#currently re watching it again | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bitten-fruit · 4 months

Text

you re-enlist

And Captain John Price absolutely doesn't want you to. He begrudgingly takes you to his office to sign the paperwork - and shows you what your decision has brought you.

18+ MDNI - 5k words

tags: John Price x f!Reader, power play, oral and vaginal sex

a/n: To get some content on here I've pulled this from my longfic Licking Wounds on Ao3. Trimmed/tweaked it a little to make them tumblr friendly :)

“Just... let me sign what I need to.” You breathed, exasperated.

Captain Price sat behind his desk, leaning back insouciantly in his chair, bouncing his knee in irritation. His cautious and tired eyes flitted between yours, considering his words before he spoke.

“This is your last chance to change your mind.” He grunted.

You sucked your teeth frustration. “I’m not changing my mind.”

“You should.”

“Why? Will my presence really be that fucking draining for you?”

He quickly absorbed your sudden anger, mirroring it as he stood from his chair, leaning against the surface of his desk on white knuckles.

“You know that’s not what this is about.”

His tone was by turn seething and pleading, glowering at you with gruelling severity.

You scoffed. “Oh, so it would be.”

“For fuck’s sake, don’t be childish.”

“Childish?”

Evidently fed up with your petulant bickering, his head dropped from his shoulders as he grunted in frustration. “I just... I can’t understand why you’d come back to this.”

“You can’t?”

“You had the chance to get away from it. You got out.”

“Got out. You think I got out, do you? That once I got shipped back to London I was done with it all?” You groaned, impatient. “Just let me sign the goddamn paper."

There was visible dispute burgeoning behind his lips, but he stayed silent – leaning forward to tug open one of the drawers of his desk. He pulled out a pad of blank paper forms, hesitantly but methodically tearing one sheet free along the perforated line. He flipped it, placing it down on the wooden surface and twisting it so it faced you, pushing it towards the edge in your direction with his fingertips.

He plucked a ballpoint pen from the steel mesh cup on the edge of the desk, before dropping it on top of the paper form with a quiet clack.

Crossing his arms, he stood upright with a huff and watched you scrutinisingly; glare challenging yet reluctant.

You quietly swallowed, stepping abashedly towards the desk and leaning over it, holding the pen between your fingers and pensively clicking the end of it with your thumb.

Jaded eyes scanned each word, the tip of the pen trailing each line as you read. You checked box after box, writing down the answers to probing questions as though you were completing an exam under the shrewdly watchful eye of your professor. Existing health conditions, current medication, family lineage, previous rank, promotable status. It would almost be nostalgic, answering questions such as these again, for the first time since you were promoted to sergeant four years ago – if it didn’t carry such painful weight, and weren’t so rife with sordid history.

The nib of your pen met that dotted line, finally, at the bottom of the form. Your eyes looked at the conditions and implications of your signature, that thick paragraph above the box, though not a single word was absorbed by your busy mind. It didn’t matter – you knew the consequences of that pen meeting the paper. Even if the Captain wished it, signing your life back into the hands of the SAS was not something that could be easily revoked.

He seemed to relish hopefully in your hesitation, his breath slowing as he watched you consider, pen hovering cautiously over the paper.

You briefly glanced up at him, from under your challenging eyebrows, meeting his eye. His stiff gaze wordlessly pleaded with you, his mouth in an austere line.

Steadfast, you ignored his silent dispute.

You signed the dotted line.

There.

Done.

No backing out now.

A soldier again.

You were astonished at the adrenaline a mere signature could pump from your heart, quivering with it, as you dropped the pen to the desk and stood upright.

His steely eyes did not leave you, face replete with a medley of discernible emotions; ire, anxiety, remorse, solemnity. Arms still crossed firmly over his chest, you listened as his heaving lungs drew in a deep, exasperated breath.

He licked his teeth before he spoke.

“That’ll be all then, Sergeant.”

He dismissed you bluntly, coarse voice dripping with derision. A crease formed in your forehead, taken aback by his sudden dismissal, breath hitching at his use of your rank instead of your name; sergeant, a title he hadn’t referred to you by in two years.

It was as though he was satisfied, doing his best to show you what your decision had brought you, to make you regret it. You were his subordinate again. Just his sergeant.

“I knew you’d enjoy it in the end, Captain.” You seethed, tone draped in sardonicism, an immediate retaliation.

His brow furrowed as he looked down his nose at you. “Enjoy what, eh?”

“You finally get to order me around again, don’t you?”

“You-”

“Am I dismissed? Or are you going to command me to drop and give you fifty?” You growled pettishly, scowling up at him. “It must’ve been hard, not being able to command me to do your bidding while I was a civilian. But that didn’t stop you from trying, did it?”

He grunted, an increasingly enraged sigh escaping his chest. “I didn’t want to be giving you orders again.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, I didn’t. Just because you don’t know what to do with yourself when you’re not being commanded to do it, doesn’t mean I’ve been waiting for the chance to.”

A kick to the stomach, you worried you’d lose your balance with the blow.

Grimacing at him, you stepped your weight onto your back foot in reaction to his venomous accusation.

“Fuck you.”

