• I Love This Trend Sm!! 💫

oh no cigarettes for me thanks i just wanted to be in this dank alleyway with you

Quick Sevika drawing because OH MY GOD

Eirēnē

price x reader one shot

cw: femme, soldier reader. implied fit body type. pegging. slight spit kink. mild angst but a happy ending. MDNI

"Oh, big stretch." It's playfully patronizing; an affected air to hide the undercurrent of genuine pride. John's always liked watching you push your limits, but raw affection has no place here in his bed - always kept carefully at bay, dropped with his tac gear by the door, or maybe even further back, in the field, when he ducked his helmet against yours with a quiet 'well done, love,' barely audible over the din of exfil, ripped away in the impending whorl of hele blades. 

He praises you here as well, but never as an equal. You're a plaything when he's got you pinned under him. He toys with you the way you imagine he's toyed with cute little things all his life. John doesn't strike you as a bully by any means, but you've seen first hand how he can turn a compliment into a debasement by simply dropping his pitch a few octaves. It leaves you unmoored, dragged in and out of your arousal by self-conscious turns which he soothes with sweet kisses and gentle touches.

They sting worse than the words.

He's got his thumb against the seam of you now, pushing at the tender skin where it is indeed stretched wide around his cock. He's overconfident when he mouths off about how good it must feel, but his eyes betray him as they always do: reverent, tender, yes. And envious.

It took you months to see it. As a rule, by the time he got like this, you were already too fucked out to notice. You fear you never would have, had this slippery slope you'd both found yourselves on not started declining further by the day. You might slip more often, but he's bigger. Falls harder.

It's the vulnerability that tips you off. 

'You're only ever satisfied when you're taking my cock, aren't you darlin'?' it began, a mocking smirk pressed against your lips as you pouted about being given nothing but his fingers. 'That feel good, love?' he'd ask, palm grinding into your sex as he fucked you shallowly, watching himself disappear within your body. Then 'tell me how good I make you feel,' turned into, 'tell me how good it feels,' while 'need me to fix it?' became, 'fuck, sweetheart, please.'

Now you watch him back, entranced by the way he cannot look away from where your bodies meet. It's early yet. He has all his faculties. Still, his gaze is anchored to the stretch of your cunt. "You could cum like this, couldn't you?" he asks, thumb tracing up to your clit. "So full I don't even have to work for it. Just stuff you up and press this button, eh?"

You nod but he's not looking. His thumb pushes against you cruelly as punishment for your perceived silence. "Yes," you hiss and he hums, eyes bright with mischief.

"Show me, then," he says casually, rocking himself that final centimeter deeper as he starts playing with your clit exactly the way you like it. You bear it in stillness and silence for as long as you can, but the quiet sigh he eventually earns himself is like a floodgate. Once your mouth is open, jaw relaxed, your soft noises continue, and then your hips are canting just enough to work against his rhythm. You don't last long enough to test your theory that night, not when John stays as buried deep as he can get, rocking shallowly into you just so he can feel the head of his cock drag under his palm where he keeps it pressed into the soft flesh of your belly. It's vulnerable, makes you feel field dressed, gralloched. 

His own tummy jumps when you palm him there in turn, his cock twitching within you as he groans like he's been gutshot, falls limp over you just the same.

You find out days later that you can make him a desperate, gasping mess by just leaving teeth marks there, working him in your fist while you hide your bite among the soft hair of his underbelly, the most defenseless part of him - too low for his vest to cover; mobility at the cost of exposure. But he trusts you here, holds you close after the first few flutters of his panic settle. His cum stripes your chin when your free hand palms his heavy sac, one finger settling lower, along the seam of him. 

John does not ask you. You wonder sometimes if it would be a bridge too far, playing into the role more than he is comfortable with. Then, John being comfortable with any of this is a stretch, as evident in the tension of his brow when you finally get him on his back, the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat when you work your second finger in alongside the first. You think it's more than he can take, but he outright whimpers when you go to pull back and you can't help but laugh when he wraps a strong leg around your waist to hold you close, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer when he chokes out a quiet, 'don't you dare.'

Don't laugh, don't stop - you're unsure so do neither as you settle yourself deeper within him, fingers probing, just exploring. Taking your time.

