower back. âLove you so damn much Sunshine, always look so pretty when you cum. Canât believe I was deprived of it for so long.â
âSimon!â Your hand grips onto his arm, the one between your legs. Your stomach tightens and then itâs gone. You donât even have time to mourn the loss because heâs turning you, picking you up and his cock slides home with one roll of his hips.
âOh Si! Fuck,â you moan head falling back onto the tiles, your eyes rolling back with it.
At this angle he is hitting that rough spot inside you straight away and he knows it. Simon is fucking you on his cock, moving you up and down like youâre nothing. Like you weigh nothing. Youâre a feather to him.
His so big, like a mammoth, he surrounds you. His scent is in your nose, his hands are on your body, his tongue is on your neck, cock is in your cunt and itâs all too much with the previous build up too.
You cum hard, white flashing in your eyes, the edges of your vision going blurry.
He fucks you through it, thrusting until heâs wrung out every last wave of pleasure, then and only then does he pull out turning you around pushing back in, fucking you from behind. Your tits pressed against the cold tiles. The cool water washing down your back and going right between where your bodies meet.
âFuck Sunshine not gonna last long.â Simon groaned bringing his fingers back to your clit and rubbing vigorously, âcum for me again, one more time lovie.â
âCanât! Oh fuck Simon I-â you moaned loudly, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls.
âYes you can. You can do it, fuck so tight around me,â he groaned his hips snapping faster, âyou can do it Sunshine, just one more for me.â His grip on your hips tightening as he sped up making you clench around him, your stomach tightening. âYes! Thatâs it Sunshine, go on love cum for me!â He moaned stilling as his orgasm hit, cum spilling inside you just as yours hit too.
Your mouth dropped open, pleasure washing over you. You panted, eyes closing while his fingers pulled the last few tremors from you.
âCooler now?â He laughed pulling out and placing a kiss to your hair.
content <đ .á 18+, f!reader, dumbification, brief oral mention (f. receiving), daddy kink, pet names, finger sucking.
youâre not thinking at allâ
you havenât been since andrew buried his face between your thighs and made you cum twice just because he missed you while he was âworking.â that was the beginning of the end. youâre barely coherent as he maneuvers you onto your tummy before pulling your hips back to meet his, propping you up on your knees so he can slip his thick cock inside easy. youâre too messy for there to be any true struggle, but the reminder of how well he completes you always snatches the air from your lungs before you can get yourself to breathe through it.
clawing at the bed, you prepare yourself for him to move. the first thrust has you burying your face in his crisp sheets and whimpering, especially when he leans over you with a hand on either side of your dizzy head. the sound of his heated skin meeting yours is lewd, it makes your ears burn. your toes are already curling as he groans over you, feeling your soft cunt trying to milk him dry without even meaning to. one hand comes to grab your jaw, holding your head up to keep you from suffocating yourself in your state. heâs always amazed by how much he can break you down. youâve always been a sensitive girl but when he has you like this, itâs a whole different level âŚ
you babble, each movement knocking a few dumb hiccupy sounds and syllables out of you, âandrew, andrewâ sâgoodâ feels sâgood, daddy.â
his heart stops. heâs too greedy to fully halt the rythym of his hips, but it comes to a slow grind that keeps you right where you need to be. blissed out and desperate. that word falling from your glossy lips was the last thing he expected. he didnât know you had it in you to be so perverted. it forces him wonder how long youâve wanted to claim him as your daddy. he nuzzles his face against the side of your own, feeling your supple skin and the shared heat between you two, âwhat did you just call me, baby? where did that come from, hm?â
you only whine in response, too gone to register what youâve started. you lift your hips up in an effort to get more from him, pressing your ass against his hips and attempting to fuck yourself back on him. a groan claws up his throat, raw and raspy. and suddenly heâs pounding you into the sheets, still keeping your pretty face in his grip. you huff out little breaths against his thumb only to have the digit stuffed in your mouth, effectively muffling your squeals and sweet moans.
âi know, i know. donât worry about it, shouldâve known you were too fucked up to speakâ let daddy do all the work, baby girl.â
"forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. it has been a week since my last confession."
a grunt sounds from the other side of the cage-like mesh that separates you from your church's priest. your thighs press together, and you chide yourself for the reaction it incites. you're disgusted with yourself at your sin, yet you cannot stop the thud beneath your ribcage that excites at the thrill.
