#they probably divorced before that happened
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Something I’ve been pondering about Stolas and Octavia, especially since the mid season 2 trailer. So we as the audience know how unhappy Stolas is in his marriage. We saw his reaction to the engagement and Stella’s picture, how disengaged she was when Via was a child, the way she talks about him, and evidence that Stella has been physically and emotionally abusive.
We’re omniscient, we even know well before Western Energy that she’s hired Striker as a hit man. So we’re aware of how awful this relationship has been for Stolas.
Octavia isn’t. Stolas has been protecting her from Stella’s behavior her whole life. He’s done his best to give her the happy childhood he never got. Just contrasting the parent child interactions:
From the looks of it, Stolas has been taking abuse from his father and wife for decades, all while never letting his daughter know. Which is not at all unusual, for an abused spouse to hide it from their children. He’s kept Via out of the line of fire and has masked it so well she doesn’t even realize her parents have problems until the “Not Divorced” incident.
So from Via’s point of view, her dad has suddenly cheated on her mom who is screaming at him because she’s mad. Her dad is now acting bizarrely sexual and not giving her the attention she’s probably used to. We know that Stolas is experiencing a sexual awakening. He’s exploring parts of himself that many people would have as teens and young adults, not their mid thirties. That whole delayed puberty kicking in.
And we know from Stella gossiping with her friends that she and Stolas aren’t intimate. From the sounds of it, the two of them haven’t done the deed since Octavia’s egg was laid. So the girl is used to her parents being cordial in front of her, with no physical affection between them. That’s her normal.
Stolas suddenly hanging all over Blitzø, the dirty talk, him yelling back at Stella. From Via’s perspective her dad became a cheating sex fiend out of nowhere. Stella’s outbursts are probably common enough that the way she’s reacting doesn’t move the needle for Via. Unfortunately we haven’t seen Stella and Octavia interact yet. But Stella is enough of a narcissist that I’m sure she’s portraying herself in the best possible light in this situation, blaming Stolas for everything.
Meanwhile, Stolas can’t even manage to tell Via that her parent’s marriage is arranged, loveless, and abusive.
He tries but can’t verbalize what’s going on. Not that this excuses his behavior. The Loo Loo Land trip was such a disaster because Stolas wasn’t paying attention to Via. But Via is mostly in the dark about her parent’s dynamic. To her, her dad is the one suddenly acting weird and ruining the family. Stolas has insulated her so much from the worst parts of his life that she has no reference point for his unhappiness.
She’s genuinely confused about why Stolas hates Stella. And from the sound of things, Stolas continues to not talk to Via about it. He was hurt enough to be hospitalized for an extended period. But in the trailer we hear Octavia saying “You never loved mother and you don’t love me, you love him.” Which indicates that she’s still being kept in the dark. And she doesn’t know her dad was hospitalized because of the injuries her mom’s hitman inflicted. Stella is actively trying to kill Stolas and their daughter thinks Stolas is at fault.
Octavia is a sheltered teenager who isn’t being informed about what’s going on with the adults in her life. And Stolas in particular is keeping her out of the loop. He doesn’t realize that she’s growing up, becoming independent, and needs to know about what’s happening. Until she finds out the truth of her parent’s marriage she’s going to keep blaming Stolas. Maybe the trailer is faking us out but I get the feeling that the rift growing between Via and her dad is going to break wide open before they reconcile. I really hope Stolas will be able to tell her that yes, he never loved her mother, but he’s always loved his little starfire.
#helluva boss#blitzo x stolas#helluva stolas#helluva octavia#full moon#helluva blitzo#helluva stolitz#helluva theory
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Someone probably had made something similar to this before but here we go:
John Price and Simon Riley’s ‘odd’ friendship
John Price knows with the job he has and how it takes most of his time, that he can’t handle a committed relationship with a civilian. He saw how it was for his parents (his dad was also in the military) and how his mum struggled from being a single parent most of the time because his dad wasn’t around much in his childhood so he doesn’t want to be with someone just to put them in his mum’s position.
The thought of having someone is great, most of the men his age in his unit are married or at least in a long term relationship with civilians, some of them even have children.
Some who aren’t in a relationship usually would hang out together after their shift, going to the pub to drink or watch football games. But most of them are in their twenties, and the ones who are his age are divorced. John doesn’t feel like he fits with the younglings, so he usually hangs with people his age listening to their ramblings about their kids or ex wives, or some women they’ve been seeing after their divorce. Not always fun.
That’s why he’s stuck to Simon, the only man around his age who doesn’t seem to ever have any relationship either. The two are close and would go to the pub together after their shift. He enjoys drinking with Simon because he doesn’t talk much, even though they would get stares from the other patrons at the pub for Simon’s habit of wearing his balaclava mask everywhere, it doesn’t bother John.
Simon actually prefers staying in his quarters after his shift, he’s an introvert after all. He doesn’t really like going out to the pub with the other lads because they can get very loud, asking questions, trying to make him talk more, trying to make him break his character, trying to make him open up, it’s annoying. But not with John.
John isn’t an introvert, he’s a very social person. He has always been friendly with everyone around the base, kind of the opposite from Simon. He’s only a few years older than Simon, he was there when Simon first got into the regiment, and he was there when the incident that made him the way he is now happened. The two never had any conversations about emotions or feelings, or those mental issues stuff, but for some reason, they kind of just understand each other. Maybe because no matter how tough and stoic John might look, he’s actually pretty empathetic. And they just bonded, they have high trust for one another.
So, that’s why, even though Simon prefers staying in after his shift, he almost never says no when John invites him for a drink or just to hang out at the pub. John knows that they don’t have to converse, never forcing Simon to talk. He’d start small conversations though, asking how his day went, how stuff has been, but he never forced the conversation to keep going if it stops. John doesn’t find the silence to be awkward, and Simon appreciates that he let it be just like that.
Other people might find them odd, though. They’d sit together and drink, not talking to each other most of the time. Maybe because they’re both big men, one wears a scary mask and the other looks like he’s been through a nonexistent divorce. Even their friends at base find the pair odd. But, that’s just their friendship.
