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[3amfanfiction]

Jfc this post but reader DOES make it out eventually...because of Shadow Company's efforts. It's not even a question of whether or not reader joins them, it's a question of when. Cause we all know Phillip 'Kiss the Homies Goodnight' Graves would NEVER leave one of his Shadows behind.

kiss the homies good night i’m screaming you’re so right he loves those shadows so much

(also noting that reader doesn’t necessarily have to be in the military if you don’t want !!)

somehow graves hears about this — price told laswell who told alex (poor thing was shocked to hear this, about price no less) who mentioned it to farah (equally appalled, if not outright searching for blood) who slipped it to graves.

and he was incensed. you never leave anyone behind, and graves would rather die trying than knowingly walking away with someone who’s relying on him.

so he gets his most trusted shadows, a group of four that could rival even the 141 if he was being honest (of course he’ll think that, he’s graves. his soldiers are nothing but the best.) and he sets out with his sights on you, his shadows scanning every inch of every facility that even vaguely looks like somewhere you might be tucked away.

and he finds you. he threatens his shadows within an inch of their life to get you out without fuckin’ this whole thing up. he make a jab at the 141, can’t fuck up more than they already did.

he leads the pack, putting himself first. his shadows will follow, ever the loyal dogs. they’ll die for him, as much as he would with them.

he’s as meticulous as he is brutal , with his hands bloodied and gun magazines empty, shells on the floor around his feet when he finally comes across you. you barely have any sense to be scared anymore, even if you should. death would be a mercy that your captors haven’t allowed you.

graves would snort if you called him anything close to an angel (savior, he’ll take), but he’s careful with you as he gets your binds undone, skin rubbed raw from your struggles, dirtied and broken and wanting it to be over already.

he’s careful as he brings you back to the ship, promises he shouldn’t make about keeping you safe, keeping you out of the wrong hands. you probably shouldn’t be so relaxed in his hold, if the stories the 141 told you are anything to go by. but he’s there when they aren’t, so you just let yourself rest for the first time in what feels like forever and tell yourself you’ll figure it out later.

[3amfanfiction]

At the rehearsal dinner, the night before your wedding, your bridesmaids have prepared a presentation for you. They laugh conspiratorially before pulling the slide show up on the projector. The title is: Y/N Being Feral for Her Future Husband. Each slide has a photo and beneath is the unhinged text you sent with it. All the photos are sneaky pics you took while working with them.

Slide one: A slightly blurry image of him sitting on a bench at the gym.

The caption: “Sitting on his lap would probably fix me.”

Slide two: Picture is of him sipping his morning coffee or tea, disheveled.

The caption: “I’m jealous of a mug.”

Slide three: It looks like a selfie at first but you’re in the bottom corner and he’s in the background in full tactical gear.

The caption: “Love a man that uses protection.”

Slide four: Another blurry image obviously taken on a drunken night out with the rest of the team. There’s a tipped over shot glass and he’s licking the liquor off the bar. He’s got a big, goofy grin, being egged on by those around him.

The caption: “How many shots do you think it would take for him to want to lick me like that?”

Slide five: It’s a picture of his bicep flexed and the corded muscle on display, a slight sheen of sweat glistening in the light.

The caption: “I want to gnaw on him like a chew toy.”

Slide six: This is, much to your relief, the last picture. It’s of him sitting across from you at a dining table, dressed in nicer civilian clothes. Your first official date.

The caption: “Please, whatever deity is out there, don’t let me fuck this up.”

__________

A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for ages. I don’t even know if anyone else will find it as funny as I do.

[3amfanfiction]

something something reader is a bartender at a popular little pub, and night after night you are hit on by men so plastered you often have to sigh and call over one of the guys you work with the idiots end up vomiting all over themselves (sometimes it’s worse than vomit but thankfully you can count those incidents on one hand)

you think by slipping on your grandmothers old wedding ring, it will sway men from hitting on you at work. And it does, there’s still some that try to test their luck, but the minute you flash that pearl on your finger they’re scurrying off to find their next target.

Cue four new regulars, four attractive military men that always flash you a polite smile and leave you a nice tip. Price comes in more than the others, claiming the stool near your register for himself, Ghost doing the same the rare nights he slinks into the pub. Soap and Gaz come in together some weekends, sitting themselves in front of you with big grins on their faces as they watch the game on the tv overhead.

They’re all sweet, a little cocky at times but nothing that one of their grins or sly remarks can’t make up for. They ask how their favorite girl is doing when they return from longer missions, genuinely listening as you fill them in on the things that have happened since they’ve been away.

Perfect gentlemen.

Until one night you forget your ring, having had to rush your shower and sprint out the door to make it to the pub before the nightly rush.

You filling glasses when you hear the chime of the bell and a familiar laugh fill the pub.

“Was wondering if I’d see you boys tonight.” You smile, motioning for them to give you a moment as you serve the other patrons.

When you slide back over to them, you immediately reach for their usual glasses, grabbing your cloth to wipe them off, when a hand clamps around your wrist and you jump, nearly dropping the glass as Ghost turns your hand over in his.

“Trouble at home pretty?” Price comments, concern etched on his face and it takes a moment for you to catch on, and you can’t help the little giggle that spills out.