"back so soon?" his words are merely teasing, condescending, unlikely for a priest, but simon tends to get off script. "what is it this time, kid? steal again?"
no. you shook your head despite the wall that separates you. the silence is deafening, save for the creak of the chair you're sat it, wood carved with delicate curves and ornate crosses.
"no, Father. forgive me for my lust and the actions I have committed."
"lust, you say?" he goes silent, save for the rustle of fabric on the other side. it makes you anxious, even more guilt-ridden than before. you swear you can feel his judgement through the wall that separates you. "go on."
a shaky sigh escapes you, your knuckles turning white with your clenched fists in your lap. "yes, Father, lust. I... viewed pornography."
red hot embarrassment coats your skin, much like the blood of those who died for your sin. you were a meek teenage girl, barely eighteen with insatiable urges and an inappropriate crush. you could only confess one of those sins, for the latter is the more shameful one of the two.
a sound of interest cuts the silence. "what was the pornography? a video? a photo?"
"videos, Father."
"multiple?"
"yes." you admit shamefully, biting your lip. you still remembered how your dainty fingers circled your clit, riddled with disgust as you got yourself off on the religious display of porn. a priest and his devotee.
a satisfied hum comes from the other side, and you want to die of mortification. "describe the video."
"wh...what?" you blanched.
he surged onwards without a hint of awkwardness or shame. you couldn't begin to imagine the expression on his rugged face. "describe it. how many people were there?" he queried.
"there...was two people, Father. a man and a woman."
"where were they?"
your face burned further. you almost didn't want to admit it, but silence was a greater sin than admittance and pleading for forgiveness. with a hushed mumble, you spoke into your chest. "a church."
"what was that?" he pushed. "speak up, kid. can't hear ya when yer mumblin'."
"a church." you hated how the words seemed to echo off the walls, lingering within the silence that consumed and gnawed at your conscience. like the whole world needed to hear your sin.
he hummed with interest. "is that so?"
"yes, Father."
silence stretched. it was unbearable, an uncomfortable itch settling beneath your skin that, along with your urges, you could scratch. he finally spoke, "who were they to the church?"
"I...I can't say."
"you are ashamed." it was more statement than question because it was obvious from the way you stuttered, to how your words shook, to how you refused to go onwards. "'ts okay. best thin' y'can do is ask for forgiveness. get it off yer chest."
"yes, Father." you said, but it was a mere whisper. you didn't want to confess, for it would unveil the true nature of your indulgencesânot just the fact you'd watched videos of people fucking but that they were of a priest and his devotee.
your fantasies were immoral and shameful, something to be deeply ashamed of, but your body couldn't help but react. it was wrong, you knew it, and indulged it anyways. rewarded your body with your fingers circling your swollen clit and plunged deep in your soaking pussy, replacing them in your mind with the thick, rough fingers of your priest. his hand strong, veined and capable of providing you with everything you craved and ached for.
but you couldn't admit it. couldn't admit your priest was the source of your sin, with his tall stature that towered over your meek in comparison frame. thick muscles that strained at the seams against his cassock and clerical collarâbecause there wasn't a size available to fit without constraint. you could only imagine how mouth watering his bare skin wasâcarved like marble to create a masterpiece. the epitome of sin. veins that flexed and rippled under his pale skin with his every word.
he cleared his throat, killing the silence. you had forgotten to continue, leaving you two in a deafening quiet until he reminded you. "talk to me, baby. who were they?"
your pussy fluttered at the pet name, forcing your thighs to clench together. the dampness in your panties was apparent, arousal sticking to the cotton and your skin. it shouldn't affect you this much, considering he called all the young kids at church some sweet endearmentâsweetheart, honey, baby. it was innocent, but to your debauched conscience, it was anything but.
"it was..." you begin, the words catching on your tongue. with a shaky sigh, you forced it out. "a priest and someone from the church."
he didn't say anything, letting the creak in the wood speak for them. the harsh rustle of fabric whenever either of you moved an inch. you could never come back here, you decided. overran by your debauched immorality, you'd have to find a new church, forget about the brutish priest with sharp features and alluring eyes.