#john price#simon riley#captain price#simon ghost riley#call of duty#modern warfare#call of duty modern warfare#ghost cod
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Peppino and his weird ex husband
(It’s Mr mix from the creepypasta)
#Mr mix#peppino#peppino spaghetti#pizza tower#I just find the idea of Peppino having an attempted child abductor as an ex husband funny#they probably divorced before that happened#like Peppino just randomly finds out after watching the news#this is so dumb#saltsart
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awful. beyond redemption. i will stare at it for days
#literally…… cannot explain how obsessed with just these frames alone#but then there’s the added context??????#that this is actually charlie getting into something pim likes just for him#and being like super forward about it not acting like he doesn’t care about it or he just happened to start liking it or anything…..#he wants pim to know he loves him so much…………… and even despite his like#lifelong support of mr frog he was still sitting there rooting for who PIM wanted to win#and then he …… he … kiss…… i cant say it…. he did that to him#even though pim is yknow. The one who does that#and people have been talking about how oh wouldnt it be fun if one rpisode#pim did the super fast kissing thing to charlie. we really got something even better#because charlie WOULD NEVER DO THAT to ANYBODU ELSE and it was just a vague and simple moment of joy#they stopped and stayed still for one second and it was only that short instant it took for charlie to go#Hmm i am going to kiss pim really quickly. just while i can. Like man…….#i cant even……… charlie in love with pim who’s surprised#of course though. expectations low. the rest of the season will probably not be like this and they might even be throwing us for a loop#but still . enjoying lovey dovey newlyweds charpim before divorce charpim rolls around Maybe. Perhaps …. i hope 😁#hhfhgfhfbfdbdbdh#💝
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the absolute slay of the catwoman-esque suit fit while setting the hose on fire in the vault. the sapphic behavior. the ambiguous apology. setting the hose on fire in the vault. the dislodging of at least one of those metal disks in his back when he hits that glass (rip). that's it that's the entire post
#film: pathaan#pathaan#shah rukh khan#srk#deepika padukone#bollywood#local gay watches Pathaan (and loses their sh*t while doing so).txt#local gay watches Bollywood.txt#i think Shah Rukh has a thing for falling for people that will f*ck up his entire life. yes that's Meera yes that's Rubi yes that's Meghna#it's also Rohit and Naina and Kaurwaki#if i missed anyone let me know but. ykw it's a trend i think we can see that#i love the DCIB discussion on this scene that happened right after the film opened in theaters#bc there is a general consensus there that they probably f*cked in the hotel room in Moscow the night before#and that is why SRK looks like he's been stabbed in every part of his body multiple times with a very long knife#Rubi my beloved you did this!!! you did this to him!!! as a result we have received two messy divorces in a little over an hour!!!#he has perfected the look of betrayal to a T and i eat it up every time#from here on out tho i have no idea what happens except for Jim's end#spoilers disappear i'm going in blind now. pray for me
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still it was sooooooo funny and uncomfortable at the psych appointment because she saw ? somewhere in papers/files that my mom and dad divorced in.... 2015 i think and shes all like "so.... usually divorce causes problems in children... how was that for you was it hard on you...?" acting all nervous/gentle like lmaooooo thats not even the worst part i dont think i cared about the divorce In Comparison to Everything Else. hed been abusive to my mom and generally neglectful not great to us (me and sibling) and theyd been separated for 6 years before the divorce because he kept going to jail for drug related things which he would often steal money from us for it and generally made my moms life hell by like manipulating and emotionally abusing her and hed have violent tantrums where he broke things (there are still holes in the walls and other damage in the house from him) and also sorta ruined our lives a bit and then in 2019 he was accused of some crime and he ran away to escape getting arrested or whatever and i think legally he is classified as a missing person and we dont even know if hes alive or not.
so like the divorce was whatever to me i guess.
#i think abt this sometimes and its just weird to me#like not the psych appointment that was just like 4 days ago. like the dad situation#its uncomfortable to think he might be dead and its also uncomfortable to think about what the hell hes doing if hes Out There#before id actually searched him up on the internet a few times within the past few years wondering if something was found out and i wasnt#told or something. seeing if maybe there was a police report or something or even an obituary or something. but there wasnt#this got more serious than i meant it to be :/ but he was diagnoses with bipolar so the psych think i have that. not sure abt that#but like i kinda want to talk about this or like tell people i know about it mostly bc i just feel like idk i feel like this is something.#like. i think it says things about me i feel like maybe this information would give people a more complete view of me in a way#i guess lawl but also i know its uncomfortable probably and im scared of that. the widespread hate of 'trauma dumping' makes me#feel like i cant tell people things that might be uncomfortable#oh and i guess something else about this is while obviously this has psychological effects but the effects feel more. not mild#but. interwoven. they dont seem as apparent or like they dont stand out as much. like i get more upset about the topic of outdoor cats#than i get upset about this. like for me this was just something that happened i guess. mostly bc i know that basically everyone#has some kind of issues with their parents. or at least most people i know lawl. me befriending people like#OMG youre also fatherless !? so twinning right now#or like other things like crappy parents or divorce or this or that.#but i think thats most people but also maybe i just have a skewed perception lol
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i think one time i did see someone say mrs wimbleton could be doc in mcla and i think thats rlly funny
#like i assume hanks family would be permadead and since this is like. madcom if it took place on earth or at least that what i took from it#then revival might at that point in the series. not exist#hank does appear to die in mcla but the idea for mcla 2 was he would be brought back and i imagined it as that happening B4 he could die#he Was dying but then whoever snatches him up heals him or whatevr.#like here is where i show off my brainrot I IMAGINE IN MCLA THESE EVENTS HAPPEN IN A MUCH MORE REALISTIC SETTING#obviously theres still auditor n shit but like nevada is made to appear much more realistically than in the animations#and i imagined as events went on the more the world would fall apart before it actually becomes very similar to madcom nevada#and like by then coming back from the dead would probably be a possibility since improbability would be going a lil wild by then#so like technically there is a chance mrs wimbleton and wimbleton junior could be brought back but it feels like they Should be permadead#like maybe its been too long to get them back or the new lack-of-rules of the world dont apply to deaths before all that idk#OOPS RAMBLIN HOLD ON. ANYWAYS I DO THINK MRS WIMBLETON DOC WOULD BE FUNNY JUST BC THERE WOULD BE A SERIOUS CONTRAST THERE#but judging by certain characters we already had i guess it would fit in#but it also works with haha funny 2bhank divorce joke#ur wife comes back but shes upset about what youve become despite doing it all for her and then ur divorced#something abt coming back different but maybe ur both back wrong idk
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Okay I know that dragons may not have wedding rings but in canon they do have rings that they wear so if Morrowseer and Secretkeeper had wedding rings due to being married, according to the wiki, headcanon they were really nice too because of how much money Morrowseer spent (made on the continent by a jeweler instead of the blacksmith on the island, additional hc that they're really intricately engraved which would require a huge amount of skill and a lot of money paid for that). But just a year or so after the eruption of 5000 A.S., Morrowseer gave his wedding ring to Secretkeeper for safekeeping because it'd get too scratched up from the volcanic island and everybody knew that they were married anyway, but Secretkeeper refused to take hers off because back then she still loved Morrowseer and she probably thought that her wedding ring was another way to represent their marriage and she spent a lot of time trying to get all the ashes and soot off and it got pretty battered from the volcanic island but she still refuses to take it off and it's just another way to show that she does love Morrowseer, even if he's too busy and values his work over her.