You hissed it through your teeth, unable to conjure up any intelligent rebuttal, only lashing out with the reprisal that your frenetic emotions scrambled together.

He sniffed irately, adjusting his arms over his chest.

“Can’t talk to your captain that way, Sergeant.”

Your jaw hung loose in disbelief, overcome with a cold rage that made your body quake as it flooded your arteries.

“Fuck you,” you repeated wryly, daring. “Are you going to order me not to talk back to you, sir? You prick?”

He glared at you with challenging contempt.

“You want me to give you an order, do you?”

“I want you to get off your fucking high horse.”

“Yeah? Am I too honourable?”

“Honourable? You’re a sanctimonious p–”

He put his hands on his hips, brashly sucking his teeth before he interrupted you.

“Take off your shirt.”

His hoarse command pierced the thick air like a bullet.

The wind was viciously sucked from your lungs, then, your racing heart jolted under your ribs with such voltage it felt as though you had been shocked by a defibrillator. You could only stare at him, stupid, waiting for him to relent, to take it back, to say that he was kidding.

His expression, now, was unreadable. You weren’t certain whether he was purposefully keeping his countenance devoid of emotion – or, if, you had abruptly lost any and all ability to understand him or his intentions.

He was a stranger, but a familiar one. A captivating one.

Before you could stammer out a semblance of a response, he continued.

“That’s the sort of order you’ve been wanting from me, isn’t it?” He goaded darkly, seemingly smug at his ability to render you flustered and wordless with one short sentence.

Dumbstruck, still, you could only swallow a pointed breath as you desperately tried to read any clear objective in his shrouded blue eyes.

“Go on.”

He’s not kidding.

“You wanted an order, I gave you one.”

Fuck.

You were completely staggered by the whiplash. Your distended heart thumped so vigorously in your chest you thought it might crack a rib.

There was a conviction within you, somewhere, to question him. To question if he was being serious, to ask him if this was some kind of sick joke to make you regret your decision.

And while you believed that was the case, that it was a derisive retribution, a game to get back at you – there was a stronger urge to play along. To meet his challenge, to execute his dare.

Meeting his indignant gaze with yours, you tucked your fingers under the hem that sat between your waist and hips, peeling it up your torso and stretching it over your shoulders, then past your head. Sweeping your loosened hair out of your face, you held the thin black fabric in the other hand before dropping it to the linoleum floor. You shivered a little in the cool air of the room, your stiffening nipples concealed by the cups of your rarely-worn grey marl brassiere – practical and unsexy.

But the look on his face was telling; he hadn’t truly expected you to comply.

That surprise waned quickly. His dark eyes tried their best to hold your stare, but they failed him – raking over your torso, jaw clenching as his gaze stuck brazenly to your exposed cleavage.

Trembling with adrenaline, you waited for him to say something. Anything.

You expected dispute; you anticipated he’d say, I wasn’t serious. And that would be a satisfying reaction – your effort to make him uncomfortable would prove a success, a victory, you’d have the last figurative word.

He wiped down his face with an open hand, rubbing his beard anxiously as he wrestled with what to say, how to react – maybe some attempt to restrain himself. He leaned against the surface of the desk, resting his weight on his knuckles.

Through gritted teeth, he uttered his next command.

“Bra.”

You swallowed timorously.

It was surreal, really, you worried you were hallucinating – you imagined that in reality he was shouting at you to stop, but you were unable to hear him over your carnal psychosis.

But it was too late now, to stop yourself. You were driven to finish what you started. Changing your mind now, pulling your shirt back over your head and running out the door – would leave you questioning whether any of it was real. You wouldn’t survive in that oblivion, between reality and dream, fact and fantasy.

You needed proof.

You reached behind your back, contorting your shoulders to allow your fingers to grip the clasp against your spine. Your breasts pillowed out of the top of the soft cups as you stretched the band to unhook it, before slipping the straps down your shoulders. It slid from your chest, down your arms, gently – it, too, fell to the floor; you dropped it on top of your abandoned t-shirt.

You drew in a quivering breath, the skin of your breasts tingling as the goosebumps elicited by their exposure trickled across their soft flesh.

He sucked in a heavy breath, deep and slow, rugged and rasping. He took a step, and you retracted slightly; but you watched like cautious prey, as he walked around from the far side of his desk, to the front of it. He leaned on the very edge of the surface, not quite sitting on it, as he insouciantly crossed one boot over the other. His lascivious eyes did not leave you, absorbing every feature, every curve, like he was admiring an artwork.

Despite the metre and a bit of distance from him, you felt the dense heat that hung in the air between the two of you, radiating from him like he was a fucking oven.

“Trousers.”

A brief conflict almost escaped you, but he quickly smothered it.

“Off.”

Whatever reluctance that lingered melted away, then, dripping off of you like a layer of sticky ice cream – by virtue of the unwavering sternness of his command. And that, you realised, was where your comfort lay; where there was no ambiguity, no remorse for a poorly made decision, no culpability for your actions. If you were following an order, the onus was on him.

So you followed it.

Your kittenish fingers went to the button of your grey cargo trousers, popping it undone, slyly pulling down the zip of your fly. You flayed back the open waistband, pushing them down your hips, struggling briefly to pull them past your ass; its recent plumpness made your pants a touch too small. The polyester fabric loudly shuffled in the distended silence as the trousers fell down your legs, into a puddle at your feet; you stepped out of them as though out of a pond.