"hm." was the only sound he made for a while, letting you soak in the filth of your indulgences, brew in the depravity you couldn't help but live and breath in.
after an agonizing handful of minutes that felt like years, he finally spoke. "you wish to seek forgiveness?" the words caused a flutter, static rushing your ears. it drowned out the sound of a zipper and the soft clank of metal.
you breathed out in soft relief, nodding with an unmatched amount of desperation. "yes, Father. please."
a sharp slap of wood hitting wood filled the air, coming from beneath the lip of the confession booth. you peeked your head underneath, heart thudding so hard, you feared your ribs would break and allow your heart escape.
there was a small, circular hole that opened up to the other side. on the other side, a familiar, veiny hand strained around a thick, aching cock dripping with pre. it throbbed an angry red, and it twitched with every squeeze of his hand. you froze in shock, but couldn't help the way your mouth watered.
"get on your knees and pray for forgiveness then, baby."
đ an: it was inspired by that very video we all definitely saw .á
âjohnnnâ you chirped into the humid bedroom, your breath escaping in a drawn out, hushed moan. the apartment was still brand new, freshly moved into and largely unfurnished, naked windows completely devoid of drapes that might have shrouded away the twinkling lights of the city outside. the bed, however, was perfect.
the cool caress of the silken sheets offered a comforting relief to your overstimulated skin, which had been bitten raw and covered in his reverent kisses, leaving a lingering trail of damp worships from beneath your jaw all the way down to where your thighs trembled, forced wide to accommodate the sheer width of his scarred hips.
tipping your head back against the plush drowning pillow, a crystal droplet of sweat carved a slow path down your throat. beneath the skin, your jugular throbbed with a heavy, racing pulse, and his eyes, narrowed with a predatory focus, their icy blue entirely swallowed by pupils blown so wide they ruthlessly swallowed the color until his gaze went pitch black, tracked its every beat.
he halted mid erratic thrust, rhythm fracturing as he took a deep, shuddering breath through flaring nostrils that made his sweat sheened chest heave. your hand reached out, trembling as your fingernails grazed downward from his navel, tracing the hair dusted expanse of his stomach that gathered into a couple of soft, thick rolls, firm muscles rippling under your fingertips.
johnâs tongue slipped out to swipe across his chapped lips, brushing the edge of his silver speckled mustache. he arched one bushy eyebrow in a silent, wordless question, meeting your glassy, dazed stare with his own hooded gaze, eyes darting from the breathtaking picture of how prettily you were spread out for him, glossy cunt pulsing to keep him hilt deep, to the plush jutted pout of your lips.
you knew exactly what he was waiting for, so you squirmed against rumpled bedding, hips rolling as you pushed them down, his gorged cock grinding deeper, throbbing in response to the movement. âpleasee, sirâ you purred, swollen lips parting around ragged breaths, your fingertips stopping just short of dipping toward his pelvic line.
retreating instead to slide up your garter stocking, where the loose strap, having snapped free from the belt, dangled uselessly, allowing the edge of the sheer nylon to roll temptingly down your supple thigh, his stocky chest rumbling with sympathetic hum.
â'course, luvâ john rasped, clearing his throat with a brief cough, followed by a low, rumble of a chuckle as he reached out, his corded forearm coming into view. skin bearing a deep sun bronze from a habit of rolling up his sleeves, obscuring a few silvered scars hidden beneath the wispy hairs layered there, their edges catching ocassional, bluish cool glare of the streetlights filtering through.
his calloused fingertips smoothed over yours before shifting to fix the broken strap, tugging it back into its proper place and tightening the clasp. he watched closely as your eyelashes swooped low, following his every movement, weakly flexing your thigh under his gaze. a warm, tingling sensation spread through your skin the moment he closed his bulky paw around your leg, giving it a patting squeeze.
a soft murmur escaping you, stretching out toward his arms like a docile kitten. tipping your head aside to watch him more clearly, you felt him reach up, a lone finger sweeping a light line right beneath your nose before he bent over to capture your mouth, as you breathed a small, breathless âthank you so much, sirâ right into his full lips.
his bristly beard chafed your tender skin, but you never once protested, instead, your hands reached out to cup his high cheekbones, inhaling deeply and forcing your jaw to yield, lips parting wide to taste warm spit and welcome the heavy invasion of his tongue. eyes fluttering closed and noses pressed together as your hips bucked up against his, demanding him to continue, coarse pubes grazing across twitching clit.