#Secretkeeper wof#Morrowseer wof#rambling about a couple that sorta refuses to divorce but aren't exactly in love yeah it's those hours again#after the second eruption in 5012 A.S. when Morrowseer doesn't survive but Secretkeeper doesn't know what happens to him#she already fell out of love with him before that#but if she didn't lose her wedding ring beforehand then she probably buried it somewhere#because she couldn't bury her husband#lol insert bad joke about Mount Doom and casting the ring into the fire if NightWings do cremation uh... bad joke sorry#anyway this is a ramble#sorry for the bad joke again#wings of fire headcanon#character headcanons
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All he's trying to do is protect Yugi and their friends from these jackasses bc he knows they'll hurt them and Joey can't risk that. He has to protect the only people in the world that have ever seemed to believe in him and care about him, with the only other person so far having been Serenity.
But GOD does it still hurt to see.
#kenz musings#kenz reads ygo#yugioh#joey wheeler#jounouchi katsuya#tristan taylor#hiroto honda#yugi mutou#you could also say joeys mom as one of them...but he may not view it as that since she left and took serenity#and he hasnt heard from or seen her since the divorce#i get japanese divorce laws are a little bit different ive seen this happen before in a couple of shows#but still joey probably felt abandoned. happy his sister didnt have to suffer with their dad. but he was still left there#it had to have hurt#so in his eyes these really are the first people in his life besides his sister that truly care about and love him
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hhhrrgrgrgrgrrg
#thinking so hard about the original plan for sweet as pie#and bc this is Not how its gonna go im just gonna drop it here#they were supposed to break up around when number 2 comesout#bc her burnout comes to a head and on top of that they wanted different things#so they end it :((((((#and D continues therapy and eventually gets her diagnosis#and that happens when 3d comes out so shes like oh i have this disability#and then goes to see 3d bc she doesnt know what else to do#fastforward to 2022 and she reunites w him AGAIN#and shes in a better place and so is he#and THE FUNNY THING IS theyre both divorced KDJFFHHGSLKH#note i came up w this before all that happened#all the more reason to Not write it LMAO#anyways they catch up and talk and peej ditches his own bday party thing to go hook up w her GFLSHDGKSDJ#and they get back together and whatever yeah the end#BUT THATS NOT WHATS HAPPENING HAHAHAHAHA#bc essentially they broke up of her NDness and i didnt want that#so we're doing something else :D#also hi 2 readers who probably read this whole thing what do u think#the story that could have been!!! lmao!!!!#sweet as pie#edge speaks
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Heyyyyy 🩷🫶🏾
Ex-husband! Choso who refuses to get remarried because he’s still in love with you. Even though you filed for divorce due to his lack of time, He still comes by the house to take care of the kids and sometimes cooks dinner. You realize that he’s not going anywhere when after every visit he fucks you like the night of your wedding. (NSFw please)?
MY LOVE, MINE ALL MINE.
*ೃ༄ fem!reader, ex husband!choso, overstim, unprotected sex, whiney choso, breeding, praise, mdni. wc: 0.9k
ex-husband choso never stopped loving you, despite the two of you separating.
he couldn’t.
he’s always had a deep love for you, he couldn’t be bothered with trying to move on. he still happily wears his ring, there’s probably never a moment where he takes it off because he’s just that in love with you.
it happens every time. he ends up coming over, claiming he forgotten clothes, wants to visit the kids, anything else. yet once he has you alone with the kids being at your parents house, he shows how much he misses you.
he’s so gentle with his touch—sweet whimpers escape his lips as he creates kiss trails all over your body, savoring your sweet taste that he’s always missed.
“really missed my wife,” he’d mumble out, and his lips felt so soft, tender you started to pulse. it was incredibly embarrassing. yet you and choso both knew he knew every inch of your body. every inch that makes you whine out his name. “gorgeous body. ‘s perfect ‘n all for me.”
“c-choso,” you’d moan, bringing his head close up to your neck. he sucks on your tender collarbone, he’s buried balls deep with you being sprawled out on your back. he’s gripping your thigh, caressing it before he starts to moan against your ear.
you’re nearly losing your mind at how good your warmth swallows him, gripping tight around him, it makes him dizzy. “fuck..”
“hey hey,” he mumbles, hovering over your body, his warm breath wafts against your neck, he’s so addicted to sucking softly on your skin, nibbling it playfully to drag out and elicit the sweetest sounds from your mouth.