By the time you looked up to meet his gaze once again, though, he had already charged at you; quickly taking the base of your head with large hands and pulling you towards him. He forced his eager lips against yours with a ferocity that left you breathless, such an aggression that your first primal instinct was to resist him with claws against his chest.

But you were quick to surrender to him, relishing in the taste of him, his tongue, his breath hot in your mouth, you sucked it deep into your chest. Your starving hands coiled up and around his neck, scratching at the tense muscles in his heaving back through the fabric of his uniform jersey; hooking into him in some feline effort to make sure he was real, to prevent his escape, to keep him from being stolen away.

His mouth wasn’t on yours for long, though, dragging wetly across your jaw to your neck, the crook of your shoulder; he chewed at your soft, fervid skin, teeth skimming and barely digging into the tendonous flesh. His vicious hands gave you no reprieve, clutching at any part of you that could force you closer, tighter against him – ensnaring the meat of your hips, your waist, kneading at your sensitive breast with the other.

He separated from you only briefly, though his possessive hands didn’t leave you. Crouching slightly, he hooked his arms behind your thighs, under your ass – deftly hoisting you upwards with no visible effort. You clutched the back of his neck, wrapping your legs around his hips to maintain your balance as he lifted you, turning on his heel and carting you towards the desk. He quickly used a free hand to sweep aside the papers, flinging them to the floor in a confetti; he put you down hastily, keeping you close, the cold surface of the varnished wood biting at your bare skin.

He gave you a transitory respite, carefully checking your face before he went any further; likely ensuring you weren’t crying this time, that he hadn’t crossed an unspoken boundary. Whatever look you gave him in return was outside of your control or perception – but it was an invitation, evidently.

He dove down to kiss you again, but fleetingly – his savage lips trailed down from yours, biting their way along your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbone. You leaned back slightly on the desk to allow his avid venture, his ravenous mouth biting and suckling wherever it landed; drowning momentarily in the softness of your breast, cupping it with his wide hand to push the pillowy flesh against his face.

That wasn’t his final destination, though. His mouth only brushed over your nipple, sloppily kissing down your tensing stomach as he lowered himself to one knee, clutching your waist with both hands on his journey downward to hold you still. You felt your heart in your throat, in utter disbelief; you could only suck down jagged breaths as his lips grazed against your lower belly, just above your hip, teasing the elastic hem of your underwear. He gingerly kissed your mound through the thin cotton, controlling hands holding your hips by the bone.

Too rapacious to taunt you for long, he tugged sharply at the hips of your panties, leaning back so he could pull them down your thighs, over your knees, off your ankles. Your foot rested gently on his collarbone as he paused in apparent admiration, your exposed, spread pussy mere inches from his face; his breath despite its heat was cold against your wet, feverish skin. You felt embarrassed at his close inspection, his unashamed reverence – but his murky gaze broke away from your intimacy, instead meeting your eye. He wore an expression of unassailable pride, though cloaked in an avaricious hunger; he stared at you cruelly from under his brow, daring you to deny him.

Hitching your legs over his arms so that they rested on his shoulders, he clutched the side of your thigh with his mammoth hand while he pushed his lips into the inside of your leg, high enough, close enough, to make you quiver in desperate anticipation.

Piercing eyes still locked on yours, peering up from your eager flesh, his husky voice murmured deeply into your skin.

“Is this what you wanted?”

He jibed, almost a growl, as though teasing you for your recent behaviour – scolding you for acting out instead of asking for it, causing a scene instead of using your words like a grown-up.

Another kiss, higher, closer, teeth grazing the supple meat of your inner thigh, coarse beard prickling against the burning skin of the edge of your cunt.

You couldn’t think of the right answer, if there were such a thing, to his question – your head was by turn empty and running a million miles a minute. Really, you didn’t even know the answer.

Was it what you wanted? This entire time? Has it been what you wanted since the last time, in his barrack in Urzikstan? Since the gala? Or, even, since you met him?

Your answer left your wet throat before you had the sense to question it, or rationalise it.

“Yes.”

You breathed, a whisper, barely, almost a squeak. You weren’t certain that it was the truth, either – but it was what you wanted now, so it was honest in some sense.

With firm hands he adeptly tugged your hips so you perched precariously on the very edge of the desk, allowing him ease of access to you.

He cruelly denied you still, placing maliciously soft kisses against the slit of your pussy, torturing you with only a light pressure while you willed him to dive deeper. An ardent whimper fled your chest, quiet and pleading.

Whatever carnivore he was doing his level best to restrain escaped its prison at your sheepish sound; his monstrous hands dug deep into the flesh of your hips, maw lunging forward and pointed tongue parting your slick folds like he was searching for water. It dipped into you only briefly, a momentary taste of the dripping syrup he seemed to take pride in inducing from you – before he used it to glide up to your clit where it was nestled. With ravenous lips he suctioned it into his mouth, devouring you; dextrously chafing your sensitive bud with a flat tongue, maintaining a vacuum that made a dangerously loud and needy moan escape your throat.