The toy he'd bought you - ostensibly - is bigger than he is. Will sit deep within him, proportionate to how he fits inside you. You're not worried it will please him, but it's hard not to be at least a little jealous of his big hands when your fingers can't reach deep enough to do anything but press fluttery pulses against his prostate, only make him tense and sweat when you want to make him cry and beg. It's an instinct that grows with each passing minute, John's impatience - and ability to articulate it - damn near hurting your pride.

He wants to be made vulnerable, has entrusted you alone with the task, though you can do little more than tease him on your own.

But you've always been resourceful. Learned from the best.

When you do pull away, John's hole tightens around your fingers so hard you imagine you would be unable to escape if not for the copious amounts of lube you'd used while working him open. He doesn't pout the way you would have, his frustration instead leaving him with a strangely bull-like huff. You shush him anyway, soothing the emptiness with two thumbs quickly hooking into his rim, testing his stretch with a quiet, disapproving hum.

"I don't know, cap. Don't think you're ready for this cock."

John's neck flexes when he tilts his head back, the thick cords on full display when he swallows heavily, jumping past the strain in his throat. "Oh, fuck you."

"Not tonight," you counter absently, sinking your thumbs to the knuckle just to watch his hole try to wink around them. When you remove them completely, you drag slick trails of lube through the coarse hair there. "It's these little fingers of mine," you pout, wiggling them at him illustratively. "Not gonna cut it, I fear. Be a doll and open yourself up for me, hm?"

He looks like he has something to say to that, but it gets caught behind his teeth and to your surprise he only rolls, gets his knees up under his hips so he can kneel before you, brace most of his weight on his left hand which he plants firmly on the bed. You don't comment on the practiced ease with which he reaches back and coats his fingers in the sticky lube which drips from his hole, nor the way his breath catches when his fingers do. Whatever this is, this practiced confidence, this was never intended for you and you're loathe to have taken it from him.

You're more loathe he's kept it from you at all, but you stay just as silent as him.

John works efficiently, doesn't even take enough time to let the pleasure build. You think about guiding his hands but falter, too scared to take too much control. Instead you keep his cheeks spread for him, warm extra slick between your fingers before letting it slip from your grip, watch as it slips into his greedy hole. You want to tell him how good he looks, but you don't want to embarrass him, either, and your words die in your throat, dry and brittle, because John is not usually so quiet as this during sex and if he needs the silence, you will not be the one to break it.

He doesn't speak when he's decided he's stretched enough, either. Simply lays down on his belly with his legs stretched out between your own. You hum appreciatively, chance to ask if he's ready for you with a quick, assessing swipe of your finger across his loosened rim. With the muscle lax and unfurled, your digit catches and tugs, draws a low, startled grunt from him before he clears his throat and nods, voice thick when he says he is.

You remember the way his stomach tensed under your palm, the way he cradles the back of your head when you get his balls in your mouth, pressing the ring of your teeth closer. John does not ask for this, at least not verbally, but you know what he wants. John's never led you astray before, and he doesn't now, so long as you know what to look for. He does not want to be responsible for this, to tell you when he's ready. The added tension of it, your expectation that he make a decision at the one time he wasn't expecting to, it collects tangibly in the iron of his spine, the clench of your jaw. In the silence of the room, you hear the spiderweb break of the fragile gift he's given you and you still, coltish legs on too-thin ice. Misguided. Not a concept you've had to worry about since coming under John's captaincy. You've grown lax

"Tell me how good it feels."

And maybe it's okay that you've let him crumble, just a bit, because he shatters beautifully when he knows you'll keep him together.

John's voice is still tight when the head of your cock catches on his rim, the words pulled from him like tangled fishing line, each confession pulling clotted debris from the silt of his vitals. It's good, a stretch, he's full.

You can't help the cruel laugh that builds at that last, flex your hips down into his to sink incrementally deeper. "Not yet, you're not."

The quiet snarl is the only warning you get, John's palm reaching back to wrap around your hip with the same quick reflexes that have kept him whole so long. He rips back whatever control he's ceded with just as much ease as he pulls you into him, a rough grunt the only indication he gives of any potential discomfort from the sudden intrusion. Still, you lean against him heavily so he can't move you manually again, create a rhythm for himself that you haven't authorized. You don't let the doubt overcome you, know this is no less than the last desperate gasps of any bound animal. 

You settle him just the same, warm hands on his flank and soft reassurances, your low murmur spilled across his shoulder because he's far too tall for you to lean over properly. "Easy, baby. Give yourself a minute to adjust."