âmy pretty princess, ain't ya?â johnâs voice is a low, curious rasp, murmured against your jawline as he layered sucking kisses along your skin, his eyes locked onto yours. sweat beaded down his florid forehead, catching on sooty lashes as he watched you nod with a high, keening whine that pulled tightly at your lungs, breasts heaving when you stuttered a breathless reply.
his lips finally leaving your pulse point to to trace a wet, agonizingly slow circle around one hardened nipple. his pelvis rolled tentatively at first, then slammed forward with enough force to jolt you entirely into the sensation. dribbling cockhead finding it's place at the gummy lump of your cervix, drawing a delighted, shattered moan from your throat that made lips peel from his teeth in a crooked grin.
hands flailing to his cropped hair, fingernails scratching desperately into the damp scruff of his scalding nape, the torn opening of your lacy panties stretching even wider. it was a habit of his, taking a sick, possessive pride in destroying the same expensive things he bought for you, purring deep from within his gut as he drank in the sound of your desperate, sob like hiccups.
thinking about simon riley getting jealous of the things you put in your mouth...
Simon should really look away.Â
But he canât. Because the way your lips close around that grenade pin, teeth gripping the metal as you jerk your head back and pull it free? Well, it has him thinking dangerous things.
He canât tear his eyes away from you as you throw it right into the enemyâs pile of ammo and it explodes with a deafening boom. And when you turn to him, framed in fire, a triumphant smile on that pretty mouth?Â
Heâs done for.Â
Back on base, itâs pure coincidence that he walks past the gym and sees you inside, giving the punching bag hell. His boots falter as you whip around, focused and mean, and strike the bag with your glove hard. The impact rattles the chain and stirs hot, wicked embers deep in his gut.Â
Suddenly, you turn, eyes snapping to his through the window. But Simon canât bring himself to move. Slowly, you raise your hand and rip the velcro strap of your glove back with your teeth, pulling it tighter around your wrist.
He swallows hard, but walks on past.
The tension finally comes to a head late one night at the range. Youâre there with your newly issued Glock, putting a few rounds through it before the op the next day when he silently chooses the lane next to yours, despite all the rest being empty.Â
You donât say anything, but your eyes flick to his under his mask as you bring a bullet to your lips. You tuck the blunt end between your canines, cock the chamber back, and then proceed to drop the bullet into the gun.
Simon watches you, his gaze catching on the purse of your lips, your lashes brushing your cheeks as you grab another and place it into the slot with your mouth, the way your tongue darts out to lick your bottom lip to taste the gunpowderâ
Suddenly, heâs moving, shoving his way into your lane and plucking the bullet from your lips with two gloved fingers.Â
âWant somethinâ in your mouth so bad?â he grunts. âAll you haveâta do is ask.â
âGod, Ghost,â you groan, hands already fumbling with his belt. âFucking finallyââ
cw: f! reader, alludes to smut, kinda bossy rabbot (they just want to take care of you!!!), sugar baby reader? kinda?, reader doesnât know what a day off is to save herself, these two are gonna get more gray trying to take care of you i swear
a/n: babyâs first smau !!! just a little idea i had in mind and wanted to see how it would flow as a text chain !! i hope yâall enjoy it xoxo
one last fuck, to be more exact, between you and vacation!price before the world and callings from home forced you back into the unforgiving grips reality⌠work and grocery shopping and paying bills. all the things john swears he would very much pay someone else to do for you while heâs paused mid-thrust. belly rising and falling against your back as he huffs out the gruff promises. flexing himself inside you at the same time he grabs for handfuls of your sides. palms hungry.
a thick sound grunts out of you when john collapses on top of you, his cock slicks the remaning veined legnth inside you. you curse, eyes trying not to roll when the man readjusts, somehow sinking himself deeper, head nudging against a place that warms you well past the capabilities of the setting sun.
âoh, my g-god.â you gasp. and then gasp again, reaching but failing to grab onto something as his beard drags along the skin of your shoulder.
âi mean it, dove. give yâanything ya like. get ya set up real nice. a house. dog. whatever you want⌠jusâ come home with me.â johnâs vows come out low, just at the shell of your ear. in between each sentence, a long, dragged-out drive of his hips. always concluded with a smacking of his sack, heavy with need, and a squeezing of johnâs embrace around your shivering, sweaty figure. heâs holding you like youâre already his. as if youâve already agreed to leaving all you know by replacing it with him. john fucks you the same way, raw and sticky skin and to pattern of silent claims. âand just think⌠we can do this every night, ân then some. keep yânice ân full. drunk on me, yeah?â
with blurred vision, you mumble and nod. drunk on him. drunk on the way heâs fucking you from behind, smushing you under him. drunk on the very recent memory of how you sucked him until he painted your mouth, then the feeling of his fingers swiping against your swollen lips to rub in the thick seed. drunk on the pants at your ear and the cream you can feel forming a ring at the base of johnâs cock. drunk on the possibility of feeling like this again and again.
tears in your eyes, you clench at the building of hot pressure that has you barely able to breathe. johnâs really taking you now. less rambly and more focused, hips striking your ass, pumping inside you with deep desperation. heâs got you pinned and closer enough to wail at how his weight wonât let you do anything but take it.