“don’t talk baby, jus’ want you to feel me. got me so obsessed,” he goes on to say, and he grabs onto your hand. his hands were bigger than yours, a smooth surface of his palms yet as his fingers interlock with yours, you felt the coldness of the metal. the wedding ring he still wore after all this time brush against his ring finger. “woman, y’don’t know how crazy you drive me..”
choso’s heart pounds the more he stares into your eyes. and he’s always gentle with his rhythm, but with its own sprinkle of roughness.
“can never stay a-away from you,” he moans, rutting himself against you. you’re just tightening and squeezing down on him that his jaw clenches. “baby, ‘m gonna get milked by you again. i-i feel it.”
“kiss me.” you spit out, just yearning for his touch, for more of his taste. at this point, you could care less that the two of you were split. your trembling legs locked around his slim waist as he’s pumping in and out of you.
your body cutely jerks and jolts against him, your frame he always found out to be so adorable in comparison to him.
he huffs out a breath before furrowing his eyebrows, growing more needy himself. “open your mouth then.”
you do—parting your lips, and choso leans in to kiss you, sloppily. you wrap your arms around him, his soft darkened hair tickles against your forehead, it wasn’t in its usual ponytails. he had it down because after all, he’s always had a thing for you pulling on it.
he moans in your mouth. still jackhammering his hips against yours at full throttle, your legs twitch and rub against his bare back. choso’s so high from your lips, running his tongue, tracing it against yours before you whimper once you feel him reach a hand down towards your pussy to give it a squeeze. he pulls away before whispering against your lips. “tell me you still love me, baby.”
“i-i still love you.” you whined, feeling your orgasm about to reach itself. it was approaching heavily, and your head went back against the pillow. choso’s eyes glimmer at your words, tracing a thumb against your lips before sneaking a kiss onto your mouth.
choso starts panting. “all i wanted to hear,” his muscles flex from his constant friction he creates with his sharp hips. you’re so full, his dick was purely appetizing, all you could even think of was your ex-husband spilling a thick load inside of you like he always does.
it always comes out a lot, thick stringy ropes of cum. his favorite thing to do would be to pull out and let the remains splatter all over your tummy.
“i wanna make you a mommy again so bad,” he stammers out. hiding his head inside of your neck, he’s nibbling near your collarbone once more. his right hand rests on your tummy as he’s still pumping in and out of you, his own strength making him whimper out. “miss seeing your pretty tummy so plump ‘n round. gorgeous body.”
“do it then,” you whined, brushing your heel against his back. his eyes light up, he prepared himself to say something but he just moans instead. choso’s voice, you could listen to it all day, whether he was whimpering or just conversing conversation. “gimme another baby, choso.”
“i’ll give you twins,” he whispers, his voice was undeniably shaky. peppering your nose with kisses. his hips rock back and forth in such a sensual way you find your nails dragging down his back. “but first,” he pauses, stopping mid thrust to bring out your hand, kissing it once. his voice was so gentle, he moans from how tight you squeeze around him.
choso slides off his ring—squeezing it on yours and it was a perfect fit, he leans in to kiss you before letting off a moan. “marry me, again?”
an. I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. requests open <3
#★vegasbaby.#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#choso kamo smut#choso x reader#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jjk fic#jjk smut#anime smut#female reader#anime x reader#smut#choso kamo x reader#jujustsu kaisen x reader
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You ever look at the rest of tumblr and go "they dont know about how tommyinnit (who at the time said he was straight) tricked his friend (who is a gay man) into marrying him and when his friend/husband found out (months later when he was joking about having a Vegas wedding with another friend and then Realised) he tried to get a divorce but tommy said no even though he has had a girlfriend the entire time and that then he wrote wattpad rpf fanfic about him and his friend/husband kissing (specifically with tongue) and his girlfriend dying and all the wrongs of the world being fixed. Now the divorce may be going to court and the friend/husband wants to try and stream the whole court case. Not only that but Tommy subsequently recorded an I'm just Ken parody about this marriage and most recently while Tommy was on a trip around America, back in England, his friend/husband started streaming more with Tommy's girlfriend (while in the midst of a 24/7 subathon stream he is currently over 45 days into) and bought her a new iphone so Tommy joked that he was being cucked. And now he's just come out as bicurious after his friend/husband tried to get him to say the f-slur on stream and his response was that he could only say a 1/5th of it before calling his husband a " 'ggott"." And this is all (probably) real. This is a real thing that happened.
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hi mommy i know ur in middle of getting divorced & u just gave me $50 last time i came home but can i have $100. can i have a plane ticket. can i. can i have. things sorry im annoying sorry i made ur life miserable sorry i never talk to u sorry im sorry
#i feel so bad for my parents they probably feel so bad rn. like they really picked a great time to get divorced when none of us would be#able to process it. through no fault of their own#imagine u finally got the balls to leave ur shithead husband after 15 years and then the night u planned to tell ur kids u instead have to#stay up all night on ft to make sure ur family is alive lmfaooo 😭😭#anyways i. its so fucking weird. i had started to think abt Family Things and traumas again like just the week before bc my sister suspecte#and i was all like ugh this sucks i was doing so well and now i have to be dragged back in the pits to work through this stuff agian#then the divorce actually happened but completely lost significance#and now im starting to be normal i guess idk and so it's all coming back. augh augh augh augh augh i need a fucking break i cant
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ex-husband!gojo, who wakes up every morning to his disappointment. it's been well over a couple months, yet he still extends his arm to feel for you.
ex-husband!gojo, who still has your contact saved as his main emergency contact. he uses this to his advantage— ringing your phone with the excuse of being "too drunk to drive." it works. he isn't exactly high off his brain, but he has alcohol in his system.
ex-husband!gojo, who happened to spot you with another man. who is he? is he your friend? your lover? perhaps you met after the divorce? whatever the status is, it doesn't help to soothe his jealousy. it's not like he can walk up to you — you might issue a restraining order against him.
ex-husband!gojo, who finds himself at your doorstep. it's late, storming, and you're probably asleep. he doesn't move. mind set in chaos as he ponders whether he should leave or ring the bell. he wants to see you, but the look of disgust he might receive is something he isn't ready to face.
ex-husband!gojo, who's shocked that you opened the door. he didn't ring the bell. were you already there? probably. his throat ran dry, unable to speak a word. you're leaning on the door's frame, arms crossed as you tilt your head. "you need something, gojo?" you asked, not willing to receive an answer.