“Oh! My ring… It’s kind of a funny story. I uhm.. I’m not actually married.” You laugh, expecting them to laugh along with you, but all you feel are four pairs of eyes piercing into you.

“Come again?” Gaz asks, voice a tad deeper than usual and you ignore the chills it sends down your spine.

“I started wearing it so some of the drunkards would leave me be, kind of forgot about it, just became habit.” You chuckle nervously, hand still in Ghost’s grasp and he’s eyeing you in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Hm. Interesting.”

[3amfanfiction]

WIP Wednesday

[3amfanfiction]

idk just thinking about seeing your lieutenant for the first time, this big giant dog of a man, and thinking to yourself, "hmmm yeah, i'm gonna make that thing mine." (18+)

like. i'm thinking about seeing him walk into the room for the first time. fresh off an op, still in all his gear. he's angry cause he's been awake off and on for 40 hours at this point, and he sinks down into a chair in the mess hall, and your eyes bug cause the chair fucking bends with his weight.

and you're just like "omg omg omg holy shit" cause this fucking brute is just huge and beefy, and you had no idea this was your type until you watched his hand curl around a cup and make it look miniature. and you're wondering like "fuck i bet those holsters are custom made" cause you don't think you've ever seen them stretch that far around someone's thigh.

ughghghghgh, and he's dumb as shit, too, or maybe he's just fucking blind. you give him every hint in the book, every indication of how you feel other than pasting a giant neon sign on your forehead that says "fuck me."

you wear the tightest cargo pants you can get. you let the buttons on your shirts go low whenever he's near. you make excuses to see him late, delivering him paperwork in the middle of the night, meeting him out for a smoke (and he's never seen you smoke anything), shuffling your way in front of him in line so you can bump into him and graze your ass against his front. he even catches you this way--even curls his hand around your waist and steadies you before letting you go impatiently.

fuck, bending over in front of him, the obnoxious giggling, the excuses to dangle your tits in his face. you want this man underneath you, on top of you, tangled around you and suffocating you with those enormous arms, and he barely side-glances at you whenever you're in his vicinity, and it's infuriating.

what do you have to do to reel this thing in? how many bones do you have to give him?

how many times do i have to flash my bra at you for you to fuck me over your desk?!

you can't eat another cherry in front of him. you can't drop more sauce onto your cleavage. you cannot come out of the showers in just a towel in front of him anymore because you're going to lose your fucking mind--

you even made out with his beloved little sergeant, his favorite little know-it-all that can't stop blowing shit up. that blue-eyed, insufferable, yapper of a scot that kisses all wet, with teeth, who pants like a puppy when he asks if he can 'ave a taste of y'r bonnie cunt, please, please, please--

and you say yes, because maybe he'll finally fucking shut up if you drown him between your thighs and never let him come up for air.

face down, ass up, cargos around your ankles, hips pushing past against that puppy's stubble as he devours you on his knees. his big hands spread your ass for him, and his thumbs flick over your folds as he opens you up, a cackle leaving him before he opens his mouth wide and kisses your pussy all sloppy and uncoordinated.

when the door swings open and hits the wall with a bang, the puppy tries to leave. he tries to move, but you reach back and grip his mohawk, scowling as you shove his face back where it belongs as your lieutenant stands at the door and heaves with anger.

"uh uh," you snap, and your sergeant on his knees whines, his blue eyes a little foggy and wet as he blinks up at you. but he complies, his tongue slurping, and you flutter your lashes at your lieutenant as you keep johnny muzzled in your cunt. "sorry, lieutenant. is this your office? must've read the sign wrong."

you reel from the contact. a big hand grips you by the hair, slamming you down against his desk, and you choke as you try and gasp for air. like a good boy, johnny settles where he is, shoving his tongue down your hole and moaning low when he realizes you're dripping down his chin now that his lieutenant has you.

"y'think this is funny, eh?" ghost mutters in your ear. "y'think i don't know wot y'r doin'? think i 'aven't caught on, think i 'aven't noticed wot a fuckin' insatiable bloody pain in my arse you've been ever since y'got 'ere?!"

you whimper, relaxing against the desk, and ghost tugs at your hair again, shaking his head.

"oi! y'don't get to be stupid just because y'r gettin' y'r cunny played with," ghost snaps. "y'r a right headache."

you laugh, getting up to your elbows, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as ghost scruffs johnny by the base of his mohawk and cups your pussy with one big hand. you gasp, leaning your head back, because finally, yes, it's all i want, please, please, please--

"'f you wanted to be my pet so bad," ghost murmurs, fitting himself behind you, leaning over your shoulder as he spits into your ear, "all ya had to do was fuckin' ask, swee'eart."

when your eyes open, ghost hums, clicking his tongue under the mask.

"use y'r words," he growls. "be a good girl, and say wot it is y'want."

"want you," you whine, and he sighs deeply, closing his eyes, and you drown out the sounds of johnny sputtering at your feet as ghost bends you at the hip a little more, arching your back.

"mmm...tha'sit. was tha' so hard?"

