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As Your Skin Gives

ghoap x fem!reader | pet!au | masterlist

Chapter Seven: eyes

tw: non-con

That night, Johnny does not let you go.

He keeps you like a long broken promise, arms squeezing around you tight enough to punish himself on your sharp edges, until his blood has coated you in an apology. It’s suffocating breathing the same air as him. Shared breaths. A union that’s almost worse than the joining of flesh. 

The heat makes it difficult to sleep. Between the summer breeze and Johnny’s warmth radiating off of him, you’re covered in perspiration when dawn breaks over the duvet in soft streams. Simon’s alarm rouses him not too long after, prompting him to roll over to look at you with a glare. His nose flares. Deep sniffs to the crown of your head before he grunts, fingers pushing Johnny’s arms off of you before he tugs on your collar. 

“Time for a bath, Bonnie. C’mon. You smell like a fuckin’ dog.” 

It’s the same thing all over again. Doted on hand and feet by a man who’s very existence attempts to convince you that you don’t deserve such grace. Fingernails scraping the grime and dried cum from your skin, angry lines searing into your muscles from his pressure—his fingers grace over your throat, and when it does you fear he might like how tender the flesh is there. That he might want to squeeze and see how far it compresses until the cartilage pops like fireworks in summertime. 

Your days continue to pass like this. Pathetic whining from Johnny as he begs Simon to have his way with you. Fingers down your throat to ensure you’ve taken your medicine like a good pup. Body crushed by sadistic love—nothing but a catalyst for debauched fantasies in rotten brains. Your bravery comes slow and careful as you find your voice again, though your words often fall flat. Too gauche to save yourself. Forever looking out the window, yearning for something softer—

—for fresh air. 

Sweat clings around your throat like a noose. It nestles underneath your collar, sticky and thick, where the leather adheres to your skin like it’s becoming a part of you. You’re morphing. Becoming the dog Simon so desperately pretends you are. A finger slides between your skin and your damnation, collecting moisture and grime, forcing you to grimace. It’s fine. You wipe your hand on the grass underneath you, and you remind yourself a little bit of sweat is worth it. 

You’re outside. 

Rays of sun kiss your skin between dancing leaves in the humid summer air as the grass acts as a bed below you. You could cry. You feel it build up in the back of your throat and the corners of your eyes—an odd relief. You never thought you’d be outside again, forever locked in that house with that crazy man and his disobedient mutt. A sweet summer breeze teases your hair and cools your skin as you lean against the trunk of a tree. Nature’s call whispers just beyond the edge of the forest where a cool stream babbles as it smooths stones and sediment along its bed. 

This is the most free you’ve felt since you were brought to this wretched place, though it doesn’t come without its drawbacks. There’s a ten foot radius in which you’re allowed to travel, as Simon has taken care to tie you tightly to the tree via your collar, ensuring your bright ideas can’t get the better of you. 

Johnny had begged and pleaded fruitlessly for days on end to let you outside with him, and then even more to let you join him in the forest—where he’s surely stalking around now—but Simon refuses to have any of it. You’re left alone with the brute as he tends to a modest garden with flowering tomatoes and cucumbers while Johnny allows himself to be swallowed up by the thick foliage and bramble of the woods. 

Still, while Simon works, you are allowed peace. Birds sing and call to one another in the branches above you as you pull budding clovers from the base of the tree. Pale green roots peel easily beneath your fingernails, and you shove them into your mouth. Its flavor is bland—watery and earthen. It’s the closest thing to freedom you’ve tasted for weeks. You savor it. Roll it around on your tongue before swallowing it down. 

“Bonnie!” 

Johnny calls your name from the environs of the forest, returning from his adventure with a wild array of flowers in hand. Metal clinks as the tag of his collar jingles in tune with his jogging, and he approaches you with a grin. Knees sink into the grass next to you as he holds the flowers for you to take—you’ve gotten better at not flinching when he moves around you. 

“Look! Pretty, aren’t they?” he asks. 