"can i — can i come in?" he stutters, a little shocked at the use of his surname. the little sparkle of hope that you continue using his first name has been dusted.
ex-husband!gojo, who's fidgety in your home. your silence isn't helping him relax. hell, he hasn't known relaxation ever since the divorce. "help yourself to the kitchen. sleep wherever, i'm going back to bed," your voice held no volume of softness. it was as if you were but a stranger, yet he refuses to let you become one.
"then, may i sleep in your room? on the floor, of course," he's hesitant with his request, deciding it's best to justify himself, "i don't know my way around this house."
ex-husband!gojo, who's yet again stunned that you allowed him in your room — let alone your bed. now he's as still as a stick, unable to fall asleep due to his itching urge to pull you into him. you're most likely sound asleep, uncaring to the man you once called your husband.
ex-husband!gojo, who calls out to you, keeping his voice low as he speaks, "can we talk?"
you replied to him, voice still holding its tone of harshness, "what is there to talk about?"
"anything. how's life been for you?" he keeps his speech short, afraid of annoying you. it's a little late for that, however. you're already annoyed by the attempt of useless talks. "just get to the point, gojo."
and so he follows, sighing before he reveals his intentions, "i fucking missed you, that's all."
ex-husband!gojo, who's surprised when you sat up. although your room holds no light due to the black-out curtains, his eyes adjusted to its darkness, being able to see your every feature. your face, hands, neck, collarbone, chest — everything. he misses being able to run his hands through your body ever-so lovingly. when you lowered yourself right above his face, his eyes kept your gaze. your jaw's clenched. why does he look as if he lost everything? wasn't the divorce mutual?
ex-husband!gojo, who's rendered speechless when your voice cracked. he didn't expect it, nor did he expect you to say what you did. "i missed you, too." did you really miss him? he feels as though he's being lied to. raising a hand to cup your cheek, he shares his words, "really? then why not act on it if you're not lying?"
ex-husband!gojo, who happily accepts your kiss, moving his hand from your cheek to your nape. softly pushing you closer to himself — and to deepen the kiss. it's soft but rough. passionate but seeping with hatred. it's everything at once. you're pulling at his hair, purposefully tugging it as if you're using it to distract yourself from the escaping emotions. he's the same. using his other hand to travel along the junction of your neck and shoulder, squeezing it each time he feels to let the tears flow.
#+ rizsu: jujutsu kaisen.#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk angst#gojo satoru x reader#gojo x reader#gojo angst#gojo satoru headcanons#jjk headcanons
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the one where Y/n and Charles had different priorities
this is maybe a bit chaotic because I had one idea and unclear vision, but I like how it turned out eventually
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username1 How do you know? HOW DO YOU KNOW?!
username2 They have WHAT
username3 nah I don't believe in love anymore
username4 But they were together since even before Charles was in formula 1🥺
↳username2 Right? I thought they'll be together forever
username5 And there goes my hope for them to announce an engagement soon
↳username6 Sameeee except I thought someday they'll just have a secret wedding and not tell the media until weeks/months after
username5 Ngl that sounds like a them thing to do
username6 Well, not anymore
username7 My only question is why? 😭
↳username1 Literally because they seemed like a perfect couple. What could go wrong?
username8 Shit, that hurts more than my parents' divorce
username9 THEY BROKE UP AFTER 8 YEARS??
↳username10 what 😳
username9 They were together since 2016, I remember Charles saying this in some interview
username6 Yup that's right, he mentioned it many times, he was so in love with Y/n. I swear even recently he said after so many years he still falls in love more and more each day
username9 She was there for him when his dad passed, when Charles joined F1, when he signed up with Ferrari, when he won his first F1 race, I wonder what happened that made them break up so suddenly
username10 Oh so she was there for basically a huge part of his life
username5 I remember when Charles said "she's not a part of my life. She IS my life" about Y/n😭my standards for men have been high up in space ever since
username11 Wow just like Sainz broke up with his long term girlfriend last season. Let's just hope Leclerc won't pop up with a new girl weeks after that
↳username12 Charles and Y/n could be broken up for a long time now, we can only speculate when they broke up
username5 Imagine if Charles posted the Vegas vlog after their breakup 🥹 I'm not okay
username12 That was so unnecessary to say, I'm crying now
yourusername One for the money, two for the show, I never was ready so I watch you go
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username1 The caption guys...
↳username2 Does that mean what I think it means?
username3 What do you think it means?
username2 "I never was ready" he wanted to take things to the next level, but she didn't. "So I watch you go" means she had to let him go because they didn't want the same thing
username3 How could she not be ready after whole 8 years?
username2 Every person matures in their own time and that's okay, they'll both find someone else
username4 That's a Swiftie going through a breakup
username5 Noooo it's confirmed now 😭 as long as neither of them confirmed it I could stay delulu and think the rumours are just rumours
oldersister Thank you for babysitting Snow White 🐈⬛ (I wish there was a white cat emoji)
↳yourusername It was my pleasure! She's an angel (and a professional model)
oldersister Feel free to come over anytime you want, Snow White loves her aunt 🤍
youngersister HEY how dare you steal Y/n like that!! I wanted to take her out for milkshakes sometime
oldersister Chill, you can do that whenever you want I'm not stealing anyone
yourusername I'd love to go out for milkshakes!!
lilymhe No more Y/nLily in the paddock?
