John Price And His Divorced Vibes Ring True In My Heart And Notes App Once Again. Cw. Slight Suicide

pt. 2 to this blurb | filthy fingering, a little bit of spiteful smut, overstimulation

Your feet stumble behind Kyle’s, scuffing your combat boots on the white tiled floor in your messy trek. He’s got a tight grip on your wrist, pulling you along with a speed you can’t quite match.

“Kyle, what the fuck are you—“ You start, exasperated, but you come to a startled halt, crashing into his back as he fights with the door handle in front of him.

You’re shoved into the room as soon as he gets the door open, turning to look at him with a scowl, but you don’t get to express your dismay for long when he pushes you on his bed. The springs squeak under you, masked by the surprised gasp you make.

“Kyle. What the fuck.” You say through your teeth, glaring up at him from your seated position.

He’s quiet, lips pressed into a thin line, teeth clenched behind his cheeks, jaw tense. His eyes are just as rigid, hammering you to the thin military standard blanket, offering little room to test his patience. It’s the exact look he wears on the field, dark and dangerous, hooded and intended.

When he speaks it’s the same honey cadence as always, but it’s steady, low. Makes a string of goosebumps spread down your back. It juxtaposes your usual banter, meant to annoy each other, friendly fire, snake baby claws and teased nips under each other’s skin. Except now nothing about his demeanor is friendly.

“Gon’ make you cum jus’to prove a point now, okay?”

You cackle, loud and obnoxious, gripping your stomach in dramatics, “That’s what this is about? Did I hurt poor Kyle’s ego?”

“Are ya backin’ down from a challenge? Too scared to be wrong?” He smirks, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

You scoff, rolling your eyes, dismissing his words with a wave of your hand, “You couldn’t even get me wet.”

“Let’s see, then.”

Your mouth falls open, staring at him in utter shock. “Kyle, you can’t be serious.”

He just looks at you expectantly.

You pause, gulping the excess saliva building in your cheeks, wiping your clammy hands on your knees because he’s dead serious.

“God, what a typical man. You can’t live with the fact that every girl you’ve been with probably faked her orgasm?” You taunt, only egging him on more, but you’re hoping he’ll shove you right back out his bedroom door in retaliation, “Do you even know where the clit is?”

“Only one way to find out.” He replies, arching his brow.

You bite your tongue, let the silence consume the room, suffocate the both of you back to reality, but it does nothing to shift his mood. A man determined, decided the moment you let your smart mouth run too far out of your control.

So you give in, making quick work of your boots because you don’t want him to gain any more ego-driven pride. Your pants follow, dropped to the floor tentatively, squeezing your thighs together in a weak attempt to cling to the last thread of your dignity.

Your eyes follow him to his knees. You think he might pry your thighs open, check if there’s a wet patch on your panties, because you know there is, but he leans forward just enough to hover close to your mouth and dips two fingers into the seams.

“Want you to count ‘em,” He breathes against your lips.

“Lucky if you can even get one.” You say, trying your best to keep your voice stable, but it wavers, embarrassingly so.

He huffs a laugh, “D’ya ever shut up?”

“Try and make me.”

The look in his irises glimmers mischievously, but he doesn’t say anything else, just holds your gaze as he slips your underwear over your legs. You exhale a shaky breath when scorching palms part your knees, eyes steady on yours as he rubs his hands to the inside of your thighs.

His stare makes the air feel thick, a heavy weight smothering your chest, and fills your lungs shallowly. Makes the few seconds seem like an eternity too long.

When he does finally drop his gaze, his eyes pool dark, irises dilating at the sight of your bare cunt. You tilt your own head to the ceiling, squeezing your eyes shut because you can’t muster the strength to watch him examine your pussy. So, you fall back on your palms unexpectedly when he hoists one of your legs over his shoulder.

You know you’re pent up, don’t necessarily get much action in your line of work, but the noise of your arousal squelching loudly in the room when he slides two fingers between your folds stings embarrassment down your chest and behind your eyelids.

“Thought I couldn’t get ya wet, love?” He drawls.

God, you didn’t know you were that wet. Hadn’t even been touched yet, not even a kiss, and your traitorous pussy is leaking for any attention.

You do know that it only makes him entirely too smug. Even more so when one finger slides in with no resistance despite how thick it is, practically suctioning him in for more. But he works you up to it, takes his time dragging against your eager walls until your fingers fist the blanket under you.