He only hastened his torment in response, drinking you like he might die of thirst, breathing heavily through his nose so as not to allow you even a second of relief from the unbearable suction. Feverish claws clasped at the top of his head, running through his short hair and scratching at his scalp, holding his head where you wanted it. Your head hung back off your shoulders, briefly staring at the panelled ceiling before your eyes unwittingly fluttered shut, doing your best to swallow the choked cries that threatened to make the whole army base aware of your depravity.

Your constricting legs inadvertently tried to push him away, your body overwhelmed and desperate for a break from his ruthless consumption, almost too oversensitive to be pleasurable – but not quite. He restrained you tightly, though, not allowing you to flee from him for even a second; his firm hands controlled your hips with an alarming strength, head moving with you as though predicting the direction of your attempts at escape, mouth not separating from you once.

One hand retreated from your side, but to quickly prevent your bucking his constraining arm slithered over your lower stomach, clutching the far hip and using his elbow to hold you down to the desk. His free thumb, then, crept to your cunt under his chin. Despite how slick your skin was, drenched in both your clear sap and his saliva; the clenching muscles of your vagina were squeezed so tightly he had to push his thumb into you with effort, almost popping as it broke past your resistant entrance.

That seemed to weaken his resolve, the tightness of your muscles clamping around him rhythmically, in tune with the burgeoning, forcible orgasm that threatened to crash over you like a tidal wave; he released a ragged, resigned exhalation into your skin. You felt yourself beginning to drown in it, that swirling ocean. The floor, the desk, the room sunk in it, slipping away from you as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, only him keeping you afloat.

But he stopped, then, thumb begrudgingly slipping out from inside you, suddenly releasing his merciless suction and separating his wet mouth from your yearning pussy. You groaned in dispute, cut short, a sharp rush of air escaping your overwrought lungs.

“Not yet.” He grunted hoarsely, barely audible.

Brows twisted in pleading frustration, you looked down at him, meeting his frightening glare as he pushed himself to stand; beard glistening with the wetness of you, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What?” You whined breathily, panting as you watched him tower upright, looming over you in licentious authority.

“I’m not having you come yet.”

His injunction was authoritarian, uttered darkly, his rumbling voice so hoarse it sounded animalistic; a growl, a threat. He stood between your legs, still, you watched in quiet, anticipating obedience as his livid hands tore at his belt. Ferociously unbuckling it, as though it would fight against him – he tugged open the button of his trousers, ripping down the fly and unsheathing his rigid cock from his straining boxers; menacing, it dropped heavy out of the elastic waistband, the solid shaft landing against your ravening cunt with a hard, wet slap.

You winced slightly at the sore impact, and his humanity seemed to return to him momentarily; softening face inches from yours, his attentive blue eyes scanned your features for reluctance.

“Tell me no.” He urged throatily, “tell me no, and I’ll stop.”

A shaky breath seeped through your lips, your delirious gaze flitting between his eyes, lashes fluttering as you processed his promise.

“I don’t want you to stop, Captain.” You uttered weakly, entreating.

His careful eyes darkened quickly at your bashful plea, watching your lips form the syllables of his rank like you were stroking him with it. His dominant hands returned to your hips, then, clutching at the bone and lifting your pelvis so it was angled right, just where he wanted it.

His clouded glare didn’t leave yours, his fingers dipping into your saturated pussy as though scooping the viscous fluid that dribbled from you; you watched, beguiled, as he rubbed your juices up the thick shaft of his cock, coating the head in it, briefly unable to stop himself from fucking his fist, huffing carnally, while he was lubricated by your watery come.

With a tug of your legs that were coiled around his hips, you grounded him, impatient; his sinister gaze met yours again, watching your wanton expression as he obliged you and dragged the soft head of his cock down your slit, the cruel pressure against your agitated clit making your body twitch. He restrained your spasm with his free hand your waist, keeping your pelvis still, as the tip of his length nestled between your lips, pressing against your clenching entrance.

Gripping himself by the stiff base, he pushed past your tight opening with his full weight; stretching it tautly around the girth of his cock as he stuffed you with it. You let out a pained squeak as it abruptly filled you, ramming against your cervix with a pressure that made you flinch.

The sharp soreness briefly frightened you – you had been deprived of the sensation of that angry thickness inside of you, ever since…

You didn’t let your mind go back there, not for a second; your eyelids shot open, desperate gaze sticking hurriedly to your Captain, his riled and yet gentle expression bringing you back to him, rugged but soft hands holding your hips as he impaled you on the length of him. You clutched the fabric of his jersey tight over his chest, gripping his arms, his shoulders; keeping him real, corporeal, there with you. He let out a strained grunt as he pulled you down onto him, as deep as your insides would allow him to go, to the hilt; he held you there, forcing you to squirm.

Your delicate hands held his warm neck, leaning forward as you pulled his head down to kiss him; mouth open and tongue desperate to taste him again, to feel his hot breath against your face, the soft scratch of his beard on your chin. He returned your kiss, tender, compassionate – a stark juxtaposition to his ruthless incursion; rutting into you powerfully but methodically, slow but hard, deep enough to be painful.