[3amfanfiction]

continuation of caretaker!price cw: afab!reader, nsfw, descriptions of sexual acts, plus-size/size-neutral reader <3 a/n: first smut piece? oh boy...

when he spots you across the pub he can’t quite believe his luck. most gorgeous thing that’s ever set foot in this lousy excuse of a pub just happens to be sitting in his direct line of sight. if john was a better man he’d have the decency to at least pull out his phone, a newspaper, or even a book to feign some sort of distraction. but he’s old enough now, he’ll leave being coy to the boys still getting their bearings.

he stares, openly and unabashedly at you, drinking in every feature of you he can.

you’re tired, exhausted even. can tell by the drop of your shoulders, the tired edges of your eyes, and the constant rubbing of your temples as you try to flag down the bartender for a drink. he’d write this off as a one-off, maybe a bad night of sleep, if john wasn’t so familiar with what a body looks like when you push it to a state of near exhaustion. he sees the signs, sees the lack of a ring on a finger, more than willing to bet there’s no one waiting for you at home. 

it makes him ill. to think that a pretty thing like you is carrying around such a heaviness without someone to help them. he takes a sip of his beer, letting the liquid coat his tongue completely as he thinks. there’s really no reason that has to continue, right? he downs more of his drink, adding to the alcohol already in his system.

what kind of man would he be to let a sweet thing like you continue to endure life like this? no. you need a good man, a strong man, to keep your hands soft. to care for you and lift the burden off of you. there’s nothing john would like more than to have you unravel beneath him with the knowledge that he’s the one whose eased your worries so much you grant him this. to have you so pliant below him, the lines of your body soft and stress free thanks to what he gives you.

what john doesn’t expect is to learn that he doesn’t need to die to see heaven. not when heaven lives between your thighs. he’s baptized by the nectar that drips from you. lets it coat his lips, nose, and chin as he devours you whole. tries to consume you like a dying man would his last meal. relishes your taste with long languid stripes where you open so sweetly for him. swirls his tongue around your entrance, loves the feel of you clenching around nothing, needy and longing for him. he flattens his tongue, licking upwards until he meets your pearl and twists his tongue around it. polishes it like a revered treasure. can’t help the groan that escapes him as your hands curl into his hair, pulling him to you. as if he would ever be willingly removed from between your legs. he’s here to worship, at the altar of your desire, devotedly kissing, caressing, and licking until you melt away for him. the soft plush of your thighs warming his ears as you clench around him, waves of pleasure rolling through your body. he doesn’t let up, even after your peak, savoring the taste of your sweet release.

but you’re not pliant, not like he wants you to be. your body still carries some semblance of stress, one that john is more than happy to dissolve for you.

he has you on your knees next. laid bare and open, presenting yourself only to him. he thanks whatever god exists for blessing him with such a beauty. for forgiving all of his crimes, placing such a treasure right within his grasp. you’re meant to be enjoyed, unraveled at a leisurely pace, one that john maintains by a thread. it takes all restraint he has not to sink into you, focusing instead on the feeling of your wet folds around him. it’s heavenly, the way your lips part for him. how he slides so easily between them, the tip of him kissing your sensitive bud, pulling beautiful cries from you. he does it over and over and over again, already drunk on the feeling of you, pulling more delicious sounds from you. he wonders what other pretty noises you’ll make. maybe you’ll beg.

you’re nearly there, pushing yourself back on him, trying to catch him, ensnare him before you’re even ready. “easy love,” the deep baritone of his voice makes you shiver. you whine as your body flushes with heat, the tip of john catching at your entrance. you keen as john pushes the head in, just til the underside is sheathed before he pulls himself back. bastard that he is, he continues to slick himself up between your lips.

you’re so whiny, begging him for more, that you can take him. so sweet, pleading with him to give you more, that you want him so bad. it takes every bit of strength john has not to sink balls deep into you then. to restrain himself from grabbing your plush hips and pulling back until you’re flush against his tummy. until you can feel him in yours. he uses every ounce of military training to stand strong. “told you to take it easy love. you’re not ready yet.”

he doesn’t last long. john thinks you could break the most hardened, well-trained men if they simply had you the way he has you now. open and wanting, with such a needy look thrown back at him john thinks he’ll cum right there on the spot. like a fucking teenager. he caves, dipping his tip back into the entrance. you groan simultaneously, the intrusion, the heat, it’s so much. clenching around him, he groans, nearly falls over you. 

he dips in and out a handful more times, stretching you out for what’s to come, before he finally sinks himself slowly into you. pulsing when he bottoms out. john sucks a breath through clenched teeth, losing his mind for a second as he grinds himself into you. there’s no better feeling in the world than this. than having you clenched around him, warm and wet, a perfect fit just for him. he carves a space for himself in you, rolling his hips into you, spreading your knees further apart to drive as far into you as he can. he wants to reach as much of you as possible, leave his mark on as much of you as he can reach. 

“fuck love, were made for me, yeah?” he rolls his hips into you, a moan the only response you’re able to muster. he’s a devil, draping himself over your back as he fucks you. presses soft kisses into your shoulder to compliment the bruising pace of his hips. a pace that leaves you drooling, eyes glassy, as you grip the sheets and cry out with every stroke. 

fucking hell, men would kill for cunt like this. he’d kill for this cunt. knows now that he won’t ever leave. understands that his rightful place is here, between these beautiful legs.

tells you as much as he pants next to your ear. swirls his fingers around your clit begging you to come for him. to bless him with your release, reward him with the delicious feeling of the vice grip around his cock. it’s all deliciously timed, your body jerks just as john sinks his teeth into your shoulder. your eyes roll back and you squeeze john so deliciously he’s reminded of the nights he savagely fisted his cock.

this time it’s your walls that milk him. clenching and pulsing around him coaxing as much of his seed as he’s able to give. he’d give it all to you if he could, drain himself in you every moment possible. his to fill, his to fuck, his to love. he’s thankful, as much as one can be, for the thin latex barrier that surrounds him. riding out his orgasm inside of you, groaning uncontrollably at the heat that surrounds him. for a moment, he can pretend his seed is spent inside you. painted your walls in milky white, marking you as his own. 