↳yourusername The paddock isn't the only place where we can hang out 😂
landonorris what are you up to on the 2nd pic? 🤨📸
↳username2 LANDO, DON'T
↳username4 LANDO IT'S TOO EARLY
↳username1 DONT RUIN OUR CHANCES TO HAVE Y/NCHARLES BACK
↳username1 Fuckboy Lando been doing too much fuckboying lately
username6 Didn't know she's a smoker
↳username7 Yeah, she was very secretive about it
username2 It's not like she was hiding it from y'all
username7 She was, probably because she would be canceled for being a wag who smokes cigarettes
username2 A grown woman can do what she wants
username6 It's better that they broke up, way healthier for Charles to not be around a smoker
username2 Wtf she was with him through bad and good times, supporting him no matter what, loving him, making beautiful memories together and you say it's good that they broke up because she smokes?
username4 May I add we never saw her smoking throughout the 8 years, she probably started after the breakup
username5 after the breakup or BECAUSE of the breakup?
charles_leclerc Leaving Bahrain with a good result despite some difficulties. Pretty good weekend if you ignore the braking problem, now onto Jeddah next 🏎
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username1 brAking problem or brEAking problem?
username2 How is that the start of the season and there's already something wrong with his car?
yourusername Congratulations on finishing P4🏁given the issues your car had, you did a spectacular job
↳charles_leclerc Thank you 😇 I tried my best, but felt like something is missing
yourusername I'm sorry :(
↳username3 WHAT IS Y/N DOING HERE? ARE THEY BACK TOGETHER?
username4 I wish I could believe they are, but I guess some people break up on good terms
username3 How could anyone end a 8yrs old relationship and be friends? 😭
↳username5 Jail for miss Y/n for leading fans on
username6 He looked so sad the whole time, during interviews and all that 😔
↳username7 Yeah he's either done with the car already or he misses Y/n that much
username8 DID Y'ALL SEE THAT ONE INTERVIEW WHERE HE GOT ASKED ABOUT Y/N NOT BEING IN BAHRAIN??
↳username6 WHAT INTERVIEW??
username8 A lady asked him why Y/n isn't here because she never missed the first race of the season before so it's surprising. He officially said that over the winter break they've decided to part ways due to focusing on different aspects of life🥲
username9 How do you figure something like this out after 8 fucking years? They wasted each other's time
username7 Calm down lol they grew and matured with each other, experienced how their love evolved throughout the years, no time you put into this is a wasted time
username10 I need to know what are the aspects of life they focus on and if they really are that different
↳username11 From what I figured from Y/n's post and Charles' interview - he wanted to get married, maybe even start a family and she wasn't ready
username10 Ahhh I remember how a few years ago Charles said he wants to have three kids. Such a shame Y/n doesn't want the same thing, but it's understandable they figured it now. They were kids themselves when they started dating lol
username11 Not really, they were both over 18 years old
username10 I know, but still that's a pretty young age and you might not know yet what do you really want in life
username12 Plus your brain develops until you're 25, they both turn 27 this year so it explains a lot
username13 I'm telling you, there would be no problems if Y/n was there, @/yourusername get your lazy ass on a plane to Jeddah
oldersister Amazing performance this weekend👏
youngersister Goodluck for Jeddah 🍀
username14 The way Y/n AND her sisters still interact with Charles on social media...
↳username15 Yeah like are they actually broken up??
3 weeks later
yourusername You'd be surprised if I told you why kangaroos are called kangaroos
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username1 What is miss doing in Australia during the race week?
oldersister I told you this story is fake 🙄
↳yourusername But it's funny so I'm gonna believe it
oldersister Kangaroo DOESN'T mean "I don't know" jesus christ
username2 I thought it does 😭
username3 Too much Tiktok I guess lmao
youngersister Glad I could have milkshakes with you in Australia 😌
↳yourusername Back at you although that was a strange excuse to go to Australia in the first place
youngersister It's just not the same in Europe
arthur_leclerc Y/n in her natural habitat🦘
↳yourusername I swear I was a kangaroo in a past life
↳username4 What is going on? Y/n and Charles broke up but they keep interacting with each other and each other's families
username5 I NEED to know which city it is
username6 Is that true all announcements on public transport are made with Oscar Piastri's voice??
↳yourusername Yup, I wonder how much convincing it took to get Oscar to do the voiceover
landonorris not a lot to be honest
username5 AHA so she is in Melbourne! Also, what are you doing here Lando?
landonorris do you wanna hear another aussie fun fact?
↳yourusername I'm scared but yes (as long as it's not about thongs)
landonorris do you know what an australian kiss is?
yourusername @/oscarpiastri please put Lando back in his cage
username7 HELP I'M GASPING FOR AIR, LANDO ALWAYS TAKES THE CHANCE TO SHOOT HIS SHOT
username8 Not gonna lie it pisses me off how Lando tries to "flirt" with Y/n in her comments
↳username2 Me too, it's not ethical
username9 I'm afraid Lando doesn't care lol and I don't think Y/n would ever consider going out with another driver considering Charles and her broke up on good terms
username10 I'm just wondering if norris ever tried funny business back when Y/n would come to races
↳username11 prolly not but hey now he's free to do it
username5 Just because he's free to do it doesn't mean he should do it
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username2 OH 😃
username3 So that's what she's doing in Australia
username4 Wait why is Jacob Elordi in Australia?
↳username2 Well, Jacob is Australian, why wouldn't he be there?
username4 HE'S AUSTRALIAN?!
username5 One thing Charles can't beat is the height 😩
↳username6 Is it worth it tho? Jacob treated his exes pretty badly, he's a cheater
username5 And? People change
username6 Bro, he cheated on Zendaya
username5 Chill out, maybe Y/n isn't even on a date with him, maybe they're just hanging out
username7 If I were Y/n I would enter my hoe phase now and Jacob is a good choice to start with
username8 THIS CAN'T BE TRUE
username9 Charles where are you? 😭 Y/n is a sweetheart, she shouldn't be with Jacob
username10 Sometimes I regret opening this app
username11 Didn't Jacob attend a few races? Is that were he met Y/n?
↳username12 Keep saying things like this and watch gossip unfold about how Y/n was waiting to leave Charles for Jacob
username13 Miss girl did a downgrade
↳username14 Is it a downgrade though if he's that tall?
username13 He can be as tall as he wants, but Charles was Y/n's soulmate and I'll always stand by that
username9 Plus the height doesn't make up for the personality
username14 What personality? 💀 Girl you don't even know him
username9 Someone who cheats on their partner clearly isn't a very pleasant person to date
username5 CALM DOWN GUYS we can't be sure they were on a date, it could be just two friends catching up
username9 what friends? I've never even seen them talk before and there were opportunities
yourusername Don't panic guys, I've been spending most of the time with @/youngersister and her aussie friends
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youngersister Yeah, I clearly didn't set you up for a date with a certain actor...