You have to roll your tongue over your teeth to stop yourself from moaning when a second finger joins the first. They’re bigger, thicker, longer, fucking better than yours, scratch a delicious ache against your gummy pussy that makes your head slump forward, each thrust finding a spot your slender fingers can’t quite reach.

The pleasure goops over you, tacky and thick, melting the molten lava in your core into your bare flesh. It takes every inch of your control to remember that you’re supposed to fight your impending orgasm, pretend that you’re not clinging to desperate straws to deprive Kyle of your own pleasure.

It almost hurts. Your body wants it so badly, haven’t had something warm, something real stretching your walls in so long that it wages a war between your willpower and your animalistic innate desires. And Kyle knows that, of course he does because he’s Kyle fucking Garrick.

“Fight it all you want,” He says, curling his fingers against the exact spot that makes a pinched whine escape the tight confines of your lips for the first time the whole night, “Only denyin’ yourself of the inevitable.”

“Fuck. You.” You grit, “Not even— mmh! close.”

He laughs, “Didn’t your folks teach you ‘t’s bad to lie?”

You open your mouth to respond, snarl at him not to talk about your family when he’s got his fingers buried in your cunt, but he presses against that sweet gooey spot again and all you can manage is a pathetic mewl.

And then his deft fingers turn brutal, unrelenting, bullying that spot until you’re snapping your head forward, eyes flying to his.

He tilts his head, smug grin on his stupid lips, “What’s t’matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You want to yell at him to shut up, go to fucking hell, anything, but it takes all your energy to focus on not finishing, have to bite the inside of your cheek until you taste metallic blood. Even still your arms are slowly dipping lower onto the bed, brows pinched, face squished in agony because you’re too stubborn to give in that easily.

Your nails are probably ripping the seams of his blanket, but you’re holding on to them for dear life as if they’re the last thread connecting you to your diminishing self-control. Like tearing his mattress to shreds will stop your hips from bucking into his palm.

It doesn’t of course.

He hums, approvingly, satisfied like he already won long ago. He did, you’ll just fight tooth and nail, fangs and claws, to prolong his pleasure for as long as you can manage.

“Tha’s more like it.” He purrs, “Can’t hold it much longer, can you?”

“Shuddup,” You slur, grounding your hips stiffly so they stop betraying you.

Suddenly, his face is next to yours, leg unceremoniously falling to his hip, “Gonna cum f’me? Huh?”

You shake your head weakly, but tears are welling in your lashes at the sheer force you’re trying to drench the unyielding fire thrashing under your skin cold and dry.

“Hate you.” You croak, staring at him with dewy-eyes and heavy lids.

“Wouldn’t ‘ave my fingers in your pretty cunt if tha’ was true, would I?” He lilts, and a part of you knows it’s true, but it only makes you want to hate him even more. “We both know I won, love, jus’ let go.”

You bare your teeth at him in a growl; you know he’s just trying to convince you to finish, to succumb and let him win, but it works. It’s not like you had much control anyways.

Your body seizes, falling back on to the mattress as you arch your back, jaw going slack. A broken noise leaves your chest as you tremor with every pulse of the searing pleasure. It seeps throughout your body, blinding and uncontained, makes your legs shake as you struggle to breathe.

“There’s a girl,” Kyle praises when you mutter a weak ‘one.’

His fingers slow just a bit, allow you time to come down from your high. Your hips convulse involuntarily, swollen walls fluttering frantically around the girth. Your eyes are hazy, look at him a little dazed, like you hadn’t expected to finish that intensely.

You think it’s done, prepare to hear his boastful bragging you don’t really care about because you’re entirely too blissed out to care about anything, really. But the bastard seems to have other plans.

Three fingers swipe against your clit, and your muscles tense, stomach tighten at the sensation.

Your hand flies to his wrist, “Kyle, no, no I can’t.”

“I won,” He says plainly, pinning your hand down, “I’m taking my prize.”

And he doesn’t stop until there’s an obscene amount of your cum gathered in his palm, a sopping filthy mess. Sobbing into the sheets with pure overstimulation, malleable and pliant, crying his name orgasm after orgasm.

TAKE ME HOME, COUNTRY ROAD | MASTERLIST

PRICE x READER

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description.

Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au

[ao3]

tags: Alternate Universe - Western, Non-Consensual Spanking, Mail Order Brides, Past Violence, AFAB reader - Freeform, 1800s Timeline, Marriage of Convenience, Past attempted assault, Dubious Consent, Unnegotiated punishment, Minor Violence, Minor Character Death

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20

Extras

Series moodboard

An: yeah, I'm aware the 3-month rule is more American than English. Let me have my fantasies.

Simon's already decided to marry you. The one tradition he can't shake is that rule that digs under his skin - a ring worth 3 month's of his salary. A hefty order, really.

Then after a friend of yours is gushing over her guy's choice, a gaudy, over-sized piece. You look him straight in the eye when the two of you got home and say, "I don't understand why people do that. That is practically 3 months worth of rent."

His mind flashes back to his mum's ring - quaint little stone with a simple band. She loved that ring, always felt guilty he couldn't bury her with it.

When he finds himself in a foreign country, staring down at a jeweler who keeps shoving the more expensive ones in his face, he spots it.

The metal looks tarnished, like it was a trade-in. The stone is barely bigger than a grain of rice. Your face when you see it tells him all he needs to know - you love it.

He talked about getting it cleaned and you glared at him, saying it would destroy the character of it. He dragged his hand over his face to hide the grin that brought to his lips.

Of course you would love the character of it. His scars and fucked up nose are the two things you gush over constantly.

Simon, without ever really considering it, places a lot of weight on a name. It's why he likes the separation between Simon and Ghost, why he gets to a point where he calls Soap Johnny, even when no one else does. It's important, what you call someone. There's a lot in a name.

With you, you'd never even know about Ghost -- to you, he's just Simon, and that's all he ever wants to be. He doesn't want those worlds to mix. Simon will do just fine.

But, after you've been dating a while, when you've convinced him to relax enough to lay his head in your lap while you watch tv and you let out a soft little "there you go, baby"?

Well that's something else entirely.

Because he's never been a "baby." He's never been "honey" or "sweetie" or any of those other cutesy little names you come up with, but when you call him those things, it's nice. Sort of relaxing in a way he never knew it could be.

"Baby, can you change the lightbulb for me?" "What's for dinner, baby?" "Right there, baby, don't stop."

He notices, every single time. It makes him want to try it too, to see if it'll give you the same little easy thrill it gives him. But he's not sure what kind of pet name feels right. He turns over words and phrases in his head when he's trying to go to sleep or in the shower -- he'd absolutely never admit this to you -- and he practices, trying to figure out what feels natural, what feels like you.

In the end, all the practice is for naught, because the right one slips out without him even thinking about it.

It's after he comes home from a deployment, exhausted from both everything that happened and from trying to hide his desperation to see you. When he gets home, you take him in your arms, and all the tension, for the moment, anyway, just falls right out of him, and he holds onto you like a lifeline.

"Missed you so fucking much, sweetheart."

He can feel you smile, your face pressed against his chest, and while he is glad to see you seem to like it, he wasn't prepared for how much he'd like it himself.

Because what you call someone matters. He'd spent the first half of his life as Simon, the second as Ghost, and now, as a complete surprise to him, he's getting a third chapter where he gets to be "baby," where he gets to be close enough to you to share these special little names. He gets to know your sweet heart, and it's more than he deserves.

But he'll never, ever stop trying to earn it.

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!

obsessed with the idea of onlyfans model! reader x Simon

Maybe you’re one of the biggest creators on the platform and you’re very well known after doing it for a few years. Except, you only do solo content, despite your peers constantly asking to collab or getting requests from fans to see you getting fucked.

Then, one day you post a video showing off some new panties and Simon’s tattooed and scarred hand just appears, squeezing the meat of your ass, claiming and possessive. A subtle message he’s sending to your audience as he spreads your cheeks apart, sliding your panties to the side and shows off your pretty pussy dripping with his cum.

I love how we all seem to agree that Soap is just insane for his lady (you, hello?). Constantly on his mind. On missions the boys are driven half mad by every mention of the “beautiful lass” he’s seeing right now. Oh and he’s even worse if he has a ring on your finger. “My wife” this and “the missus” that, showing the team the latest photos of you so much that any time he pulls out his phone they instinctively groan. Because nothing could possibly compare to the woman who lit up his whole life with just a smile.

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

Addition to this one because I’m so unwell for this woman, you have no idea

Amira of House Karim comes into your life with courting gifts from her brother and heavy eyes that feels, see right through you.