But the hurt was translated by your aroused nerves into a bestial pleasure, using your goading legs to pull him further into you, you felt his cock push against your aching organs. It raked against your sodden walls on its way out, a slight sting as it dragged along your taut opening – before filled you again, abrupt, sharp; it forced a sweet cry from your fevered chest into his mouth. He grinned arrogantly against your lips, a ragged, breathy chuckle taunted you in response.

You separated from him, then, lying back over the surface of the desk; you arched your back, angling your hips so that his length beat your walls more viciously, wrapping your legs around his waist and clutching at the edge of the desk above your head with straining claws. Exposed to him now, on display, his thrusting only increased in vehemence, speed, depth; carnivorous hands digging into the meat of your hips as if you might slip away from him, forcing you down on him with each rut.

Eager for release, your fingers glided down your stomach, navigating diffidently to your clit; you drew wet circles over it, letting out a soft whine as you pleasured yourself with the rhythm of his accelerating thrusts.

“Shit.”

He groaned huskily at the sight of you fucking yourself on his cock, his face twisted into an exasperated rapture, forcing himself to slow down slightly so as not to push himself over the edge too quickly.

He stopped you, hastily; a stern hand tightly ensnaring your wrist and tearing your fingers from you. He pulled your arm upward, pinning it firmly to the wooden surface underneath you, holding your hand by your head. He leaned over you, then, making you watch as he held his free hand to his lips, spitting lecherously into his fingertips; they found your clit without needing to look, stroking the oversensitive spot inexorably, the pressure cruel and unrelenting. His head hung from his shoulders, mouth landing against the hot skin of your shoulder, placing gentle kisses along your collarbone as he ruined you.

The union of the two sensations – his cock, hard as stone, fucking into your stomach, and merciless fingertips tormenting your swollen clit; it surged within you, frayed nerves electrocuting you as your inevitable orgasm loomed, its delay rendering it incensed and sorely overpowering.

He must have felt the muscles of your walls clamping down on the length of him as it dawned on you, the change in the music of your sounds; aching whines growing louder, crawling from your labouring throat.

“You gonna come on me, are ya? Beautiful thing?”

He growled into your skin, only increasing the severity of his torture, relentless in his goal to finish you.

Your delirious tongue was unable to form a word in response, only releasing a high-pitched and arduous cry as your unforgiving orgasm collided with you, waves of carnal heat pulsing from the base of you, the muscles of your bullied pussy clenching tightly around his avid cock.

“That’s it.”

He grinned against your neck as he kissed you there, moving with you, allowing no escape.

“Good girl.”

With no apparent intention of slowing down to offer you a reprieve, he instead began speeding up, forcing you to squirm and shriek in dispute at the overstimulation. Your desperate, animal fingers clawed at his wrist, struggling to tear his stiff hand away from your cunt – but he relented, eventually, falling victim to his own pleasure as he shifted his focus to fucking you harder, deeper.

He scooped an arm under your back, lifting you just slightly from the surface of the desk as he hovered over you; the other hand holding the bone of your hip tightly, keeping it steady while he rammed you. You listened in rapture to his grunts of ecstasy, gentle hands clutching the back of his neck, nails grazing his hot skin as you coaxed him to chase his own release.

You pressed soft lips into his bearded cheek, comforting, reassuring him; and that seemed to do the trick, bringing him too close.

“Fuck.”

He groaned hoarsely in begrudging pleasure as he paused, for just a hesitant second, before reluctantly tugging his cock out of you and slamming the wet shaft of it it against your mound.

You panted heavily, holding your forehead against his, relishing in the sensation of his hot come shooting over your stomach, painting you; it dribbled down your sides, down the creases of your hips, dangerously close to your cunt. He winced against you, twitching involuntarily as he pushed the last of his semen out of the head, drooling onto your febrile skin.

You kissed him, again; he tenderly pressed his lips against yours in return as he took the moment to catch his breath. His mouth left yours after a moment and landed in the crook of your neck, his heaving body hung over you, propped up by his elbows on the desk under you. You felt him kiss under your ear, his warm breath and prickling beard sending a shiver down the nape of your neck.

You wanted to say something, anything – but there were no words you could think of to offer him. Gratitude? An apology? Your brain was fried, fucked into pliable mush.

Instead you lay in silence, embracing him for as long as it would last, doing your best not to consider the consequences that lay ahead of you as a result of such an unbelievably foolish lapse in judgement.

He’d been your captain for only a few minutes, and you had fucked him already.

And yet you wished the moment could last infinitely; savouring his gentle lips as they planted drowsy kisses on your neck, tired hands caressing your waist in what felt like wordless praise, a silent gratitude.

Despite the reservations, the guilt, the doubts that stormed around you, deafening; your thoughts encircled only one thing, one source of comfort.

He was your Captain again.

#john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain john price #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captain john price smut #john price eats pussy like he'd die of thirst fight me on that

1K notes · View notes

nutmeggery · 9 months

Text

I need Neil Gaiman to know that Good Omens 2 made me feel emotions I haven't felt in nearly a decade.

When I heard there was going to be a Good Omens 2 I was looking forward to it, of course. I just wasn't expecting it do anything super special to my emotions. I was sure I'd enjoy it, though. I really enjoyed s1.