↳username1 SHE SET Y/N UP WITH HIM?!
username2 Evil mastermind
username3 How did that even happen lmao
↳yourusername Thankfully it didn't go as good as you'd wish it would 😌
youngersister No worries, I have other options up my sleeve
yourusername Keep them up there 🤺
↳username4 I'm confused is [younger sisters name] team Charles or not?
username5 She's just a menace it seems
username6 What's up with Y/n? She didn't wanna be with Charles, but she doesn't wanna move on. That's not normal
youngersister Don't make me set you up with Lando
↳yourusername You'd never, I know you think he's annoying
youngersister Yeah, but he gives me that vibe of a guy who can make you forget about your ex
yourusername That's called a fuckboy
youngersister You deserve a bit of fun don't you 🥳 I'm not saying you have to go straight back to being in a relationship
yourusername NO THANK YOU
username5 Lmao I love how they're having this convo here instead of on dms
username6 OR FACE TO FACE??
username7 Why does Y/n's lil sis support the idea of Y/n having a hoe phase? 😭
landonorris I was hoping you'd come see the race;)
↳yourusername Better luck next time I guess :)
a few months later
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username1 YEAH I WAS LIKE WHAT THE HELL???
username3 I can't defend Charles anymore
username4 Apparently her name is Angeliqué and she's a daughter of some French entrepreneur (a/n: I made her up)
username5 I didn't want Charles to move on, I wanted him to be back with Y/n 😭
↳username6 Worse thing is, Charles moved on but Y/n didn't. She went on this weird staged date with Jacob Elordi a few months ago and that's it
username7 NOOO 😭😭
username8 Charles better say sike now 🔫
username9 Please tell me it's a joke
username10 It truly feels like some part of me being torn apart knowing that Y/n and Charles broke up for good and he moved on
username11 Do we really know nothing about what's going on with Y/n? She must feel terrible now, I'm sure she saw that Angeliqué girl on TV
↳username9 What makes you think she would still watch races?
username11 It seemed like her and Charles are on friendly terms, so why wouldn't she still watch his races?
↳username12 She hasn't posted anything since Australia, went hella private, she ISN'T okay, I think she even stopped hanging out with Lily M
username13 I did some more research and that Angeliqué girl is 20 years old
↳username12 So we're supposed to believe that Y/n who is Charles' age wasn't ready to start a family, but a 20 year old Charles met weeks ago is? Charles, explain yourself
username9 Honestly the new girl seems just like a distraction from Y/n or a PR relationship
username12 You might be right, maybe Charles can't forget about Y/n so he went with "wanna get over, get under someone new"
username14 Nahhhh cuz she was all over Charles whenever she could and he looked so done 💀 that's definitely a stunt
↳username1 Literally, she was always hugging him, touching, holding hands, she barely let him interact with fans, Y/n was so much better AND she always respected Charles' fans
username15 imagine not being able to move on for MONTHS so your pr team finds you a fake gf
yourusername Excuse the inactivity, I've been watching Gilmore Girls
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username1 Very understandable in this case
username2 Our Rory Gilmore finally watching the og Rory Gilmore 🙏
oldersister I'm afraid Snow White might like you more than she likes me 😂
↳yourusername I'm the cool aunt 🤭
youngersister Excuse me???
yourusername I said what I said
youngersister And I don't agree with what you said
yourusername Would you watch Gilmore Girls with Snow White? Nope. I do. So I win the cool aunt competition
username3 Guys... When did Charles unfollow Y/n?
↳username2 He unfollowed?
username3 Yeah... He didn't comment nor even like, so I went to check and he doesn't follow Y/n anymore but she still follows him
username2 Ouch that hurts
username4 I don't care that Charles doesn't follow Y/n anymore, what counts is that she is happy 😊 look at the last pic, she's so adorable with Snow White
↳username5 True, she looks happy and healthy while Charles is out there having to put up with a fake girlfriend
username6 What's funny is that Charles doesn't follow Y/n anymore, but both his brothers and majority of F1 drivers do
↳username7 including the ones who followed her after the breakup 😏
username8 Don't try to make up new rumours, Y/n is single and happy
username9 Not to be mean but... It says something about Charles that he had to unfollow
↳username6 He either thought it'll help him forget or the new girlfriend made him unfollow
username9 Either way it tells us he's still thinking about Y/n
landonorris been a while since I last saw you
↳yourusername Let's see how long we can keep the streak up
username6 SLAAAAAY QUEEN
username10 I'll never be over the Y/nCharles breakup, I'm still going through it months after
↳username11 That's okay because so is Charles
username12 Tbh in Y/n's place I would just take the chance and go for Lando, just to prove that Charles' PR relationship is in vain
↳username2 That's not something Y/n would do, but if she ever did that I would support her
Username13 dating men is so much stress, why bother while you can sit at home with a cat watching Gilmore Girls instead?
#Charles Leclerc x reader#Charles leclerc imagine#Charles leclerc smau#F1 smau#F1 x reader#F1 imagine#Charles leclerc fanfic#formula 1 social media au#Formula 1 smau#formula 1 x reader#Charles leclerc social media au
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when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader
John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go.
It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog.
Of course he's going to take a bite.
He thinks you ought to have known this by now.
SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.
AO3 MIRROR
John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His.
And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts.
It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him.
It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain.
He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it.
And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious.
This is, and always has been, about yearning.
John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go.
Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity.
Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it?
And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?
The child would never write him out, either.
Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool.
Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way.
It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm.
Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.
Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.
But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners.
The rest, though? Spare parts.
(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—
His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)
But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible.
It's why he isn't married.
Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface.
But the real reason is because he knows better.
He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own.
Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all.
(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes.
They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.