There is one short, almost non-existent, moment when she blinks, as if stunned, as if she was expecting anyone but you.

She had a long way, travelling from a country where sun in the sky is hot enough to bring people to their knees, where neighbouring kingdoms do their best to ravage her home, where people speak in language so old it’s sacred.

Amira of House Karim does not give you her name — she is tight-lipped and stern, soft accent of hers bellies the steel of her character.

Amira of House Karim doesn’t want to make friends, she is not here for pleasantries and tea parties, she does not enjoy the blatant flaunting of wealth from the high lords that smirk in her face and laugh behind her back.

Amira of House Karim is a woman in a place where women are so rarely considered, the steel of her character seen as a sin rather than an advantage.

High lords sneer that no one would take a woman like that as a wife.

You catch just a glimpse of her rage when she muses “I wouldn’t take any of you as a husband either”, her eyes cold and heavy, her back straight as an arrow.

Amira is the diamond of her house, amira is the best there is and the example of proper lady.

When she wants to be it, of course.

You hide your smile behind your sleeve, looking in away when one of the lords stutters in her presence.

Not noticing the way amira’s eyes linger on you.

Thoughtful, curious, contemplative.

Amira of House Karim does not understand how in a place like this exists someone like you. She doesn’t understand how you can live like that.

How you can live with that.

How you manage to keep getting back up even after these greedy lords, these fools, these men try to topple you any chance they get.

This is undignified behaviour, princess, you shall not allow anyone look down on you. You shall do better.

Amira says like it’s easy, like she knows your court better, like anyone can be the diamond.

You just hum, finishing up your embroidery and looking up at the face of hers. She is beautiful in a way that makes you tongue-tied and slow, in a way that tugs on something inside of you slowly unraveling, in a way that makes you want things you shouldn’t.

Because amira is not here to make friends, she doesn’t like you and she clearly doesn’t think much of you.

And still you follow her to the gardens, ignoring worried whispers of your ladies-in-waiting, ignoring your knight and closing the gates behind you.

They don’t understand what amira feels.

They don’t understand how much it hurts to be reminded time and time again that no matter how smart and royal you are, no matter how confident and educated, how beautiful and capable — first and foremost you are a jewel of the house.

Not the head of it.

Amira of house Karim doesn’t look at you when you sit down next to her, doesn’t speak to you, doesn’t respond to your questions.

Amira doesn’t want you here.

What can you do, princess? She saw the way you smile to these men, she saw the way you make peace and the way you compromise even if you are the one on whose feet they step on.

Don’t you have any dignity? Does your royal blood not heat at their casual cruelty?

Don’t you have any honour, princess?

You let her pour it all out, you silently listen, your eyes distant as you watch the water fountain.

This whole garden is a gift for you — the only daughter, the pearl of the family, the favourite child of the king.

But the king is just a man, even if that man is your father.

King believes garden is more suitable gift than the library or the stables, king believes you should be wed before you are out of your prime, king believes that he knows what’s better.

And he never asks.

Why would he, right? Kings rarely ask, that’s not their prerogative, that’s not how it works, you learned that a long time ago.

Amira of House Karim hates everything your homeland stands for.

Amira of House Karim hates this she doesn’t hate you.

You, with your rows of pearls and bright eyes and soft whispers of witty comebacks you are not allowed to say. Glimmers of a person behind the beautiful empty portrait. Cracks in the fine porcelain of a royal doll your father adores.

You, with your long skirts and braided hair and gardens filled to the brim with roses-roses-roses.

Red and white and yellow and gorgeous pinks and wonderful magentas. Every possible colour, every single variety. Each one with thorns sharper than the previous one.

Must be expensive to take care of this many flowers, amira says in passing and the smile on your face — delicate, sharp and fleeting — stops her in her tracks.

You have no idea, you say, suddenly throwing away all the titles and honorary suffixes, pearls around your throat a heavy collar.

Pearls around your throat a gorgeous reminder of your position.

Amira tilts her head to the side, one of her braids siding off her shoulder, her eyes — the velvet of the night sky, the dark soil in which your roses grow, the promise of privacy you are so not allowed nowadays.

But you have been utterly perfect all your life.

You deserve a little break, don’t you?

There is a small pause before you offer amira your hand and pull her out of the ballroom, your skirts heavy, her palm in yours a steady weight that grounds you.