But, for the last few years, I watched shows and afterwards basically thought well, that was fun, and I quickly moved on and didn't think much about them. There was only about 3 shows in the last 5 years that had made me feel truly emotional and stayed on my mind to the point where I felt like I needed to engage in fandom for a while. (Good Omens 1 was one of them.)

I wasn't spoiled by the leak. I never even knew there was a leak. So I had no idea what was coming in s2. And oh boy...

See, I'd watched Our Flag Means Death, a show where you don't expect the lead characters to kiss, because, well, that never happens in these types of shows, right? And this is important because when they did kiss, it felt like a door that had been locked with just about all the high security locks in the world had suddenly, inexplicably, been opened. Something switched inside me. It took me months to understand what it was, but when I thought about Good Omens before s2 came out, I realized what it was.

I would never truly enjoy a bromance they're-only-queer/in love-by-your-own-interpreation story ever again. Stories where nothing is confirmed, just subtext that anyone who doesn't want to see it can easily deny and mock those who wish it was more.

While it was clear that Crowley and Aziraphale cared a lot about each other in s1, and were probably in love, it was still just a fun ship for fans to play with in fanfiction and fanart. Do they love each other? Oh sure. In what way? Well, that's up to interpretation. Ok, cool. But it's not quite Our Flag Means Death, is it?

Then I watched Good Omens 2. And from episode 1 I saw my favourite Angel and Demon duo love each other. And I was having the best time. I hadn't had such a good time watching a show in a long while. It was not only right up my alley, it was an alley I wasn't even aware was my alley until I saw it. I enjoyed seeing the old characters, the new characters. Oh, I was wonderful.

It was clear to me that, of course Crowley and Aziraphale love each other, are IN love with each other, showing it in their own way. And I wasn't expecting it to be THIS obvious.

And then when the kiss happened, I couldn't believe it. I covered my mouth with both hands and gasped and sat up straight in my seat. I had never expected it--the heartbreak it added to the already heartbreaking scene--it rewired something inside me.

It was like my emotions had been locked up in a stall like a horse for so, so long, and now the gate had been opened, the stable door kicked down, and the horse was running out onto the large pasture into the daylight, bucking and kicking up grass. Oh my god, I have to take a few minutes to process that entire 6 hour marathon of emotions.

And by a few minutes I meant a few days.

More than a few, actually.

I didn't need a kiss to understand how much they loved each other, but I did need the kiss to understand how intense and heartbreaking their separation is for them after everything.

But more than that, the kiss broke a barrier. They really did it, I thought. They really dared.

Aziraphale and Crowley aren't human males, no, but they're played by male actors. And that is significant. That makes the kiss significant. In the world we currently live in.

Weeks later, I'm still obsessed with the show, re-watching s1 and 2, reading the book again, listening to the audio drama. And I'm on tumblr, seeing people's posts and art to somehow sate my hunger for a s3 that doesn't exist (yet).

And I'm having a wonderful time.

#good omens #good omens 2 spoilers #go2 #neil gaiman #im queer and emotional #NEIL LIKED IT?!#asdsdksfksnvkjdnvdkjvd

2K notes · View notes

leclerc-hs · 7 months

Text

a blind date?? - cl16

Pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader Summary: You have a blind date and let’s just say your best friend Charles does not approve of it… Warnings: some french words (from a non-french speaker lmao), angst??, slight smut (im not good writing it). P.S. I am not a writer but I felt the need to write this. It’s just for fun!!!!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

IN THE HEART of the bustling city, the neon lights of the current nightclub you stood in was bathed in vivid colors. Stood was maybe the wrong way to describe it. More like slouched. You were at the point of being one drink away from being more than tipsy. Just one more drink and you would’ve been incoherent. A thumping bassline filled the air as friends and strangers, drunk off overpriced alcohol, danced all around with and near one another.

“Drink this Ma Belle,” A drink was placed in your hand as a heavy arm was placed over your shoulders. You glanced down at the drink in your hand. A water. A smile spread across your lips as you looked up at a grinning Charles.

Ma Belle. Your heart squeezed momentarily. Throughout all the girlfriends, that name was reserved for you. And you only.

You and Charles have been the best of friends since he first stole the last red ice pop from you in grade school. He just had to have the red one. Although it wasn’t the best of introductions, he made it up to you by bringing you an ice pop the next day. Since then, it was an unbreakable bond.

“What would I do without you,” you exclaimed with a small laugh before bringing the water to your lips and taking a big gulp with a sigh of relief.

He squeezed your shoulder softly before removing his arm and returning it to his side. You felt the heat of his body leave yours. “Are you ready to go?”

It wasn’t an abnormal question. You and Charles usually left the club together. Being attached at the hip and all that. With a small nod, you said your goodbyes to everyone before heading out of the nightclub and getting a taxi to Charles place.

It wasn’t long until you stood at the sink in Charles bathroom brushing your teeth in one of his t-shirts. You could hear Charles had turned the TV on, quickly selecting to re-watch episodes of La Casa de Papel.

“Maman wanted me to ask if you are coming for dinner tomorrow,” He squeezed into the bathroom beside you, leaning over to grab his toothbrush. Without a shirt, as per usual. It was a sight for sore eyes indeed and although you were more than used to it, your eyes couldn’t help but linger on his toned body.