There’s no rhyme nor reason to the mess of flowers in his fist. Bruised daisies with spindly stems mixed with bright yellow buttercups and blood red poppies. They’re tied together with the thin, malleable stem of some greenery you don’t recognize. There’s a surprising weight to them as you take it into your own hand, thumbing over the cool stems. 

“They’re beautiful,” you agree, voice stiff. 

“Just like you. So pretty and soft.” He looks at you, and you can see the earth’s reflection in his eyes as it curves around the shape of your body. Large hands reach for you, warm palms cupping your cheeks as you freeze, tree bark digging into your spine as you stiffen. “I can’t get enough of you.” 

That brief taste of freedom quickly sours in your mouth as Johnny’s lips crash against yours, and you are reminded that not even in the glory of the outdoors are you safe. He is surprisingly soft with you, a gentle and adoring embrace, but there is a heat behind his skin that bubbles and roars. You feel it fight against him, skin searing and blistering. He’d eat you alive and leave your bones to bleach in the sun if he wanted. 

Johnny doesn’t stop at just a kiss. He never does. He’s always hungry. Always yearning. Greedy hands paw at your chest, pinning you against the unforgiving trunk of the tree while your heels dig into the soft earth beneath you. It gives you no purchase as your elbows buckle underneath his weight while you attempt to urge him off. 

In your head, you scream as clear as day, but your mouth makes no sound. 

“Johnny!” 

Simon’s call is the only voice of reason he listens to. The man tears himself from your lips as he looks over his shoulder, chest heaving. Thin strings of saliva keep the two of you connected, but they break with a gentle gust of wind, leaving the moisture to fall on your chest instead. A basket of vegetables sits in the brute’s gloved hands, and you want to laugh at how terribly domestic he looks with dirt stained pants and a sweat slicked brow. 

For a moment, he almost looks human. 

“Bring ‘er inside,” Simon orders. 

Muscles tense in your body as Johnny undoes the tether keeping you bound to the tree. Wilting fibers of pretty flower stems stain your hand, grip having destroyed their beauty in your poor attempt at denying Johnny his only right on this property. You leave them on the ground beneath the tree as Johnny beckons you inside with him. Truly, they are beautiful. Vibrant colors, soft petals—but you will not damn such an innocent thing to the same life as you. Better to rot in the shade of a tree. 

By some miracle, you are left alone after you’re locked back inside. You’re perched by the window in the living room, gazing at the dying bouquet of flowers as a curious bird pecks at the decaying flesh of its pollen. You envy it. Not the bird, but the floral mess it tears to shreds. You shouldn’t. You are already in the flower’s shoes. One in the same. Dainty things too soft to fight against the fingers that plucked you up from home. You wonder if, at the end of all of this, you’ll be laid to rest beneath a tree that will sing whispering lullabies to your corpse. 

Sharp, grating metal clinks and clatters in the kitchen capturing your attention and ripping you from your daydreams with clawed fingers. A fetid odor wafts around the house, assaulting your nose with a sharp sting that not even the breeze blowing through the window can quell. Curiosity gets the better of you as you slip free from your perch and you quietly wander through the living room. After spending more time than you would like to be trapped in this house, you have every squeaky floorboard memorized; you approach in silence. 

Gingerly, you peer around the corner of the entrance to find Simon sitting faced away from you at the table. Hulking shoulders stretch apart a stained white shirt as he scrubs away at something with a blackened toothbrush. Metal parts of varying sizes lay in neat lines in front of him, coupled with the wood stock of—

—a gun. 

Beautiful and well loved, the dark stain of the wood stock glistens in the light seeping through the windows as Simon scrubs at the inner mechanisms with a solvent. It’s gutted. Completely useless. Yet, your blood turns to ice in your veins at the very idea of the weapon. Every organ halts its functions, and you’re left in breathless terror. This shouldn’t surprise you. He drugged you, kidnapped you, and now keeps you like a pet—why wouldn’t this monster have a gun? And still, it’s a violent reminder. 

A gun isn’t as fun as his bare hands. 

Simon huffs as he places the part down in favor of a new one, coating the toothbrush with more solvent before continuing to scrub. Your brain finally begins to wake up as it sounds alarms deep within your psyche, urging you to flee, but as your eyes scan the surface of the table, you quickly realize there is no running away. There is no hiding place where his eyes cannot reach you. 