Something shifts that day. Something small that gives way to unavoidable change.

Amira of House Karim watches you whenever you don’t look, her fingers careful as she rebraids your hair, her lips cool and soft when they press to the nape of your neck.

To your shoulder, to your vertebrae, to the vulnerable spot between your shoulder blades.

Amira of House Karim waves off your maids and helps you with your corset herself, her fingers lacing it up.

Her fingers lingering on your waist, heat spreading under your skin, your cheeks warming up when she smiles like she knows something you don’t.

Like she finally sees something she likes.

Amira of House Karim doesn’t like your court, your kingdom, your knight and your father.

Her fingers dip between your legs late at night, coaxing all these little sounds that she drinks in, holding each one between her teeth like a pearl she has a pleasure of swallowing.

Amira’s name is Farah and she didn’t come to make any friends, she says. Her fingers trace idle patterns on your soft belly, gliding up to press her while palm under your breast.

Holding your heart in hand.

“So we aren’t friends?”, there is a small crack in your voice, pearls on your throat a choking reminder of how much you do not amount to no matter how hard you try.

Farah lies in bed with you, her head on the same pillow, your heart in her palm when she kisses you for the first time. Properly. Like she means it.

“We aren’t friends, princess”, she breathes out softly and wraps her arms around your waist, smiling at the way your whole face lights up.

You are the prettiest pearl of the court, the sharpest thorn in the garden, the most sensitive princess Farah has ever encountered.

“Would you let me take you away?”, she murmurs one night, her fingers moving inside of you in a rhythm that melt your spine and clouds your head. “I could bring you home with me. Could show you the other life there is to live”, Farah breathes out quietly, her eyes the velvet that wraps around your body, her eyes the soil in which you bloom like never before.

There are no words coming out of your throat, no sentences left in the empty bright place of your head, your thighs falling open for her, your heart pulsing against her palm when she unravels you again.

Amira of house Karim didn’t come to make friends.

Good thing that she never considered you one.

Good thing Farah of House Karim wants you as a wife.

they will not leave me alone

more ancient gods

It's been two months since you appealed to the ancient gods in a last ditch attempt to save your village. Two months where soft rains fall every few days, healing the dried, cracked earth. Two months since most of those gone for battle return, scarred but no longer scared. Two months where game have slowly returned to the lands around the village, and barren plants have begun blooming again. Two months where the only death comes at the end of a long life.

You try to find a new rhythm to your days. Three months ago, you were another member of your people, albeit one with more knowledge of the old ways than was considered necessary. Now, though, the village elders have spoken in hushed terms of elevating you to the position of prophetess or seer, believing you have some direct connection to the four gods who saved them. You do not share their faith, but you still bear the initial marks of all four gods on your body.

You still do not know what it means.

In the meantime, the shrines you asked for have been completed, and you've become their de facto caretaker. You keep the altars clean and say prayers to each god in turn. After the way they've blessed the village, you think it might be good to consult the ancient tomes again; perhaps there are other gods whose aid the village could use If only there was a place to pray to them. If nothing else, you could learn how to better show devotion to the four gods who feel so real to you now, though you struggle to explain why.

A fortnight after the first rains fell, a young mother asked if she could make an offering to Gaz for the health of her new baby. Two days later an old man found you and, hesitantly, asked how he could ask the god of death to guide his wife in the afterlife. Two of the men you'd played with as a child bring seeds as an offering to Tav the night before they're set to till and sow the field. The former leader of your people's warriors brings his best weapon to lay on Jon's altar in thanks for bringing him safely home.

At night your dreams are more vivid. You find yourself in fighting leathers, sword in hand, as Jon teaches you swordplay. The god of death reminds you you gave your life to him, and he does not plan to cut you down so young, urging you to learn Jon's lessons. Tav joins you in Gaz's unwalled tent, dishes spread feet from the fertile fields where now both men use your body for their pleasure.

More than whispers of conversation carry from your dreams. Jon telling you the shrines and worship make their presence in your village, and in your life, stronger. Gaz hinting that dreams will no longer be the only place you see them. The god of death talking about the power of names before giving you the one your people had lost to time: Si. Tav commenting on how you'll glow when he can truly show you how powerful your fertility is.

Everything points to a reality you cannot comprehend. Until one day, half a year after that first night, your village is visited by four large men, strangers to all but you.

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