âah⌠f-fuck. go-gonna come again⌠iâjohnâŚâ your croaks tug a smirk at the man's lips.
âs'alright. go âhead ân come if itâs a yes, dove.â
with a croak, you gush and cry around john, whoâs already wondering what color to paint the bedroom.
summary: you sleep with jack for the first time and discover what it means to be loved gently
cw: smut (mdni, 18+), gentle sex, oral (f rec), referenced p in v, reader uses sex as a coping mechanism and has low self-esteem, light intoxication
wc: 3k
a/n: listen, I do not think that rough sex is necessarily a bad thing, but it can be. I donât feel like expanding on thisÂ
now playing:Â Nothingâs Gonna Hurt You Baby â Cigarettes After Sex
Jack canât take his eyes off you. Not when you look the way you do right now: skin glowing, eyes sparkling, and a truly sincere smile on your face.Â
The wine bottle shared between the two of you stands at your feet as his hands snake around your waist, pulling you closer. He tastes the grapes on your tongue when his own slips between your parted lips, mapping out the inside of your mouth slowly. His palm wanders from your side to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him.Â
You only pull away when you start to get lightheadedâtoo little oxygen, too much love.Â
Love.Â
Neither one of you has said it yet. Itâs much too early for that four-letter word, but the idea of it hangs over you as he kisses your cheek instead of your mouth to let you catch your breath.Â
Jack tilts his head to meet your gaze and smiles softly. His eyes drift over your face like heâs memorizing every inch. Heâs close enough that he could count each individual lash if he wanted to.Â
When he lifts his hands to cup your face between his palms, you melt into his touch.Â
âYouâre so beautiful,â he whispers.Â
Your skin heats under his hands, blood rushing to your face. The timid smile on your face tugs at Jackâs heartstrings.
âSo beautiful,â he repeats tenderly.Â
He means it.Â
You misinterpret it.Â
When you stand on your tiptoes to kiss him again, thereâs more heat to itâthe kind that leads to places you havenât been to with him yet.Â
He keeps you steady, your face still held by him.Â
His lips fit against yours like two puzzle pieces.
The weight of him leads you towards the couch naturally. He doesnât guide or force but simply leans in until you sink onto the cushions, him braced above you.Â
Your hand drifts down from his chest to his stomach. Through his shirt, you still feel the way his muscles flex under your touch.Â
He breaks the kiss to look at you, an almost dopey curve to his mouth.Â
âYouâre ticklinâ me,â he mumbles.Â
âThatâs on purpose,â you reply.Â
He grins, then catches your hands in his own.Â
âIs that so?â he whispers. âAnything else you want to confess?â
You let a few seconds pass, just for dramatic effect, before you nod.Â
âYeah,â you mumble, âIâm also trying to take your shirt off right now.â
Jack chuckles softly.Â
âYou donât say,â he teases. âAny reason for that?â
You roll your eyes fondly.Â
âTake a guess.â
A gentle laugh spills from him, originating deep from his chest. You feel the vibration travel through him until it reaches your hand, too.Â
âI think I can help out with that.â
He grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it up, then over his head. Your eyes are glued to every inch of sun-kissed skin thatâs slowly exposed. For a moment, you hesitate before you reach out to rest your hand on his chest, feeling the heat radiating from him.Â
When youâve had your fill of touching himâthough youâre not sure youâll ever get enough of himâyou take off your own shirt. You had planned in advance and worn a black lace bralette, but you hadnât told Jack, so you could trick him into thinking that youâre always this put together.Â
The matching panties waited for him under the skirt, which you were eager for him to pull off of you.Â
Jack canât look awayâand doesnât want to. Youâre surprised that for once, it doesnât feel like youâre being ogled.Â
No, Jack admires.Â
His fingers drift over your breasts up to your neck, then rest on your face.Â
âLike I said,â he whispers. âBeautiful.â
Instead of answering, you lean in to kiss him again. As your lips press against his, you reach for his belt buckle and open it. Jack hums into your mouth, a small roll of his hips encouraging you.Â
He helps you take off his jeans. Jack talked to you about not wearing his prosthetic at home around you a few days ago, but right now, he still has it on. He seems a little nervous as his pants fall away, and you get a full glance at it for the first time.