A dog that's slipped his muzzle, John still shows his teeth. "I can take it."

"Don't care what you can do," you counter, bearing more weight down on his back as you slip your free hand under his thick chest - a poor approximation of the way he effortlessly comforts you in this position, the tenderness he doesn't even mean to give. "Just care about what you want to do."

Though he remains unsettled, John's voice is less clipped now despite his words. "I want you to move."

Impertinence sits on your tongue - begging for it already? - but you know better than to test his patience when he's already got himself so wound up over nothing. He's a man unused to this position, figuratively and literally, and you take pity on the perceived bruising of his ego, even if it is self-inflicted. "I'll take care of you," you promise instead, and have to bite back the swell of pride in your chest when the tension of his back slackens incrementally.

"Know you will, love."

The first slow pump of your hips is shallow, experimental, your body acquainting itself with this new movement. John offers no encouragement, but you take his lack of objection for it anyway and gain confidence with each thrust, your strokes growing longer as you learn how to properly brace your weight. 

The harness you've chosen rests low on your hips, the base of your cock digging into your mons each time you bottom out within him. It's a low simmer of pleasure, not distracting enough to keep you from your main aim, but enough to get your hips snapping slightly into him, a rhythm you double down on when John's breath stilts and he shifts subtly, bracing himself to ensure your movements are well met. It's unnecessary - his bulk far too much for you to move with so little engagement - but appreciated all the more because of it.

"Feel good, John? You like having me so deep inside you?"

When he looks over his shoulder, you can see the pinpricks of sweat collecting on his temple. "Let you know when you fuck me proper."

You laugh catches in your throat, more a startled breath than true amusement. "Cheeky," you grumble, then shift up onto your knees and brace your feet over the backs of his calves, using your too-wide stance to your advantage when it means you can't hold your weight on your own. You sink further into the clutch of him, the base of your toy flush tight to his rim, and John swallows thickly, throat flexing. 

The angle is difficult to work but worth it, the way John's head hangs limp between his shoulders the only encouragement you need to plant your hands on the back of his tight waist and feel the way his abdomen flexes each time you let your weight drop back into him. You keep a steady pace even when he tries arching back up under you, inviting you deeper without speaking.

He didn't ask, but you knew.

You don't give him what he wants until he's biting back moans, his voice so low and shot you'd mistake them for the traffic outside if not for how acutely attuned you are to him, your pace quickening just to chase the harefooted pulse in his neck higher. 

When he bites your name out through clenched teeth, his breath condensing in the hairs of his forearm, you tell him to beg. 

"Shit… fuck." You see the muscles of his back bunch when he plants his hands under his shoulders, the tension in his spine when he debates bucking you off of him. And then you plant your feet under yourself, sacrifice depth for power on your next thrust and he whimpers, dropping back to the mattress with a reedy whine. 

You give him a few more, exact copies - the movement already imprinted on your mind like a ballroom basic (Quick learner. Lethal. Brutal. You'd read his reports on you) - and peter off you hear him choke off the next thin groan. 

"If you're not gonna beg for me, at least let me hear those pretty sounds." To prove your point, you grind in hard against him, hips angled to hit that spot that had earned you a whine to begin with. You chuckle when it works again, voice dripping with a cruelty you didn't know you were capable of when it came to your captain. "I've earned 'em, haven't I?"

Another noise bubbles in his throat, pops with a breathy huff. You slip away from him, snap back, and revel in the clench of his thick fist against the sheets. "Fuuuuck. Yeah, love. Just like that. Alright. You've earned it."

He's a veritable font after that, tongue loose and spilling every thought. You feel carbonated, fizzy and staticky, listening to each noise and bitten off praise tumble past his lips. You want to kiss him, get frustrated when you can't reach him. The hand around the column of his throat to arch him backwards surprises both of you, kiss forgotten as you pant against his lips, your glutes burning as you try to maintain your pace. Silent now, John's throat can do little more than flex weakly under your palm as his jaw works, swallowing the spit you want to drink from him. You can't help a whine of your own when the harness grinds too low, too hard, and you bunt your forehead against his cheek, spine sagging just slightly.

"'S'it good, love?"

He doesn't even sound like your captain anymore, voice too quiet, vulnerable. Sinking for a moment into that soft space with him. But when you open your eyes and see his own looking back at you, expectant and eager, you steel yourself again, lips feather light against his ear.