Phone propped up against a tool kit, Simon has a perfect view of everything in the house. The living room where you spent the last hour daydreaming, the empty bedroom, both entrances to the house—everything. There is not an inch of this prison that is not able to be broadcasted to his phone. Even now, the way your body curls around the doorway is within his view, proving your guilty nosiness. 

“Huntin’ season soon, Bonnie,” he says, hands still working. He does not look back. He doesn’t need to. You’re already in his line of sight. 

There’s a faint, gruff chuckle that leaves his lips when you silently back away, slinking into your burrow like the scared little rabbit that you are. You want to retreat back to the window, to watch the world pass you by, but it’s too close. It’s too close to Simon, and there are eyes in these walls. 

So you wander with your gaze trained above you, seeking out the glimpse of a camera lens as you try to calm your breath. You’ve been here for weeks and had never noticed such an intrusion, always too busy keeping your head low lest you gather unwanted attention. What has he seen you do? What has he watched happen to you? Has he seen it all? Every little thing Johnny’s done? How his favorite pet takes and takes and takes? Does he enjoy it when you’re undone? When you’re so used up you can’t even move? 

This is why he looks at you the way he does—asks you questions he already knows the answers to. You feel your fists clench, nails biting into your palms as your fingers quake. What a foul, nasty, terrifying creature. A beast with too many eyes for his own good. If you could, you’d pluck them out of his very skull one by one and eat them.

“Bonnie?”

Johnny’s voice stops you in the middle of the hallway. You’re not even sure why you’re here. Perhaps you were wanting to hide in the bedroom—cover yourself up in blankets as if you’re a child attempting to will away the scary man preparing for his hunt. But there’s something new; an unfamiliar door open, one you have never been quite brave enough to venture through. 

Treading carefully, you approach the door to find a strange room. Somehow, it’s quieter here than it is in the rest of the house, yet chaotically strewn about. Bookshelves hold art supplies on old boards, paint stains the floor in various spots, and a large cork board displays inky artwork. It’s overflowing. Pins diving into the walls, hanging up depictions of trees and unfamiliar rooms. In the midst of it all is Johnny, who sits at a large cartography desk marred with small scratches and spilled ink. He’s already looking up at the doorway before you enter, a smirk pulling at his lips. 

“I knew it was you. Your feet are lighter than Simon’s are,” he gloats. 

Blinking, you can’t help but tilt your head at his tone. He seems different somehow. Relaxed. A pencil lazily sits in his hand, tip resting against paper, graphite smearing along his pinky. You venture a step into the room, and he doesn’t seem to object. In fact, he welcomes it as he gestures to the corner of the room on your right. 

“You’re welcome to have a seat,” he offers. 

An oversized reclining chair sits nestled against the wall with fluffy cushions. Its seat is sunken in—well loved and used—yet looks all the more comfortable for it. Confused, you narrow your eyes at Johnny as you take another cautious step toward him. 

“Are you drawing?” You don’t know why you ask. It’s obvious what he’s doing, and speaking to the man who uses your body against your will on a regular basis is the most degrading thing you think you’ve ever done, yet your tongue moves anyway. 

“A bit,” he concedes. “The stream looked nice today. I wanted to draw it before I forgot what it looked like. I like saving memories.”

He turns the paper in your direction, and you can make out the image of it clear as day. Pristine water cascades over smooth stones in a tiny waterfall in the stream, swirling with faint bubbles and lost leaves. You can see every ripple of water; the tufts of grass that kiss the bed, and the flowers that sway in their midst. It’s alarmingly beautiful and expertly captured coming from a man who has only ever brought you pain. 

“It’s lovely,” you breathe. A proud smirk pulls at his lips as he brings the paper back into his view, and you swallow. “Do you… have trouble remembering things, Johnny?”

He shrugs. “I used to, but not much anymore. I’m all healed up now.” He states this flippantly as if it’s not a concerning thing to admit, all while tapping the side of his head. 