You donât mind at all.Â
The next barrier that falls is your skirt. Jack undoes the zipper at the side carefully, then slides the fabric down your legs. He makes a sound you canât quite categorize when he sees the thin lace panties you picked out for tonight.
âFuck,â he whispers, âHow are you this perfect?â
Again, you forgo an answer with another kiss.Â
Jack notices. He cups your face, then pulls away a little just to look at you. His brows knit together slightly.Â
âHey,â he mumbles.
You havenât been together that long yet, but he knows you well enough to see that you donât feel like talking about this right now.Â
Still, for a moment, he chews on his bottom lip in contemplation before he asks, âWouldnât you rather take this to the bedroom?â
You shrug softly.
âI donât mind the couch. Whatever you want.â
The divot between his brows deepens.Â
âBut Iâm asking you what you want,â he counters. âIf⌠if weâre doing this right now, I want you to be comfortable.â
âI am comfortable,â you reply.Â
He nods reluctantly.Â
âAlright,â he mumbles.
The next kiss feels a little differentânot in a bad way, just more careful. Jack waits, lets you chase him instead of taking the lead. So you do.Â
You reach behind you to unfasten the clasps of your bra. As the lace falls away, Jack watches with amazement. He almost manages to throw in another compliment for you, but you donât give him the chance.
You stand up from the couch and hook your fingers into your panties, then slowly slip them off.Â
Jackâs breath hitches. He leans into the back of the couch to watch as you step out of the fabric that fell to your ankles. This time, he truly stares.Â
When you step closer, he pulls you in by your hips until youâre seated on his lap. Your bare cunt brushes over the bulge in his boxers, causing both of you to moan.Â
You roll against him once, then twice, then kiss him again. The heat between the two of you is unbearable. You donât understand why he hasnât taken off his underpants yet and wonder if he maybe just needs a little bit more encouragement, so you grind down against him again.Â
Jack hisses at the contact, his fingers tightening on your sides.Â
âFuck, baby,â he mutters. âYouâre gonna give me a heart attack.â
âThen let me help you,â you chuckle and reach for the waistband of his boxers.
He lifts his hips to help you slip them offâand you swallow hard when you see what youâre working with. The grey happy trail youâve been eyeing since his shirt came off leads down to his thick cock. The size of the bulge makes more sense now. Heâs veiny and flushed a dark red, almost a little purple at the tip.Â
âJesus,â you whisper.
Jack chuckles, maybe even a little self-consciously so.Â
âYeah, itâs um⌠itâs been a while for me,â he admits.Â
Your mouth falls openâyou hadnât expected that. A man with his looks, a doctor at that, too?
âReally?â you ask. âI mean⌠thatâs okay. I donât mind. Just⌠tell me what you like.â
He shrugs softly.Â
âI like you.âÂ
His answer is so sappy that it makes you grin.Â
âShut up. No, really, tell me what you like.â
Jack looks at you and pulls you closer again.Â
âIâm serious,â he mumbles. âI just want you, however you want. Why? What kinda stuff do the kids like these days?â
Your face warms a little.
âI donât know,â you mumble. A total lie.Â
âWe can try some stuff, you know?â
âLike what?â he asks. âYou want me to tie you up?âÂ
He chuckles like the idea is absurd to him.Â
âWould you want to tie me up?â you counter.Â
Jackâs brows furrow again.Â
âI donât think thatâs my thing,â he says quietly.Â
You nod slowly.Â
âWhat aboutâŚâ
Saying it out loud feels, for lack of a better word, cringe, so you take his hand and place it on the base of your throat.Â
Jack doesnât pull away immediately, but his fingers donât wrap around your neck either. He looks up at you, his jaw set tightly.Â
Then he shakes his head and cups your face instead.Â
âI donât think so,â he says softly. âHow about⌠we just take things slow and figure it out as we go?â
When you nod, Jack kisses you, and it tastes like relief.Â
He surprises you when he switches positions with youâyouâd have thought he would want you to stay on top. Â
Jack braces his weight on his forearms as he hovers above you, his face just inches away from you. Then he lowers his head, but his lips donât meet yoursâthey trail down over your chest. His tongue swirls around your nipple, making you gasp as the sensation tingles through you.Â
He cups your other breast, squeezing and kneading the flesh gently, then places a kiss on the valley between your breasts before he descends further.Â
To your ribs⌠then your navel⌠then your hipbone.Â
Your breath stills completely when his fingers come to rest on your thighs. He doesnât push them open yet.