Spitting the toothpaste into the sink with the running water, “I actually can’t make it.” You slightly hesitated in your response. It’s not that you didn’t want to. You loved nothing more than seeing Pascale. She was like a second mother to you.

He was in the process of wetting the toothbrush before placing it in his mouth when you slipped out the words.

“I actually have a date tomorrow night.”

It had been a while since you’ve been on a date. Never finding the time between work and tagging along with Charles to many of his Grand Prix. You never quite found dating important enough or worth the time.

Charles was amidst placing the toothbrush in his mouth when he froze at the words. Literally froze. His eyebrows slightly furrowed as he brought the toothbrush back down to the countertop at the sink.

“A date?” His tone was sharp. You noticed his eye color seeming a bit darker than the usual bright green. “I was not aware that you were trying to date.” He added.

You didn’t know if your mind was making it up or not. His attitude seemed to change for the worst at the mere mention of a date. Though, there was a slight tug on your heart at the idea of him being jealous. Because let’s be real for a second, the concept of you and Charles dating has crossed your mind once or twice. Okay, more than once or twice. But it was a boundary you weren’t sure you wanted to cross.

You nodded before bending over the sink again to rinse your mouth one last time and placing your toothbrush back on the counter. You tried to be nonchalant.

Charles picked up his toothbrush again and began brushing in silence. It seemed as if he was brushing his teeth rather harsher than normal as you explained yourself further.

“Kika, she set me up on a blind date. His name is Alex.”

“So, you’ve never met him?” He finished brushing his teeth and finally stood tall to look you in the eyes.

“No,” you laughed. “Are you even listening? It’s called a blind date for a reason.”

Although you were laughing, Charles was a stark contrast to your laughter and smiles. “I don’t like the idea of this.” He pressed further. “He’s a stranger. It’s too dangerous.”

You rolled your eyes at his over protection. “Cha, I will be okay. He’s a mutual of Kika’s. Not a stranger.” You placed your hand on his shoulder and squeezed it softly with a smile. “Besides, I haven’t been on a date in forever.”

“Ma Belle, you’re not going on a date with this boy.” His voice was stern as he cornered you between him and the bathroom countertop. “Cancel it.”

“I don’t remember asking for your permission dad,” you poked his ribs trying to make a joke of his brooding self.

“Putain! Are you not listening to me?” He groaned in annoyance. Literally groaned. He ran his hands through his hair, messing it up more than it already was. He dropped both of his hands onto your waist. “How are you this blind Ma Belle? Don’t you see it? You’re mine.”

You felt your cheeks turn red at the phrase. “Cha, it would be too messy. I don’t think-”

“No.” He cut you off. “No more excuses. I am sick of this pretending we do.”

He starts shaking his head, "Talking about a date with another boy. While you stand in my bathroom. In my clothes." His fingers gripped your waist tighter.

Boy. He said it with disgust. He was angry to say the least. Angry that you would even consider dating somebody else. Angry that you refuse to acknowledge your true feelings. Angry that it has taken you guys this long for the truth to finally come out.

Your breath hitched slightly as you stared into his eyes. You understood. You considered Charles yours too.

It was only a matter of seconds before your lips properly crashed into one another. It was all teeth and tongue clashing. Messy but so hot. He’s smiling into the kiss. You’re grasping onto any part of him that you can touch.

He pushes you up against the counter and pulls away from the kiss momentarily. Just to slip his fingers in your mouth which you gladly wrap your tongue around. His hands almost instantly sliding into the waistband of the boxers that you borrowed and slipped on earlier before sinking a finger into your heated core.

“See Ma Belle?” You’re shaking and aching for more. Show me, he’s saying. I’m the only one who can make you feel like this, he’s saying. Mine, he’s saying. He places wet, hot kisses across your jaw and down to your neck. You’re desperate. Whimpering his name over and over before you crack and release all over his hand.

You’re both breathing loudly. His head his burrowed into the swell between your neck and shoulder. Both of your chests rising and falling in sync.

You and Charles. Always in sync with each other.

He stands a little straighter to look you in the eyes with a smile on his face. His eyes are crinkled from how hard he’s smiling. You can’t help but mirror his smile. You feel warm and bubbly inside.

He places a kiss to your forehead, “Cancel the date.”

You only respond by grabbing the back of his neck to bring his lips back to yours. Consider the date cancelled.

#charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc imagine #f1 imagines #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #cl16 #formula 1 #sharl leclerc #charles leclerc smut

2K notes · View notes

seikkoi · 8 months

Text

𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄 | dom!wanda maximoff x f!reader

18+ minors dni | dark-ish content warning

content/warnings: explicit sexual content, female domination themes, spanking, overstimulation, choking if you squint,

genre: pure smut, minimal braincells

word count: 1,554

Your typically patient wife has had enough of your attitude.

Your eyes squeezed shut, body tensing as Wanda’s palm meets your skin again. You’re draped over her lap, nails digging into the soft suit pants at her thighs when another strike meets your ass. With every delicious sting, her other hand alternates between stroking your clothed back or fondling your hair. You writhe at the pain, legs restricted by your pants pulled down to your ankles. Normally, Wanda had the patience to undress you fully before punishing you. Normally, she would have stopped five minutes ago. But then again, you normally acted like less of a brat.