[3amfanfiction]

I am begging on my knees for more Babysitter!Price SMAU. It’s really good. Feel free to ignore this ofc, don’t wanna make you feel pressured! All your SMAU’s and other works are freaking amazing!

i am so sorry that this part took so long. i have been so busy and tired recently )): so the creative motivation to write this was a little lacking. hopefully y'all like it ;-;

[ DADDY ISSUES ] 𝜗𝜚 the text series where price hires you as his babysitter

⤷ part 𝜗𝜚 one , two , three , four 𝜗𝜚 pairing: single dad!price x babysitter!reader 𝜗𝜚 cw: price to the rescue, slightly possessive!price?, price being jealous of some random man

[3amfanfiction]

your superior finding out about the secret praise kink you didn't know had a name because you'd always been called an over achiever, a goody two shoes. never gave anyone any trouble, nose burrowed in a book since you had knobby knees and a library card.

you'd thought it normal that the apples of your cheeks burned when praised after giving your teacher the drawing you'd made for them the night before. that heat spread from the center of your chest up when your first boyfriend/girlfriend whistled at the sight of you outside of uniform. that warmth settles in your belly when you get a pat on the back from your platoon leader firm enough to force the air out of your lungs because you'd disassembled and cleaned a glock with the ease of a professional.

apparently it wasn't.

after weeks of training with the fabled task force, weeks of sharing elbow room with the team, weeks of soaking up the dizzying praise from the captain ("did real good out there, eh? can always count on you." you didn't question the throb betwixt your thighs, taking care of it with a cute little bullet like you've always done since joining the military)

you're confronted by the worst of the lot. ghost catches you in a break room, your back to him, hands clutching a cup of coffee that's more sludge than liquid, its warmth barely seeping through the styrofoam.

his figure fills the doorway, shoulders nearly brushing the frame. your first thought is that his brows aren't twisted together and he lacks that cold, blank look in his eyes so your death isn't in the nearest of futures. the second is that when he's not fully covering his face, the outline of his jaw is quite visible, looking sharp enough to cut.

then he crosses his sculpted arms over his chest, seams straining against the expanse of his muscles, head tipped to the side.

he moves with the keen curiosity of a predator sniffing around a newborn fawn, gaze intense yet inquisitive, assessing your every detail with a menacing interest.

"you ever gonna tell me you've a praise kink, bird?" the question sends a chill through your veins before turning into a fiery rush as it races at twice the normal speed.

praise kink? no. surely not. doesn't everyone like to receive compliments?

"sure. i don't mind gettin' told i've an impressive cock but that's bed talk. you look ready to bend over 'nd show us how slick tha' pretty cunt can get over a rufflin' of hair and a couple of empty words."

that has you positively reeling, fingertips cracking the cup in your hands, pulse on your neck fluttering. you feel a cornered, skittish animal, ready to flee lest your life come to an end in his maws.

but as usual, the cruel man more creature than person, twists the knife he's dug into you with a certain ruthlessness only he can muster.

"so be good for me, eh? love your praise? earn it."

you've always been an over achiever, proven once again by the way you take him to the root in one long, broad stroke with any complaints at the sheer size of him resting firmly behind your clenched teeth.

"tight little thing, spread open over me like you were meant for it. for me." he runs a gloved thumb over your swollen bottom lip. "there's tha' look. drivin' me bloody insane when you gave kyle tha' molten gaze. none o' tha' now, yeah?"

he creeps his ungloved hand down to circle your pearl with the spit-slick pads of his fingers, drawing in a sharp breath when your walls flutter and constrict around his cock at the feel of something other than your toy giving you the relief you need after a hard day's work.

"bloody fuckin' 'ell."

ghost claims a fistful of hair, pulling you closer to him, his breath warming the stinging, throbbing mark he bit onto the delicate skin of your neck. the shuffling of feet right outside the door snap you out of your daze, fingernails sinking into the bulging muscle of his chest but he has none of it.

he uses your hair to direct your focus back onto him and even though he'd only given you a leading tug you felt some strands of your hair come off with a pop.

"easy. can't see your pretty face when i'm fuckin' ya if your lookin' away."

your expression twists into what you hope is bliss when he bucks his hips, your whimper drowning out his groan when he hits on something new.

something you want him to keep hitting.

"exactly like i'd thought."

everything else blurs together after that, and only when you're back in your room using a warm cloth to clean yourself up do you remember the other things he'd rumbled.

(inside o' ya, make you mine-)

(-get 'bout bein' with anyone else-)

(-ll to myself-)

you touch your tender pussy with gentle fingers at what he'd said in the end.