For the first time since you had the misfortune of meeting him, you look at Johnny. Really look at him. You see past the collar and the dumb glaze of his eyes and you catch on to the scars that litter his body. The tattoo on his arm—some sort of coat of arms you don’t recognize—the graphite staining his fingers, the puffy scar that dissects his hair near his temple. There’s a stark difference between the ruggedness he holds and the one Simon displays—Johnny is softer, somehow. Better loved and cared for. 

Someone else is in control of your body; someone stupid. Your fingers float through the air as you reach for him, skin brushing against the overgrown mohawk of his hair and then tracing the scar. It’s blunt. Round. Somewhat hidden behind the thick, dark hair on his head, but you feel the way it tugs and protrudes out of his skin. He sizes you up as you press against him, blinks, then leans into your touch. 

“Were… were you hurt?” you ask through the tightening of your throat. 

When he nods in confirmation, your touch slips from his head, but Johnny catches you. He’s gentle. Loving. He holds you, tracing the back of your hand with the tips of his fingers as he looks up at you through heavy lids. 

“What happened?” You need to stop. You need to shut up but the questions won’t stop pouring out of your mouth. No, you need to know more about them. Gather as much information as you can so when you finally get out of this hell hole, you’ll know exactly who to point at. 

Johnny moves your hand to his lips, pressing a fat kiss against your knuckles before rubbing it in with his thumb. “I had a bad day. That’s all, Bonnie.” Once again, his lips are on your hand, tender and soft, before he relinquishes it. The eraser of his pencil taps lightly against the wooden desk as his head quirks to the side, eyes clearing. “Go sit down, Bonnie.” 

Against your better judgement, you do. Something thick hangs in the air. A gnarly trepidation that you can’t shake, yet you sink into the recliner so easily that you nearly forget the discomfort. It’s easy to ignore the feeling of dread clawing at your chest when you’re busy searching the walls for eyes—

—and you find it. A small, impossibly tiny hole drilled near the far corner of the room. With that angle, it’s able to view nearly the entire room, save for the space just under it where a bookshelf resides. A faint glint from the overhead light illuminates the lens as if it’s winking at you, taunting and toying with you like the pet you are. Its reminder rings clear in your head, and you take care to engrave it in your mind as you glance back at Johnny. 

You’ve got to tread more carefully than this, Bonnie.

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it’s hard for simon to focus on anything other than the way water glides down the expanse of your softened hips, your curves swaying with each move you make.

the man is literally drooling when you bend over to place your bar of soap back where it belongs, breasts bouncing, glistening in the lights of the bathroom when you straighten. residual soap drifts down your arms, legs, the top of your chest, down the planes of your round tummy.

and it’s when you turn that simon realizes you’ll be the death of him.

he knew this from the beginning of course, honeyed eyes watching the curl of your lips when you first graced him with your smile, the sun peaking out from behind the darkest of clouds.

but it’s now, you standing here swollen with his child, that he feels those rain clouds disperse. the final puzzle piece sliding into place.

you turned, eyebrows raised in question as simon looks down at you, his eyes mimicking that of a man starved.

“si? is everything alright?”

he was sure he looked like an idiot, smirking down at you in such a boyish way while he placed his hands at the dip of your hips, one hand snaking down to squeeze the plump of your ass. he was met with a squeak and a playful smack to his arm as you leaned into him, breasts flattening against his chest.

he didn’t mean for his voice to sound so full of hunger, but it was hard when you looked up at him under those fluttering lashes of yours.

“s’nothin’, mama. just thinkin’ ‘bout what i want for dinner tonight.”

I’m finally brave enough to start reading Ghoap fanfics and I am actually scared

Gaz would definitely court you like old times. Pick you up at the front door dressed in a suit, pay for dinner and insist you have dessert, drive you home and hold your hand as he walks you to your house kind of guy. Buy you roses on his way back from deployment despite his exhaustion and make love to you slow after devouring your home made meal. Take you to the movies and tie a bow in your hair before you leave, letting you stain his lips red with your own. Sing to you as you both dance outside under the stars, cry with you when you find out you’re pregnant for the first time. Gaz is everything a man should be.