âMay I?â he asks.Â
âYeah,â you whisper.Â
He parts your legs gently, his eyes still focused on you until he lowers his head andâ
Your world tilts a little.Â
When his tongue drags through your drenched slit, and Jack moans out loud, you arch towards him. He holds your hips in place, fingers digging into the fleshânot hard enough to bruise, but enough to make you feel him.Â
âFuck,â he gasps, âYou taste so fucking good, baby.â
He flattens his tongue against your clit, licking upwards until you see stars.
âJack-â you moan, trying⌠you donât know what youâre trying to say. Your fingers find purchase in his hair, tugging slightly at the grey curls.Â
He sucks your clit into his mouth, causing you to cry out in pleasure.Â
He laps at your cunt like a starved dog, and you canât believe that âitâs been a whileâ for him, not when heâs eating you out like that.
âIâoh God,â you sigh dreamily.
Your legs quiver, your hips twitchâyour entire body is shaking with pleasure.Â
âThatâs it, baby,â Jack murmurs, his words muffled. âFuckâplease, just let me make you feel good.â
The sounds of your arousal mixing with his saliva are unholyâa wet overflow of moisture between your thighs. Jack seems to be right where he wants to be. He moans into your flesh, his hips bucking and pressing into the couch below like he is trying to alleviate the ache, the buildup of his own need.Â
When you come apart, he guides you through it, not stopping until your brain is overflowing with oxytocin and your thighs wonât stop shaking.Â
Both of you are panting when he comes up.Â
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles devilishly.Â
âGod⌠weâre so doing this again,â he declares softly.Â
Youâre at a loss for words. You havenât come like that ever. All you can do is nod and reach for him.Â
Jack plants his arms on either side of your head and kisses you deeply. You taste yourself on his tongue, the sweet, tangy flavor erupting in your mouth.Â
His leaking cock presses against your tummy as his lips graze yours.
You reach between you and stroke him, making him groan into your mouth.Â
âJesus,â he mutters when he pulls away to look at you. âYouââ
He thrusts into your hand instinctively, and you realize just how pent up he is.Â
âYour turn,â you whisper.Â
Jack tsks softly, half amused, half⌠something else.Â
He cups your face and kisses your jaw tenderly.Â
âBelieve me, that was my turn,â he says lowly. âBut if you want to keep going, Iâm sure as hell not saying no.â
--
The bliss afterwards is indescribable. But itâs also foreign.
You still sense every press of his hands on your body without feeling tender, every brush of his lips without a single mark on your skin, and every thrust of his hips without that residual feeling of having been used.Â
Jack was nothing but gentle.Â
And god, it was incredible.Â
The sheets underneath you are crumpled and slightly damp with sweat and sex, but you donât mind. Not when Jackâs arm is wrapped around you, your back pressing against his chest. He kisses the side of your neck where your pulse still flutters with excitement.Â
âYou were incredible,â he whispers.
It must be so obvious that his words fluster you because he smirks when you hide your face in the sheets.Â
âBarely even did anything,â you mumble.Â
Jack makes a sound you canât quite discern.Â
âRight,â he chuckles. âExcept that thing where you got really tight when you were about to come again orââ
You whip around and press your hand over his mouth, your eyes wide and embarrassed.
âJack,â you complain, half-serious, half-playful.Â
He kisses your palm and smiles.Â
âHey, Iâm just teasinâ,â he retorts. âBut I really meant it. It was really great for me.â
âYeah, for me, too,â you mumble.Â
Youâre not used to any kind of pillow talk, so the words feel thick, like they donât quite want to leave your mouth.Â
Jack doesnât seem to mind. He just pulls you closer against his chest and rests his chin on the top of your head.Â
As the minutes pass, he tells you to go pee and promises more cuddles later on.Â
In the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror. The haphazardly buttoned-up shirt youâre wearing belongs to Jack and falls to your mid-thigh. Your hair is a mess from how often he ran his hands through it. A few hickeys begin to gain color and paint your neck a soft purple.
You canât help but smile.Â
âHey, sweetheart?â Jack calls out. âYour phone keeps vibrating. I think someone really wants to talk to you!â
âYeah, just a sec,â you reply.Â
When you return to his bedroom, Jack is sitting up, his brows drawn together slightly. Your phone is in his hand, the screen facing up.Â
âSorry,â he says as he passes it to you. âI didnât mean to spy on you or anything, just wanted to bring it to you.â
You take your phone and glance at the messagesâand feel your face heat up.