(leave tha' f'me, he swipes your hand away, i'll get ya there, pet.)

if price's compliments take a nose dive off a cliff you don't notice because you're getting your daily fill of them and ghost after dinner every night. kyle keeps them to one word and soap likes to tempt fate as always.

[3amfanfiction]

Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter three)

18+ 3.8k. homelander x f!reader. pre-s1. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, forced relationship, slow burn, eventual smut. chapter 3/6. fic directory. AO3.

Now that he's got you all to himself, it's clear that Homelander has no intention of letting you go. For the sake of your own survival, you have no choice but to adopt his madness and play along with his domestic fantasy.

Homelander is insane.

You don’t know how to reconcile the hero of Vought’s marketing with this man, whose very presence unnerves you. There’s something uncanny about the way he moves, speaks, even the way he smiles at you. It all feels simultaneously practiced, and yet like he’s never actually spoken one on one to another human being.

The sentiment spins in your mind like a record, the melody scratchy and discordant. It’s as though you’ve fallen into some kind of bizzaro dimension where up is down, the sky is green, and Vought’s golden hero is a delusional kidnapping maniac who premeditated your abduction to the point of filling his home with a perfectly curated wardrobe for you. Even the products in the bathroom mirror your own.

You are home.

The conviction with which he said it gives you goosebumps. In the moment you’d been numb, trapped somewhere between reality and dream. That feeling–some mixture of shock and whatever he drugged you with–lingers with you even now, like you’ll wake up from this nightmarish fantasy at any moment.

You smooth your hands down your body, now clad in unfamiliar silk that feels cool and expensive against your skin. The sleep wear fits you like a glove. It’s your favorite color. It could have been pulled straight from your own closet if not for the lack of wear and the undoubtedly exorbitant price tag. All for wearing to bed.

Bed.

Nerves flutter in your gut like caged birds. You give yourself one last lingering look in the mirror. Washed and lotioned with the menagerie of products left for you, you’re unable to stall in the bathroom any longer. You’re as “comfortable” as you’re going to get, and Homelander’s waiting for you.

The thought makes you shiver. You can still feel his hands on your wrists like phantom shackles. From the moment he snapped and grabbed you, shocking you with immeasurable inhuman strength, you knew you were going to have to proceed with extreme caution. There’s something deeply wrong with him, and you’re terrified of what else he’s capable of.

What if you’re not the first person he’s done this to?

Worse than that thought, what if you’re not the last?

It’s a short walk back to the bedroom, the way lit by the dim spotlights that hang over the portraits that litter the walls. There’s an eeriness to the penthouse that makes you feel as though you’re walking through an empty museum after hours. The glossy wood flooring is as cold as tile beneath your bare feet, every part of this place hard and manufactured. It feels more like an enclosure than a home.

Even more bizarre than the decor is the layout itself. You haven’t seen the whole place yet–he had insisted a tour was for daylight hours–but rounding the corner from the living room takes you to an open alcove that serves as his bedroom. You hesitate in the open hall, struck by the sight of yourself reflected a dozen times over in the mirrors that make up his bedroom walls and ceiling, and Homelander himself already tucked into bed, his torso bare.

Your stomach flips. He smiles at you, beckoning you with a nod towards the empty side of the bed. Anxiety crawls up your spine like an insect with every step you take towards the bed, worsened by the open anticipation he watches you with. It goes against your every instinct to move closer to him.

Just as you reach the bed, he flips the blanket down for you. You tense, gaze dipping, but you’re relieved to find that he is not entirely nude. He’s wearing sleep pants with a thin band that nicely hugs the sharp jut of his hip, following the slight curve of his stomach. He’s leaner than the chiseled exaggeration of his suit implies, but his strength is no illusion. His hand felt like a steel vice around your wrist, his pull like being guided by a freight train. 

Homelander clears his throat and your eyes snap back up to his. You realize all at once you’ve been standing there in silence staring for far too long at his half-exposed body. Embarrassment hits in a hot rush and you mumble some kind of half formed apology, busying yourself with slipping into the bed, lingering at the edge.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, watching you settle on your back and tug the blanket over yourself. “Like what you see?” he asks, smiling crookedly. Though he claims he has no intention of eating you, you wouldn’t know it by the look in his eyes. He has all the intensity of a bird of prey watching a rabbit skitter through an open field.

Not knowing how to respond, you stare wordlessly at him. You notice the asymmetry of his mouth for the first time, how it curves on one side. Christ, why can’t you stop staring at him like this? Every time you try to formulate a response–something, anything–the words get jumbled up in your throat, threatening to choke you. At a loss, you roll onto your side, putting your back to him and screwing your eyes shut. The bed dips suddenly and an arm slipping around your waist startles you into a jerk, your body going tense.

“Jeeze, so jumpy,” he laughs, breath hot on the nape of your neck. He pulls your body flush against his, your soft curves fitting seamlessly against his wrought iron edges. His strength is impossible to ignore, inhuman and titanous. You can feel it in every part of him, but nowhere more keenly than in the flex of his arm as it encircles you, pinning you against him.

He sighs into the crook of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “I’ve really been looking forward to this,” he murmurs, his words nearly beneath the thunderous racket of your own heart in your ears. Your body is awash in heat, and not just from the flush rolling through you. He’s as hot as a furnace at your back, as if his skin conducts heat just as well as the steel he feels made from.