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

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

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

The first thing you register is the weight of him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t let you finish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll get used to it.”

You wondered then, if you ever really would.

———————

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

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

Or, well, trying to.

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

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

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

And it erupts here. Now.

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

After he follows you in.

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

“You got a fucking death wish?”

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

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

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

“I handled it.”

“You barely walked away.”

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

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

“That what you think I’m doing?”

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

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

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

Something in your chest tightens.

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

“Not like this.”

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

An emergence.

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

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

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

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

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

He says it like an indictment.

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

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

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

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

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

“You want me to stop?”

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

It’s an invitation. A quiet demand.

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

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

His eyes meet yours in the mirror.

“Tell me what’s making you reckless.”

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

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

But instead—

“It’s the head injury,” you lie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Price—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. All while wishing it was anyone else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitches. “Christ, Captain—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course.

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

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

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

“Ohmygod—fuck, John—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tasting you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do. And God. You wish you hadn’t.

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

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

You try. You really do. But fuck—

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

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

You’ll get used to it.

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

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

Then, he says your name.

Your name. Your real name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your body jerks. “Fuck—John—”

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

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

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

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

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

And then, there’s stillness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. Nod. “Yes sir.”

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

“Good.”

Jane Grealy 1. Puppy with Stick, 2021 2. Legs, 2021

hey me thoughts about simon hitting on a stranger somewhere and it works except whenever she comes back out all disheveled and sticky soap thinks it's the perfect time to shoot his shot too (nothing sloppy about those seconds, honey) and ghost has to be like wait that's actually my wife

Highlife

Price finds you high after a tough mission and makes it his own personal duty to make sure you’re okay

Cw: smut, this ended up being a lot softer than I planned, short mention of blood at the beginning, marijuana and nicotine use

-

The mission had been a shit show, really, it had been. Gaz had gotten shot and you’d had a panic attack the moment you all escaped into the helicopter. It had taken Price’s hands on your shoulders and his piercing eyes glued to yours, demanding you breathe with him to calm down. The image of his blood over your hands was why you’d opened up the box and rolled the blunt. He was fine now, simply patched up and staying in the med bay for the night.

You were a few heavy hits in when the knock at your door sounded. Cursing under your breath and snuffing out the blunt, you coughed harshly as you threw together the box and shoved it under your bed as quietly as you could.

Just as you thought whoever it was decided to leave, another knock came again, harsher this time. You had no choice but to open the door, your brain not fully comprehending the dangers of doing so. Drugs were prohibited on base and in the dorms. It was Gaz who had snuck you this bit late one night.

As you opened the door horror filled your entire body with a creeping anxiety as you came face to face with your captain. His eyes met yours, then went above and past you as he sniffed at the air. Coming back to look at you, he quirked a brow and pushed past you.

“Captain, I can explain-”

“Sergeant.” he cut you off, noticing the hastily pushed over covers to your bed.

Leaning down with a soft grunt that had your addled head keening at the noise, he pulled out the box.

“Captain please-”

“That’s enough now, love.”

It shuts you up for good that time, watching with a solidified dread as he sets the box down on your desk and opens it, snorting as the contents are revealed.

“You know I came to see how you were doing,” he smiles wryly, taking out the grinder and one of the papers, “Didn’t expect you to be one to use drugs to get rid of the day. You’re a little young for that.”

“I’m only a few years younger than you.” you retorted, taking a few steps closer. Bad idea.

Price used your proximity to look you up and down, eyes resting a little too long on your breasts, which were only clothed with a standard black tank top. You had thrown on loose sweats as well that hung a bit at your hips, stolen from Soap a few weeks before.

His hands were deft as they eventually rolled the blunt, his calluses helping him. It was a big one, larger than you’d ever roll for yourself.

“Captain what are you doing?” you finally found the courage to ask, heart stuttering as he dug around in his pants for a light. It forced the outline of his cock to grow more defined, drawing your attention before your right self had the sense to look away.

“Making sure you’re okay. If this is how you do it then I won’t let my presence stop you.” he said gruffly, the light flickering as he held it up to the unfiltered end and lit it.