ᗢ

It was late when Wanda returned home, much later than usual. The busyness of the day affairs kept her from giving you a heads-up. You had a good two hours to build up your attitude about her tardiness. The ticking hands of the clock served as taunting background music while you watched dinner grow cold.

You couldn’t fathom a reason she at least didn’t call to tell you, angrily putting away dinner and showering. The front door knob turned just as you re-entered the living room. Wanda, your ever-beautiful wife, wore tiredness in her face, but still greeted you with a smile. Seeing the dark, curve-hugging suit she wore to work made it difficult to be upset anymore, but not impossible. Before she could explain anything, you were on her case. Endless rhetoric about the importance of punctuality and communication spouted from your mouth. You gave no credence to the perfectly reasonable explanation she gave- only responding with more attitude.

Wanda merely stood, unable to get much of a word in. You, too deep into your rant, don’t notice when she goes silent, removing her suit jacket and rolling the sleeves of her crisp white button-up. You didn’t notice the sly grin tugging at her mouth, or when she took slow, heavy steps towards you.

“You done, darling?” she cooed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

The house was dim, with enough light for you to see the familiar glint in her green eyes. There was a firmness to her touch, fingertips dragging against your cheek. Only then did you realize how unfair you were being, and how much you just fucked up.

“I just-You didn’t call, you always call.” Your body relaxed at her touch, anticipation swirling in your stomach. You'd been with Wanda long enough to know what your behavior would earn you.

“And I apologized for that, my love.” Her palm wraps around your hair, tugging your head back to look at her. “But you were too busy mouthing off to hear it.”

ᗢ

That’s how you earned your current position, a whimpering, soaked, half-dressed mess in Wanda’s lap. You had eagerly submitted to this punishment, albeit still stubbornly. You hadn’t held back a snippy remark when Wanda sat and gestured to her lap, which was probably why your punishment was much, much longer than usual.

You are lucky though, because the sight of you like this, suddenly very apologetic and needy, starts to drive Wanda insane, filling her head with more ideas.

“On the bed.” It’s a short and breathy command that you follow all too quickly, pulling your pants off completely before lying on the cool sheets. Wanda kneels next to you, staring down at your flushed body like a meal waiting to be devoured.

A moment passes as you shift your weight off your tender skin and meet Wanda’s eyes, praying that she’d forgiven your earlier behavior.

Almost like she’s read your mind, Wanda’s crooked smile returns as her hand dances behind your underwear.

“You can be such a good girl, but only when you want to be, hm?” Her other hand strokes your thigh, fingers sliding along your folds in the same slow place as her taunt.

Your body was far too worked up and sensitive for her teasing, groaning from the lack of attention she knew you needed. You tried to move your sore hips, anything to increase her speed, but a firm push on your thigh stopped that.

“You’re being a little harsh here,” you whined, still trying to gain even an inch of friction.

“You think you deserve any better right now?” Wanda prevented you from responding with more protest by quickly inserting the teasing digit into you, making you arch against the mattress.

Her goal now seemed to be just shutting you up, adding a second digit and relentlessly fucking you. It borders on being too much too quickly. You can feel the warmth spreading across your skin as Wanda presses a thumb to your clit. You were now an even bigger mess than before, moaning and jerking against her. Wanda still kept you in place, replacing the hand at your thigh with her knee on your hip. With the way your body still reacts, trying to move against her, you’re certain you'll have a fresh set of bruises there now.

Wanda soaks in every twitch however, drunk on your moans. When your mouth hangs in an open gasp, eyes fluttering, she gives you no reprise, curving the slender digits inside you.

“Shit, Wanda, that’s too much-”, your own sounds of pleasure cut you off, feeling your peak rip through you with little warning. The dampness of the sheets reaches your thighs as you swear and cry out Wanda’s name.

You learned that you were still paying for your outburst, with Wanda’s pace going unchanged. The pleasure transitioned from bliss to overwhelming as she fucked you through your orgasm and long after. The knee holding you down could barely be felt, mind too absorbed in the feeling between your legs.

You feel like a puddle of water beneath her. Your excitement coated her fingers, making every thrust into you glide with ease. You can hardly process the digits against your walls, crying out each time she reaches your hilt or adds more pressure to your clit. When you feel your second orgasm building, the overstimulating pleasure pricks fresh tears from your tightly shut eyes.

“W-wanda, please, I can’t.” you cry, gripping aimlessly at the damp sheets beneath you.

You try a bit harder to sit up, moving your hips away from hold. Wanda isn’t having it, though- her free hand makes its way to your throat, pushing you back down. The smile on her face is infectious, gleaming at your pleas.

“So polite all of a sudden, tsk,” Wanda scoffs, stretching you further with a third finger. You groan at the sensation, eyes rolling when she finds her pace again.

“I’ll make sure you don’t forget your manners next time, draga.”

#marvel fanfiction #mcu smut #mcu fanfic #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #scarlet witch x reader #avengers fanfiction #seikkoiwrites

1K notes · View notes