If there was any doubt before that you had no choice but to yield to him, it’s evaporated now. He could crush you without so much as a second thought if he decides you don’t fit whatever elaborate fantasy he’s created in his mind. He could make you disappear.

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging the shell of your ear with his nose. “I’m gonna take good care of you, okay?”

The pressure of a sob swells up in your throat, the reality of your situation folding in on you with the weight of the world, but you choke it back. Hesitantly, you place your hand over his forearm and squeeze, hoping it will be enough of an answer to appease him.

You feel his smile in the way he caresses the sensitive flesh of your neck with his mouth. In turn, he squeezes you against his chest like a child would his new favorite toy, covetous and possessive. It makes you wonder what sort of boy he’d been: was he the sort to be precious with his toys, or was he the sort who wore them threadbare before looking for the next new and shiny thing?

“‘Atta girl.”

Although sleep doesn’t come easily, it does at least come eventually. The room is dark, but not pitch black, and the ambient sounds of high altitude winds spilling in from his open windows are surprisingly soothing, better than the scratchy ocean recordings you usually drift to.

The exhaustion you experience in the aftermath of your abduction overtakes you, pitching you into a deep slumber. You spend the night dreaming a tumultuous mix of reality and nightmare, some aspects exaggerated while others play out perfectly as they were. The truth of your situation is nightmarish enough without any theatrics from your imagination. 

Waking up in Homelander’s bed for the second time is no less disorienting than it was the first time. Last night returns to you in bits and pieces, but nothing grounds you in reality as swiftly as the heavy arm looped around your waist, and the steady warm breaths wafting over the back of your neck, giving you goosebumps. His other arm is stretched out under your pillow, his hand resting palm up by the edge of it.

Is he asleep…?

“G’morning,” Homelander purrs, giving a firm squeeze around your middle. Not asleep, which leaves you wondering how long he’s been awake, assuming the man actually does sleep. There’s been no lack of speculation towards how human supes really are or aren’t, whether they need to eat or rest the way regular humans do. Especially those as powerful as Homelander.

The sleepy slur and fray of his voice gives you hope that he does, though. On top of everything else, it would be too unsettling a horror to learn that he doesn’t.

“Morning,” you give back after a beat, hating how meek your voice is. The tension in your body makes everything sound tight and forced. You see his fingers flex just before he curls his arm inward, hand clutching your shoulder to embrace you.

“I don’t know about you,” he says in your ear, lips brushing the shell of it as he speaks. “But that was the best damn night of sleep I’ve ever had.”

That solves that, you suppose.

The silence that follows makes you realize he was prompting you.

“Same.” The lie hitches in your throat like a hiccup.

Another pause, and then Homelander is shifting, uncoiling his arms from around you and lifting up on his side. With a hand on your shoulder he turns you on to your back, bringing you to face him. You meet his gaze, but something about the look in his eyes turns your gut cold. There’s no softness in the lines of his face, not even thinning tethers of patience. There’s simply… nothing.

“Don’t ever lie to me,” he says, his voice set low and strangely hollow. “You’re free to do whatever you want. Except for that. Understand?”

Your throat clicks on a dry swallow. The weight of his stare makes it hard to breathe. You nod.

“Tell me you understand,” he says slowly, each perfectly annunciated word dripping with malice. There’s no pleading in his voice the way there had been last night. He’s composed entirely of cold and hard lines that make you feel caged, the bars shrinking around you.

“I understand,” you choke out.

Just like that, the lines at the corners of his eyes soften, crinkling with his smile. He leans in to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. The abruptness of the shift is enough to give you whiplash, leaving you dazed. For just a moment, he was another person entirely.

“That’s my girl,” he says, seeming to savor every word on his tongue. Dumbstruck, you watch him climb out of bed, swinging his arms in a slow stretch.

“Uhm,” you start, clearing your voice of the faint tremor in it. “I should, uh… Call someone. Work. They’re going to be worried if–”

“Already taken care of,” he cuts in, lifting his suit from the suit rack next to the bed. Your eyes dart to the crumpled one he shed the night before, still in a pile. How many of those does he have? “Everyone you know is under the impression that you had a mild stress-induced nervous breakdown, and are currently on an impromptu vacation in Europe, totally off the grid,” he says with a smile, sliding his hand smoothly through the air.

You pale. Whenever work came to be too much, you’ve joked about disappearing like that, but would anyone actually believe you have? You suddenly regret the plethora of hyperbolic existential posts you’ve made.

“Oh,” is all you manage to say, feeling sick.

Homelander, on the other hand, looks as bright as the morning sun. “So! Who’s ready for breakfast?”

Regardless of whether or not cooking is enjoyable, it’s always a reliable routine. Breakfast perhaps most of all. Eggs, toast, bacon and whatever fruit is in season. You find all these things and more in dizzying variety and proportion in Homelander’s lavish kitchen.

The eggs are large and brown, the bacon wrapped in butcher's paper rather than plastic, and cut in thick strips. The artisanal loaf of bread has a perfectly crisp golden crust, soft on the inside as you slice it. It’s everything you know, but elevated.

The opulence feels weighted. It makes you wonder how you could ever be expected to pay for any of this. How you could be worth any of this. Every ounce of silky butter you swipe over the piece of artisan toast in your hand feels like another smattering of grave soil peppering you from above, burying you deeper than you already are.