Coming closer to you, he softly grabbed your chin between his forefinger and thumb and tilted your head up. Your eyes managed to focus on his, met with the deep blue that spoke volumes of experience and pain. But in that moment they were dark, filled with a focus and purpose you usually only saw out on the field. Now they were trained on you as he brought the blunt up to you lips.

You take it, letting him hold it as you breathe in deep. It burns and soothes at the same time, filling every crevice of your chest as you hold it in your lungs.

“Exhale, love.”

The smoke goes right into his face, which he inhaled deeply before taking a hit of his own. Inching his finger up, he gently rested the pad on your lower lip and tugged. You obliged easy, like butter to a knife, mouth falling open for him to exhale into. The closeness was deafening. Your eyes never left his as you took the smoke in, a hint of his own scent and flavor on it.

“That better?” he asked, finger coming to rest on your tongue and pressing down. You couldn’t even answer his question if you wanted to.

You instead nodded dumbly, tongue wrapping around his finger slightly as you did. He watched carefully, throat bobbing as he swallowed heavily.

“I don’t think you’re better yet, hun. Think you’ve been needing something else for a while now.” he nearly whispered, sinking his finger deeper into your mouth.

It wasn’t a lie. The way his hands gripped yours during training to adjust you always sent fire licking up your spine, the mere sound of your name on his lips sending you into a frenzy… you were nearly crazed for your own captain. You knew it was wrong, knew you shouldn’t. Yet as he looked into your eyes with his finger in your mouth, knuckles pinched by your canines, there was no discerning good ideas from bad one. Not as the marijuana flooded your senses and thoughts, finally slowing them.

“Answer me.” he said softly, forcing your head up more as he took another hit and breathed it into your face.

The sound that left your mouth was nothing short of a whimper, a plea for him to relieve you. It seemed to work; he slowly dragged his thumb from your mouth, licking the pad of it as you fought the urge to reach out.

“I am.”

“You’re what?” he pried, bringing the blunt to your lips and allowing you to take more. He always did that. Let you take as much as you pleased, even if you could tell he craved the power of taking it away.

“Needing.” you answered, practically heaving with the effort it took to keep yourself off of him.

He seemed a little surprised at that, surprised at your acquiescence to what he was asking without asking. Price leaned back, putting the blunt out on your ashtray where the other one from earlier rested.

“I don’t do casual, love.” he admitted, voice strained as he opened up to you. No longer the confident captain you knew, now brutally honest and bare before you. It was so shocking that you found no other response than the truth in return.

“I never said I needed casual.”

His hands and lips were on you in an instant, soft and yet urgent, needy yet managing to stay patient. He was warm against you, lips soft against your own as his hands gripped at your hips like a lifeline.

You moaned into the kiss, hands reaching up to caress his face and tangle in his beard. He groaned softly at the touch, his own hands moving up to your back and stroking soothing lines down your ribs.

He had you breathless in moments, tongue gently sweeping across your lips in a desperate request. You let him in, letting your tongue grace his own as the two of you engaged in a slow dance. He pushed and you pulled, sucking at him as his hips involuntarily bucked in response. It dragged a groan out of you, which only seemed to spur him on.

Hands wrapping around your lower thighs, he quickly pulled you up and against him. You wrapped your legs around his torso, pussy grinding against his abs as your arms found their place at his neck.

Price pushed you both against the door, hand bracing on the wood next to your head as he kissed from your jaw to your neck. He bit at your collarbone, drawing a whine out of you as his cock dragged at your ass from where it was stiff in his pants.

“Please,” you managed to whisper as your fingers tangled in his hair. He licked a long strip up your neck before responding, panting in your ear.

“I got you, love.”

Taking you swiftly from the door to the bed, he set you down with a care you didn’t expect from the gruff man you had grown to rely on and respect so much.

He only released you to pull his standard shirt off, revealing the beauty that was his chest. Thickly muscled with a small yet healthy layer of fat that accumulated a bit at his belly and absolutely covered in dark curls. His shoulders were broad yet tapered down to a lean waist where a particularly thick matting of hair trailed from his belly button down into his pants.