"So good, baby. Taking me so fucking well. Look pretty like this, John," you admit, rambling on over the whine it incites. "Should get you under me more often, hm? Let you take this cock the way I know you want?" He slinks back to the bed when you let him, your palm petting heavily along his spine as he slips away from you. He doesn't try to muffle his noises in the pillow this time, breaths heavy and high as you build your rhythm back up, ignoring the way the harness slips against your sweaty skin. 

With your hands braced against his waist again, it's easy to watch the stretch of his hole where he accepts you so greedily. Even now it glistens in the low light, hair matted with the generous amount of lube you'd plied him with. Your cock is skin-toned, natural, glistening as if with slick when you work it free of him. You make it as loud as you can manage when you spit on him, delighting in the way his hole winks around the tapered head of your cock when he flinches in embarrassment, making it worse by taking the base in hand and slapping the head against the wet of it until he can't take it anymore, reaching back to try and grab your hip again. 

You're ready for him this time, slap his hand away easily, an odd contrast to the way you coo filth at him, call him greedy and just to watch his hole clench down again, a futile attempt to keep you out. When you spit on him this time, a half-hearted bid to ensure he could still take you despite his tension, he groans unabashedly and flops back down, boneless.

"Whore," you chide, and slip back to the base in one steady move, filing the way your gamble makes him keen for later.

Despite his submission, rigidity coils low in John's spine as you work yourself deeper, the muscles under your hand pulling taut as he accepts you. It pools in your own as well, a baseline pleasure you've done all you can to ignore. Your thumbs trace his ilium, feel the tightness of his fascia. One palm pulls the meat of his cheek away to bare his hole to you and then that same thumb slips lower, past the seam of him, and presses softly against his rim. 

You accuse him of being greedy and bite back a smile as John accepts this new intrusion with a slack-jawed moan, drool pooling on the pillow beneath him. You tell him he's being so good for you when your first knuckle slips past his slack hole, but you don't think it even registers, given the fucked out look on his face, the tight pinch of pleasure between his brows. You keep praising him anyway as you begin to fuck him again, your words a low undertone to the high pitched grunts he emits each time you slam home. With your hook him, John can't help but work his hips against yours, aborted little thrusts which you allow because there's not much you can do to stop him, not when he's so far past listening and you're no match for the powerful contraction of his thick thighs. It's a struggle to stay atop him but you manage, pushing him back down as much as you're able with your palms planted on his flexing glutes. To his credit, he regains some sentience when his cock receives sufficient stimulation, tucking his arms up under his chest to better work down against the mattress, slurring vague encouragement through spit-slick lips.

"C'mon, sweetheart, give it to me, please - fuck."

"Need more?" you ask, unsure how you could even give him what he needs when you're on the verge of collapse, untested musculature flagging by the minute.

"Just like that. Shit -!"

He cuts off with a cry when your second thumb slips lower, prods threateningly at the tight ring of muscle you've already worked too loose. "Big stretch," you warn, but make it no further than your nailbed before he's cumming with bitten off shout, hips stuttering as if he can't decide if he wants to fuck down into the mattress or back onto you more. You take the choice from him, bearing down with enough force to work your mound against the base of the harness, taking the edge off your own pleasure with deep grinds that have John babbling beneath you.

In the silence that follows, you slip free of him gently, massaging his glutes as you lay your toy between them, just listening to his breathing even out. For a moment you think it won't, and you slink down to lay across his back again, chest pressed to the lax muscles there to give him the same kind of grounding weight you love so much from him. John just reaches back to sink lazy fingers along your scalp, though, a satisfied hum leaving him when you tip off him sideways to spoon up next to him. Between you, your cock bobs ungainly, an unwelcome intrusion that keeps you from clinging to him. He laughs when you huff in frustration, watches you with one eye open as you fiddle with the clasps until you're free. He's good enough to roll onto his side when you lay back down, welcoming you into his chest with a warmth you're not used to seeing post-coitus, and despite the easiness of his hold on you, it puts you on your back foot, sends you spiraling back into reality - to your place behind him in the field, never his equal. 

He mistakes your stiffness for dissatisfaction at first, his palm sliding down your front unprompted despite his obvious exhaustion, his whole body wrung out and relaxed. It fills you with pride that you were able to do that for him, but it's a sour sort of pride, a noxious gas which bubbles within you, has you pushing his hand away before he's even grazed the thatch of hair above your sex. John grumbles, peeks down past his nose to look you over. His free hand finds the nape of your neck when you avoid him, tilts your face for his inspection.