A pair of packless, stray dogs.)
But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face.
It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child.
It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy.
Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge.
He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction.
And really—he’s just not a good man.
He thought you'd have known this by now.
He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet.
(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)
Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—
It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head.
He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber.
You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—
Who was he to deny you?
Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating.
He let it. Encouraged it.
“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you.
And, oh—
The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment.
Fuck. Fuck—
John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead.
It worked. Works—
Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—
His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth.
“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”
(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—
But—you do know that, don't you?
Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)
“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”
He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?”
“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.”
His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”
You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”
And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?”
Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement.
He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps.
“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape.
He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants.
There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills.
John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled.
The little seed that started germinating blooms.
He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black.
“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being.
Your dyadic has always been built on permeance.
John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy.
Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two.
“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.”
He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.
“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.”
You smell it, and shiver.
It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite.
And so, of course he does.
John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up.
Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—
Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy.
He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips.
There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title.
This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander.
(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)
In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills.
It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—
A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing.
That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—
You're a dog just like him.
In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection.
And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct.
You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs.
So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants.
John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind.
(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)
It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you.
He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash.
That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—
You turn to him instead, knuckles white.
“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped.
He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—
John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed.
His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath).
The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in.
You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat.
This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood.
He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—
He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective.
Seven pills in a row.
He files it away, lost in thought.
The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath.
When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper.
You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down.
(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)
“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.”
John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish.
It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether.
As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off.
That, too, he files away.
John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion.
There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him.
(Only him.)
He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it.
So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too.
John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn.
(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)
It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression.
But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs.
But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you.
That's all for him.
(Nasty old bastard.)
And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him.
Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it.
(Nasty, nasty—)
But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't.
And that simply won't do.
So, he plots. Plans.
The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it.
He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No.
He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way.
Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up.
It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb.
And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through.
“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”
“But—”
“It’ll be fine.”
And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty.
(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)
John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb.
It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—
He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence.
“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”
His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust.
But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent.
What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—
He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue.
“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”
“But, John—”
The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick.
And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after.
“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”
You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease.
But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape.
He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace.
“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.”
“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed.
You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot.
John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed.
You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—
There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin.
“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.”
You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep.
(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)
“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill.
“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.”
“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.”
He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat.
“Could stop taking it.”
It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud.
You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins.
“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”
You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—
A boomslang.
One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike.
Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world.
“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”
He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead.
“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”
Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is.
“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in.
You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—
You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts.
Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—
His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum.
It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments.
You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans.
He decides on a different route to the same end.
Damnation at your own hand.
John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face.
With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this.
And one with more opportunity.
Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up.
He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip.
The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.”
“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste.
With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper.
You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea.
He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim.
It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle.
You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him.
“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image.
He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart.
“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”
You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle.
You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear.
With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside.
It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—
He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it.
John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you.
When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below.
He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it.
The push-pull of this little game stretches on.
Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.
The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual.
And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—).
He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing.
In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all.
The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break.
You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar.
John notes it down. Tucks it away.
And then he amps up the pressure.
John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it.
He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now.
Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic.
“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?”
It's a tease. A test.
He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him.
This will be your cacoëthes.
He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this.
This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining.
You want this. He wears the axiom like armour.
And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat.
The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess.
And fuck—
The thought alone makes him throb.
He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper.
John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart.
He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick.
Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for.
He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing.
He can't wait to ruin it.
If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs.
Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new.
His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it.
“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt.
His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls.
You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—
The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it.
Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—
As many as you'll let him.
And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent.
The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva.
“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation.
To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh.
He tastes salt and sin on your skin.
(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)
“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.”
And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds.
But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart.
Like this, though—you melt.
All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock.
Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”
(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)
He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”
It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it.
“Fuck—”
He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more.
But even with the respite, he knows he won't last.
John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down.
Go easy on your pretty cunt.
(As if.)
John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape.
Reshape.
He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you.
“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”
You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat.
He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout.
Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—
“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”
“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”
You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—
“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”
He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—
As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone.
(His, his, his—)
When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead.
“Are you okay, John—”
He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach.
He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape.
“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.”
“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk.
“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”
It does. Of course it does.
He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—
“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more.
“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat.
There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound.
“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”
Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs.
You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”
He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.
Cheeky little—
“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.”
The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.
In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing.
Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today?
He just needs to wait things out.
But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week.
Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time.
He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home.
It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home.
His bones ache for it.
Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan.
While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual.
Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.
You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.”
He tucks it away, lets the matter drop.
If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff.
“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”
He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this.
A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown.
It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—
Yet.
You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank.
He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call.
But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.
It eats at him.
He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in.
His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you.
An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie.
He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank.
His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used.
Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars.
He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next.
Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt.
His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew.
Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks.
A card, and—
His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular.
—a pregnancy test.
He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning.
A pregnancy test.
Fuck—
(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)
He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing.
“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”
“Something bad happen?”
His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”
It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—
Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt.
In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured.
Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything.
She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”
“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”
It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.”
“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”
“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”
“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.”
“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin.
“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.”
“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”
“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.”
Lucky him, indeed.
On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog.
Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.”
He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't?
Oh, fuck—
You better not be.
But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel.
This is happening, then.
You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack.
It shifts—
You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts.
It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue.
John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart.
His. His.
—and then it all falls into place.
Yours.
He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear.
A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need.
Until it becomes too much.
“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”
“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”
“Oh, no… please take your time.”
Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more.
John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned.
“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.”
He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—
His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise.
Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—
A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat.
Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take.
His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins.
John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play.
Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.
In the back of his head, the beast purrs.
“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.”
You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.”
More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart.
“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”
Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”
He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated.
When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away.
A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.
Will help him fill.
#this was supposed to be posted earlier but i was too busy watching dead meat#captain john price x reader#john price x reader#price x reader#this was a) not thought out and b) def not edited#Unhinged John Price is my roman empire#call of duty fics#cod fics#captain john price smut
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