You were immediately stripping, tank top abandoned as he unzipped and pulled down his pants. He was stark and massive against his boxers, more thick than he was long.

Just as you reached for your own sweats his hands reached for your wrists, stopping you with a gentle strength.

“Let me.” he breathed, climbing onto the bed with you.

Price truly was a massive man, just as impressive and intimidating nearly naked as he was clothed. And yet he was careful as he slipped your sweats down your hips, revealing your lack of underwear and aching core. Finally pulling them all the way off, he laid a kiss to your upper ankle before setting your legs down on either side of you.

He was on you again instantly, body caging you in as your tongues and teeth clashed with a desperation that spoke volumes of the years that you both had worked together. Years you had been untouched by another because you couldn’t bring yourself to crave the feel of any other but him.

You moaned once again into him as his cock dragged against your clit, hands coming up to fist at his chest. Your hips moved up in response to the stimulation as you grinded up against him. That got a sharp gasp out of Price, startling him enough that he buried his face in your neck once more and drove his cock against you.

“Price please.” you begged once again as you dug your fingers into his nape, pushing his face down toward your tits.

His mouth found one of your nipples and sucked soft then hard, tongue swirling around it gently as his teeth nipped. You whined in response, arching into his attentions as his hand dragged down the length of your body, fingers dipping down into the sopping wetness of your cunt before coming back up to rub circles into your clit. Your body seemed to shatter and melt at once, every sense of the outside world fading to the feeling of his mouth and hand on you.

Price took a moment to pull back and observe you as he worked your clit, clinging to him so tight you feared your fingers might break his skin.

“You’re beautiful,” he cooed as he pressed down simultaneously, forcing a jagged moan out of you.

“That’s it.”

It was only when the first finger dipped inside you that you really began to lose your mind. The stretch was made comfortable from just how wet you were, which Price quickly noticed and decided was enough to push two more in.

The air punched out of you in an instant, a cry escaping your throat as your hips braced against his hand. It only made it worse. His palm against your clit, he rubbed you softly as his fingers began to curl. He chose that time to suck at your other tit, breath hot against your sticky skin.

It was too much too fast.

You came right then and there as he bit particularly roughly at your nipple, cunt squeezing the life out of his fingers as he focused on your clit with the heel of his palm. Panting and whining with each breath, you were already exhausted from what he has dragged from your body.

In the aftermath of your orgasm he looked in your eyes once again, a savage hunger there that would have scared you if you didn’t know better. His lips claimed your own as his fingers pulled gently from your cunt, aware that the sudden loss of fullness would have shocked you.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect.” he moaned against your lips, cock dragging against your already overstimulated cunt. His boxers must have been soaked at that point, ruined with the amount of slick that had pooled from you when you came.

“I need you,” you gasped, dragging him by his hair to pull back and look at you, “Need you inside me. Fuck me, John.”

His eyes went nearly black.

Shimmying out of his boxers, the pure girth of him had your mouth dry and open in shock. Neatly kept dark curls surrounded it, heavily balls hanging low. His tip was huge as well, the entirety of him causing it to droop slightly as he repositioned himself above you.

Noticing your slight anxiety at his size, he leaned down to kiss you once more, soft like the first time. It was passionate, his hand finding your cheek and cupping your face in his palm like it was all he needed. Like you were all he needed. It soothed you, body relaxing as he slowly dragged his cock through your slick. When he found your clit with it you whined, loud and impatient at him. He chuckled softly at that, eyes never leaving yours as he lined up with your cunt and pushed.

All you could do was gasp and moan as his tip sunk into you, stretching you so wide your vision blacked.

“Hey.”

His hand found your jaw, turning your head back to him from where it had been buried in the pillow.

“Breathe, love. Breathe.”

You followed him on instinct, big breaths filling your lungs as your cunt released him enough for him to keep pushing inside. It was too much and not enough, barely able to think around the way he split you open yet so desperate for his balls to sit against your ass that you forced yourself back onto him.

He groaned at the movement, eyes rolling as his head hung slightly, hips jerking a bit as he sunk in to the base. His hair tickled your clit, causing you to squirm under him.