When he asks if you're broken, your throat constricts, the words like a mallet knocking your panic loose. Your voice falters, stuttering past a protest which you can't quite form. John frowns down at you and that insufferable feeling of disappointment, of having let him down yawns beneath your feet, your axis tilting you over the edge -.

"What's wrong, love?"

It's too quiet to be the voice he uses in the field, too soft to be that patronizing tone he adopts when he's got you underneath him. Closer to the quiet murmur he imparts on you when he drags you close before exfil, those secret words meant just for you, his softest soldier who needs the gentle touch. You shake your head, not trusting your voice, but he's not having it, dragging you closer so you've no choice but to hitch your leg up over his thigh, expose yourself to him fully.

"Can't fix it if you don't tell me," he reminds you, and even that aches - the knowledge he'd trusted you with all this, and he still has to keep you together. 

"It's nothing," you assert, desperate to let him enjoy his come down. "I'm just being silly."

John just squints at you, testing. When he moves your hips down against his own, he tracks the slight flinch in your expression with open interest. "Doesn't seem so silly, lovie."

You still his hands, ask him to stop with regret tinging your voice. "I'm sorry, it's just -. I just -."

"You what, sweetheart?"

"Oh, don't call me that," you blubber, floodgates opening despite your best effort. 

To his credit, John seems to take it in stride, pulling you into his chest and tucking you under his chin. His hands are heavy and warm on your back where they soothe along your spine. "Okay, no sweetheart. How 'bout lovie? Or honey? Or -?"

"John," you whine, pushing yourself away from him with a firm hand on his chest. "I can't take it anymore! You're so… so…"

"So what?"

"So sweet! And it hurts too much, knowing I can't keep it, and -."

"Can't keep it?" he mutters, but you're too wound up to listen, rattling on about not know what this is, spilling your heart out about how you keep blurring the lines. 

John silences you with a kiss, far too slow and sweet to have been listening to a single one of your concerns. When he pulls away he doesn't let you go far, keeping you in the tight ring of his embrace so he can pepper bittersweet kisses across your cheeks. "You were being silly, weren't you, love?" he starts, and chuckles meanly when you swat at him, trying to squirm away. "Easy. Listen to me, sweetheart, okay? It's important." He waits patiently for you to settle, heat boiling under your collar as you meet his eyes. "Do you think I'd have let you do all that if this were just casual? Hm?"

Clarity swells in you like ocean tide, briny and bitter where it creeps up your throat. You open your mouth to answer but close it just as fast, afraid of what might come spilling out. 

"Just casual," John scoffs, pulling you closer and saving you from further embarrassment when he tucks you back under his chin. "If I find out you've been casual with any of the other lads I'm going to be quite cross."

You want to tell him it would be his own fault, or lie just to teach him a lesson. Mostly, you want to be offended. Instead you just shake your head adamantly, lips dragging across the coarse hair of his chest. 

"Good girl," he rumbles, and must feel the clench of your cunt against his hip because his hand drags down to your rear, pulls you impossibly closer. "Now, let's drive those nasty thoughts out of your head, shall we?"

Thinking about being a little too good at getting Johnny off. The way he grits his teeth as he thrusts into your fist, whining and begging: “Not yet—fuck—please not yet.” Brain begging for one thing, body begging for another. Hmmm

when you married ghost , it's automatic that you're married to the rest. that's why they call it one for one. hubby's friend comes over with just you in your robe, nude underneath, and price needs a little taste? no problem captain hubby, lieutenant's consent and yours is given. soap is drunk and needs help with his boner? baby, im here, it's okay. you assure him while simon watch you two proudly. while, kyle, his big respect to the both of you hindrances his needs. simon appreciates that, big time. at the same time, we're family here sergeant. you nod and brush your palm on top kyle's lap to gently assure him as you agree with simon, yes, that's right. let me help you, sweety.

it's just something to love about the concept of your beefy husband casually fucking you whenever he wants, and letting other gigantic men who are very close to him, share you.

immeasurably self indulgent,,

just got a retainer so i had to make the experience a little kinky. enjoy this john x reader meet cute

you weren’t meant to smoke with your retainer in, but you’d left the case at home and holding it in your palm while you you fumbled with your lighter outside didn’t seem like a viable option either. so instead you made a solemn promise to your dentist in your head to floss extra thoroughly that evening to make up for it.