You don’t owe him for any of this. You didn’t ask for it. Regardless, you lick an excess smear of jam from your thumb–the color of it as red and vibrant as fresh blood–and all at once you are Persephone taking the pomegranate seeds between her lips. There is a terrible feeling of complicitness in this, despite that you’re only trying to survive.

Homelander lurks behind you while you cook, observing from a slight distance with an idyllic smile, his hands clasped behind his back. While you’re still wearing your pajamas, he’s wearing his hero suit again, the bulk of it returning to him his larger than life silhouette.

The silence he observes you in is unnerving, making everything else too loud in comparison. It would be nice if he’d at least sit. Instead, you’re keenly aware of the oppressive weight of his expectant gaze the entire time you cook.

“Looks delicious,” he says, his voice suddenly so close that you startle, the butterknife slipping from your hand and clattering on the marble countertop. His gloved hands cup your elbows and squeeze, soothing and overly familiar. “Oops-a-daisy,” he laughs, as if you’re just clumsy. His hands stroke slowly up and down your arms.

You snatch the knife up from the countertop and dutifully wipe away the jam splatter with a dishtowel. “I hope you like it,” you say distractedly, heart racing.

“How could I not?” he asks in that same low, pleased tone. He gives your arms an excited little shimmy before releasing them, reaching around either side of you to grab each plate. You feel his chest against your back, where he lingers just a second too long. “You made it just for me, after all.”

He moves away from you, taking the plates with him to the small round table near the floor to ceiling windows. The view from his penthouse is stunning–overlooking the entire city, all the way out to the waterfront–but it’s also dizzying. It unsettles your stomach to sit so close to the window, the size of them making it feel as though there’s nothing between you and a hundred story fall.

“You’re not scared of heights, are you?” He asks, settling down across from you.

You look from the window to him. He wastes no time splaying a cloth napkin in his lap and picking up his utensils, though he never takes his eyes off of you. You’re not sure he ever does. “Uh…Not particularly. I just don’t think I’ve ever been up so high,” you say, draping your own napkin similarly in your lap. Never has breakfast felt like such a formal affair.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says confidently, jabbing his knife into the yolk of his egg to spread over his buttered toast. “I’ll take you flying again. You’ll be conscious this time around,” he chuckles, flipping a piece of bacon on top as well.

Your gut tightens, toast paused halfway to your parted lips. You gawk at him. It’s difficult to comprehend how someone can be so beyond reproach, so intensely cavalier about something like drugging you into unconsciousness and kidnapping you.

I saved you. That his voice already lives in your mind–correcting you–is sickening in and of itself. Your already tenuous appetite vanishes, but you take a bite of the toast out of spite. The jam’s farm fresh sweetness is tart, though it’s offset perfectly by the savory sea salt richness of the butter. 

It’s as exquisite as it is repulsive.

A crisp snap brings your attention abruptly back to Homelander, whose hand is still poised in the air, his thumb and middle finger pressed together. His hand falls away once he has your attention, his smile returning. “That good, huh? Looked like you went a million miles away.”

If only, you seethe, taking another bite of the toast. You use the moment to chew, swallowing the anger over being snapped at alongside your mouthful of food.

“It’s delicious,” you say, curating your words carefully. Don’t ever lie to me, his words echo again, helping you to shape a mental survival guide. Feeling his eyes on you, you meet them. His smile widens a touch, though you don’t think it quite reaches his eyes. He’s appraising you like one might an exhibit at a museum.

Glancing down at his plate, you notice he hasn’t really eaten his breakfast so much as he’s toyed with it. It’s all just cut apart, yellow egg yolk oozing slowly across the pristine white plate. “Is there something wrong with yours?” you ask with a lurch of anxiety. He’s drugged you once already.

“Not at all,” he beams with clean white teeth, hands resting in loose fists on either side of his plate. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The strange earnestness of the compliment stuns you. “Thank you,” you say uneasily, still not convinced there wasn’t something in the jam, or maybe the butter.

His smile broadens and this time it reaches all the way up, crinkling his eyes at their outer corners. There’s a sort of pride in his expression that makes you feel like a dog that’s finally learned the trick he’s been trying to teach you. 

“Whelp,” he sighs, clapping his hands together as he stands. “As much as I hate to go, duty calls,” he says, sliding his chair back beneath the table. Rounding it, he holds his hand out to you. “Walk me out?” he asks, his smile gleaming with predator charm. You only hesitate briefly before slipping your hand into his, reminding yourself to choose your battles wisely.

He lifts you to your feet with such ease it makes your stomach flip, breath hitching in your throat. He doesn’t let go of your hand, choosing to keep it snug within his grasp as he walks you through the decorated halls of his penthouse. There’s scarcely a space untouched by decor, making even these spacious corridors feel claustrophobic, dozens of carved and painted eyes leering at you as you pass.

The tour of the penthouse had been brief, awkward. He hadn’t especially known what to say about each room, giving you more facts about the artwork than anything. The lack of personal effects only make the place feel even more like a museum than it had before.

The only pictures of him were Vought promotional material. Not a single photo of him outside of his suit. No trace of family or childhood. Just The Homelander.