âOh.â Your laugh comes out stiff as you quickly shut off your phone. âSorry, umâtheyâre joking, of course. Like, uhâŚâ
Jack looks at you quietly, watching as you fumble nervously with the edge of your phone case. There was a light flush to his cheeks now, too.Â
âNo, no, donât worry, I shouldnât have read it anyway, I just looked at it âcause it kept⌠vibrating,â he explains.Â
The awkward silence that follows feels detrimental.Â
You wonder if you should explain more, or if maybe stammering another apology would make it worse, but then Jack breaks the quiet first.Â
âNot to sound my age, but⌠I assume cracking means⌠uh⌠hooking up?â
You press your lips together uncomfortably.
âYeah,â you mumble. âLike, um⌠yes.â
He nods once. Then he tilts his head to catch your eyes.Â
âItâs not the⌠nicest word, is it?â he asks.Â
âItâs just, like, a TikTok thing,â you answer.Â
âHm,â is all he replies.Â
Then he takes your hand and guides you back onto the mattress. You meet his gaze hesitantly. The lines around his eyes are a little deeper, just like the furrow between his brows. He doesnât seem angry, just serious.
âI⌠I kind of would prefer it if you didnât think of what we just did as⌠âcrackingâ. Itâs not the word I would use,â he says slowly.
âItâs just a word,â you mutter.Â
âNot to me,â he argues softly. âItâs⌠words have meanings. And cracking sounds like⌠like Iâm doing something to you, not with you. I donât mean to be⌠all old man and, like, police your language. But⌠I donât want you to think of sex with me that way. Or⌠with anyone else for that matter, even though, ideally, I would like this to be a long-term thing.â
His hazel eyes donât leave your face for even a single moment, and itâs almost overwhelmingâif it werenât for the sincerity in them.Â
âIâm sorryâ" you begin, but Jack shushes you.
âNo, sweetheart, I donât- I donât want you to apologize. I just want you to be comfortable with me. I wanna make sure you⌠you feel respected by me,â he explains.Â
âI do,â you reply quickly. âReally. Like, no one else has ever⌠been this kind to me.â
Jackâs face falls.Â
âOh, no, I mean, like⌠youâre a gentleman,â you elaborate.
He shakes his head softly.Â
âNo, baby, Iâm⌠this is⌠this is the bare minimum. Christ.â
Jackâs hands find yours, and he leans in to kiss your forehead. Then he wraps his arms around you.Â
âAt the risk of sounding like your father, I think you kids need to put down your phones and go out in the real world.â
â¤ď¸ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog â¤ď¸ â find my masterlist here â
there is a very long, very nuanced conversation about the fine line between sexual liberation for women and brainrot porn (that honestly i doubt people on the internet could have in a mature way) and can i just say that i LOVE the approach you took with it????? i love soft, loving jack and how he doesn't judge reader but still draws his limits and they still find common ground and they both enjoy themselves thoroughly and i think it's so important for women (especially young women) to ask themselves if they enjoy the fast rough kinky sex because that's genuinely what they like or if it's because it's been imposed and indoctrinated that they need that to "be cool" or "be good in bed" or "be better" than the women who don't like it and urghhhhh please i could read a thousand more fics like this!!!!!!!!!!!!
Kurt Vonnegut wrote: âWhen I was 15, I spent a month working on an archeological dig. I was talking to one of the archeologists one day during our lunch break and he asked those kinds of âgetting to know youâ questions you ask young people: Do you play sports? Whatâs your favorite subject? And I told him, no I donât play any sports. I do theater, Iâm in choir, I play the violin and piano, I used to take art classes.
And he went WOW. Thatâs amazing! And I said, âOh no, but Iâm not any good at ANY of them.â
And he said something then that I will never forget and which absolutely blew my mind because no one had ever said anything like it to me before: âI donât think being good at things is the point of doing them. I think youâve got all these wonderful experiences with different skills, and that all teaches you things and makes you an interesting person, no matter how well you do them.â
And that honestly changed my life. Because I went from a failure, someone who hadnât been talented enough at anything to excel, to someone who did things because I enjoyed them. I had been raised in such an achievement-oriented environment, so inundated with the myth of Talent, that I thought it was only worth doing things if you could âWinâ at them.
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