and you couldn’t be too mad at yourself really. not when you might not have bumped in to john at the pub otherwise.

he’d joined you after raising a brow at the empty spot next to you on the bench and huddled in closer than socially acceptable after a moment when you shivered from the winter chill in the air, even wrapped up in your big puffer coat.

heat seemed to seep from him like the heavy smoke from his lips as he pulled on his cigar and you happily and greedily soaked it up from where his arm and thigh lightly sat against yours. you smiled thinly but politely as you lifted your cigarette to your lips.

the smell of his cigar was cloying, too thick and earthy for your tastes, even as a long time smoker, but you didn’t say a word as he blew it into the wind, unwilling to ruin the little bit of peace you’d found.

it felt intimate sat there just the two of you in the dark early evening; your friends just a hairbreadths away inside but none the wiser to the silent, temporary companion you’d made on the rickety bench.

you were the designated driver tonight, decided when you’d gotten to your friend’s house and realised you’d kept your retainer in by habit and wouldn’t be able to drink without damaging it. the group had encouraged you to go ahead anyway but the price of the bloody thing had you hesitating and offering to drive everyone home instead in your friend’s beaten up ford focus.

and yet despite the precautions you’d taken early on in the evening, here you were anyway.

you’d just have to get yourself some good dental cleaner tomorrow for it and hope dr singh didn’t notice any staining when you next saw her; mouthwash would have to do for tonight to freshen it up again.

“don’t think i’ve seen you around before,” your companion spoke as you dotted out your tab end against the ashy brick wall to your left, an unspoken ashtray going by the litter of filters gathered on the floor at your feet. “i’m john.”

“i’m here celebrating a friend’s engagement,” you said with a small smile. “it’s not my usual haunt, but she likes it and the ciders cheap enough.”

john winced. “don’t tell me you drink that swill.”

“not tonight, at least,” you snorted. “not good enough for your… acquired taste?” you paused to nod at his cigar with a wrinkled nose. pungent.

john huffed, biting back a smile.

“what are you drinking tonight then? said you’re celebrating, so you on the champers?” he asked.

“last time i checked they were ordering shots,” you recalled with a grin.

“aye? wanted to be able to buy you a drink when we got back inside, maybe convince you to talk to me a little longer where it wasn’t freezing cold. but i can do a round of shots for you and your mates instead.” at the mention of the chill you felt your hands ache and your legs clench to halt your shivering. john was warm, but without the distraction of a cig, you were suddenly a lot colder.

“that’s kind, but im on the lemonade. staying sober for the night so we can avoid taxis since this was all a little last minute.”

“ahh,” john nodded. “so no chance of you finding me charming enough to come have a cuppa back at mine later then.”

“oh that was supposedly in the cards for you tonight, was it?” you laughed, taken aback by his confidence and assumption.

“i’ve been told i’m pretty convincing,” he winked and took another puff. “shame though.”

“mm, is that so?”

“aye. for you in particular,” he continued to tease. “because i’ve also been told i’m a great kisser.”

“have you ever been told you’re a bit of a brag?” you asked.

“is it bragging if you can back it up?” he asked seriously. his eyes dropped to your lips before looking back up again. “and i do make a great brew.”

“coffees more my thing,” you said, leaning into his arm.

he took a deep pull with a shake of his head. he let the smoke go as he spoke, curling in the air like you could touch the humour lacing the words on his tongue. “cider and coffee. not sure if this is gonna work out between us after all, love.”

you couldn’t help but giggle, kicking yourself for falling for his charms as easily as he said you would.

he smiled as he looked at you.

“alright, so i can’t prove that i can make a proper brew, but i can prove the other thing if you’re interested,” he offered. his cigar was close to a stub, half burnt down from all of the talking. you’d imagine he’d be angry at the waste if you weren’t so caught up in his trap, readily hitting each mark he laid out for you perfectly.

“hmm, going to warm me up?”