“Oh God.” he muttered from where his head rested between your breasts, chest heaving as he tested you with a tentative thrust of his hips.

It had you seeing stars and moaning from low in your throat, enough to cause him to move. He was slow, hips rolling into you as he lowered himself onto his forearms, forehead resting against your own. It was so intimate that in that moment you knew he had been serious. This wasn’t casual. He was making love to you, worshipping your body in a way that only a man that was wholeheartedly devoted to you would.

“You feel so good.” you whispered to him as he continued to thrust into you, pulling your legs up over his hips.

“Heaven, love. Fuckin’ heaven between these legs.”

Eyes, blue, stark against the moonlight that managed to sneak through your window. Handsome, strong, loyal.

You ran your hands over every inch of him, feeling his biceps strain as they held him up, back taunt as his hips grinded into you and chased not his pleasure but yours. Each moan he drew from you only made him faster, more devoted to the gradual tightening of your cunt.

He increased in pace, grabbing one of your legs by the meat of your thigh and pushing it up and over his shoulder. The angle had you half screaming as he reached your cervix, his moans of pleasure half drowning out your own.

You were close, building up to your orgasm like a tsunami cresting the horizon. Each thrust drew you up tighter, coaxing your body to work just how he liked and how you craved.

It hit you harder than the first time.

You only had time to wrap your arms around his neck and draw him close as you shattered once again, causing him to go hoarse as he fucked you through the orgasm. Price didn’t stop, didn’t let your pleasure end until every drop had been wrung from your body.

When he came, it was with a cataclysmic groan that resonated over every inch of your body. His hips stuttered a few more times before he drove himself so deep inside of you that breathing felt hard. You locked your legs tight around his hips as he emptied himself inside you, shuttering and gasping into your lips as you soothed him and held him close.

He stayed like that for a while after collapsing his weight partially on you, dick buried to your womb and nose cradled to your ear as you both came down from the dual highs you were experiencing.

After a bit he pulled out, leaving you empty and dripping with cum and slick as he found your bathroom and brought a rag back. He laid kisses to your knees as he cleaned you up, gentle and aware of the fact you were still sensitive to every touch from him.

It was only when he got some water in you that he crawled back into the bed and pull you up onto his chest. He ran his hands through your hair and kissed your brow, the silence enough for the both of you. You were eventually brave enough to speak.

“Not casual, right?” you asked, not prepared for the waver in your voice.

“No love. You’re mine now.”

-

Note: Now edited! Thank you for reading and to those who ignored the typos! Might write a part two if I’m feeling it.



When you blow johnny and just keep gagging and choking he'll most likely laugh at you. But because you don't just let things slide–that man needs to be put in his place anyway–you pull out one of your dildos, and tell him to suck it. He laughs incredulously at first, though not totally opposedto the idea. But once he saw the expression on your face he knows you're serious. And he was never one to turn down a challenge.

Safe to say he's gagging like a bitch. Can barely take half the thing without tears stinging at his eyes. And if you're mean you tell him, "well, that's pathetic, baby." In a mocking tone. (lt makes his cock twitch dw) and if you're even meaner you decide to 'help out'. Forcing the toy down his throat with your hand. Do it over and over. Like he does when fucking your throat without consideration. He's a mess by the end, sweaty, eyes red with tears flowing from them, drooled all over the toy, down on himself like some mutt. But some time during it he came without even being touched.

He doesn't make fun of you again.

Blah blah blah Gaz eats pussy unlike any other man you’ve ever been with. It’s not to get it over with, not to make you orgasm, not to taste you, or even to say he does it.

Gaz gets off on it.

He comes back from deployment and eats your home cooked meal, lets you settle him into the bath and wash the small amount of hair he has. But the second he’s out his one track mind takes over.

Pushing you down on the bed and lapping at you through your panties, depraved and sniffing at you like an animal. He’s got class, we all know this, but when eating you out his control slips.

Rutting against the bed as gets absolutely lost in you, panting and groaning like it’s him receiving the mind-numbing pleasure. He takes his time too. Sometimes he goes for hours, unable to satiate his need for you.

Happy Valentine’s Day you freaks!