“like you’re not already hot ‘n’ bothered,” he scoffed under his breath, though you were close enough to catch it, and slipped one arm around your back. he pulled you closer by the hip and leant down so your noses touched. “are ya gonna let me?”

you nodded minutely and in the next breath he was cupping your face to tilt your chin up ever so slightly. you don’t know where he dropped his cigar stub but it was far from your mind as his rough beard caught on the sensitive skin of your cheeks and lips, chapped from the cold.

your writhed in his hold on the small bench, eager for more before giving him the chance to get started. begging for his heat and touch and tongue.

your breath hitched when one of his hands slipped beneath your thick coat and wiggled its way under your shirt, squeezing and palming at you fervently, like he was just as desperate. he bit at your lip and you whined, digging your hands into his shoulders where you held on tight, tugging him closer as your thighs clenched and shifted, knocking his own.

he smiled as he ducked back in to kiss you, pleased at your reaction, skimming his thumb beneath your bra and slipping his tongue passed your lips when you moaned.

your tongues brushed and you opened up wider when his hand pressed gently - just a suggestion - at your jaw, before using his height to angle over you and kiss you deeper.

“john,” you breathed out, barely able to speak as he dove back in with a heated groan.

he licked at your teeth and suddenly you both froze. you’d never felt so aware of yourself as you felt his tongue prod at your lower teeth once more, quick sharp, before he pulled back.

you felt red hot embarrassment fill you head to toe as you suddenly recalled your retainer. you prepped yourself, ready for his disgust confusion or pity, and pulled back reserved. frustration prodded at you as you saw john lift his fingers to his tongue with a frown, checking his fingertips for blood when he pulled them back.

“i’m so sorry,” you blurted. “i forgot i had my retainer in.”

his eyes widened in understanding and his frown disappeared. “caught my tongue on the edge i think, woulda been more careful if i knew,” he laughed. you were happy to realise it wasn’t at you. it was at himself. “too bloody eager, wasn’ i? slobbering on you like a dog.”

“i liked it,” you admitted quietly, your shoulders high out of bashfulness instead of embarrassment now.

“aye?” his grin was slow but satisfied, eyes hooded as he pressed closer again. “wanna do it again?”

you grinned back but before you nodded you bit your lip and lifted a hand to touch a tooth covered by your retainer with a finger.

“i don’t have the case with me, i can’t take it out,” you said, worried you were rapidly ruining the mood after somehow managing to keep john interested.

he shrugged, unbothered. “keep it in.”

you blinked, taken aback. “o-ok.”

“what d’you need it for anyway? used to have braces? got a cute photo of you grinning with a mouth full of metal?” he teased.

you rolled your eyes. “i clench my jaw all the time, cracked a tooth because of it. my dentist is hoping this might help,” you explained.

john licked his lips as his gaze dropped to your mouth. you could’ve sworn his own breath seemed suddenly laboured and that his hand felt heavier when it rested high up on your thigh.

he dragged his eyes back up to yours and smiled a little lecherously, eyes darker than they’d been all night. “i can think of a way to train y’out of that.”

Everyone: we hate Graves. Hope he chokes and dies 🙂

Me: why do y'all hate my war criminal husband. I don't understand 😭😭😭

He's about to rain down a million smooches

Thank you so much to @tacticallyunsoundjohnnyboy for commissioning me to draw my favourite husbands 🫶

Asexual m!reader who took a nude modelling gig at some art school

And art-student!Soap who was immediately attracted to you at first sight, and made it a mission to make you hard as you pose in front of everyone

Only for you to sit there, unbothered, looking at him with a glint of amusement in your eyes. Because he was so shameless..

With how he didn't even try to hide the way he oggled at your body while biting his lower lip, letting out sensual grunts while making it seem like he was simply making noises of frustration

And when he noticed that you seemed to be unaffected, he pushed it further and started biting on the end of his pencil before flicking it with his tongue.

His eyes locked onto yours, silently telling you that he imagined his pencil to be your cock. Jeans rode down his hips, showing a tantalizing glimpse of skin, a hint of hipbone and happy trail

He must've thought that he loooked sexy as fuck

..but to you, he looked ridiculous

His classmates seemed to have splitting opinion on that, based on how some frowned at his shameless behavior, while the others discreetly checked him out

And your dick stayed limp

Eventually, he gave up. Huffing with a shade of red decorating his cheeks as he glared at you before focusing back onto his sketch with a pout

And while you never understood the appeal of sex, it didn't mean that you didn't know how to pleasure a pretty boy. Really, he didn't need to do all that embarassing act, he just needed to ask

You definitely didn't mind rewarding him for making your day by making a fool of himself

in conclusion:

And stop inviting everybody to the cookout. (Especially just because they can do a lil two count and hold a tune)

Sinners spoilers without context.