He holds your hand all the way up to a set of double doors made from dark wood, where he stops and turns to face you. “Thanks for breakfast,” he says with a picture perfect pearly white smile. Not a speck of food to be found. Uncomfortable with how fixated you’ve become on the condition of his teeth, you force your attention back on his eyes and nod.

“You’re welcome.”

He leans closer, and you have to fight the urge to lean back.

“Will you kiss me goodbye?”

You blink, the question striking you in the same way his compliment had, but for a different reason. In the wake of asking, his smile has lost that razor sharp edge it usually carries. Like his eyes, it’s softer now. More boyish. There’s a level of nervous apprehension in it that’s a stark contrast from his usual smugness. Yet again it hardly feels like you’re even looking at the same person.

Swallowing dryly, you bring your hand to the underside of his strong jaw. His skin is warm under your fingers, and he leans readily into your touch. You can feel the tension in the muscle beneath his cleanly shaven face as you turn it away, simultaneously moving in to press your lips to his cheek.

When you pull away, he’s staring sidelong at you, his face still turned away, his thin lips parted. For a beat, you think he’s going to be upset, but you realize quickly that the heat you see rushing to his cheeks isn’t anger. It’s a blush. Of all the ways you expected him to react, bashful was not among them.

“Okie-dokie,” he says, suddenly sheepish, and the tension in your shoulders drains as he relinquishes your other hand, busying himself with slipping off one of his gloves. “Should be home around 4:00, but I might be able to squeeze out closer to 3:00,” he says, tossing you a conspiratory little wink. As if you should be as excited as he is at the thought.

You watch him reach for a black plate next to the door handle, which he slides up to reveal a sleek number pad with a glowing blue circle, which he presses his thumb to. The circle turns green, and you hear a mechanism unlatch. Your stomach drops. All at once you understand why he brought you all the way to the door. He wanted you to see this.

“Pretty nifty, huh?” he asks, sliding his glove back on. “State of the art,” he says with a grin, pulling the door open. Over his shoulder, you see nothing but a long, long hall and a distant elevator at the end of it. You consider screaming down it to see if anyone might hear you, but the noise gets stuck in your throat. Even if they heard you, no one would reach you in time.

Homelander steps through the threshold, lingering in the doorway, leaning partially inside. “Don’t you worry,” he says, taking in the stricken expression you wear. He looks pleased with himself. “You’ll be perfectly safe. No way anyone’s getting in or out–aside from me, that is.”

He offers a few parting words, but they distort into unintelligible static. The door closes. That green circle turns blue, and the locking mechanism echoes in your ears like the slam of a prison gate. Turning around, you stare down the lengthy corridor you came from, your ears buzzing with the eerie quietness of the penthouse.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

[3amfanfiction]

going to combust thinking about scissoring tboy soap

I need he and i’s tdicks to kiss❤️

-🫀

cw: oh you know. t4t. everyone's genitals are referred to as cock/dick/growth and pussy/cunt/hole. breeding kink, squirting, & just a tiny smidge of scent kink just for you sweet 🫀

he's got your legs pinned back as far as you can manage with his hands planted on the backs of your thighs, leaning his considerable weight against you until your breaths go quick and shallow. with the way he straddles you he's got all the power, abs flexing as he drags himself across your sex, cocks catching infrequently enough to leave you a whining mess. he doesn't take sympathy, just angles his hips until he can slip his growth through your folds, groaning at how wet he finds you

half of it's his mess, leaking all over you as he is. his scent is strong, invading your senses every time you hiccup through another breath.

he thumbs your cock when you get too needy, a long string of spit dangling down from his lips to wet your engorged head, working you over as he spews filth down at you. how he's gonna breed you, finger his cum into your needy hole.

he cums like a geyser, raining on your poor twitching cock, dripping down to your pussy which he keeps spread open with his thumbs. he even licks up the bit that lands on your chest and face, feeds it back into your hole with his hot tongue. his words are hard to make out when he's mumbling them into your cunt but you cum when you when you hear something that sounds suspiciously like 'fat little bairn'

[3amfanfiction]

And they were roommates? Pt 2

Simon lets you feed yourself after that, him devouring his own food. Though he doesn't let you leave his lap. He keeps an arm around your waist.

Kyle finishes your new phone(its your favorite color), able to transfer all the data from the previous one. He even got a case for it.

"So...wanna tell me how it broke?" Kyle asks sliding your new phone towards you.

"I dont really want to....." A pout crosses your face. "You guys are mad enough and I'm to tired to argue anymore."

A grunt from Simon. "He smash yer phone?"

"C'mon tell us, you know we'll find out eventually." Kyle was smug.

"I threw it at his head.....when he wouldn't let go of me..." You sighed out stabbing the last peice of chicken with your fork.

Kyle's phone chimed, then Simon's. They share a look with each other then look at you.

"Price says to get some sleep. That we'll all sit down in the morning. "

"I don't understand why the rules are gonna change...I didn't break any...." You mutter out.

Kyle points at you, "Don't start."

Simon's hand squeezes your hip, "didn't break it, just bent it."

"You guys are ridiculous. All these damn rules, I'm not a kid. I should be able to have someone over without you guys freaking out."

Simon breathes out his nose and Kyle shakes his head.

"We'll discuss it in the morning." Kyle says.

[3amfanfiction]

WIP Wednesday

[3amfanfiction]

love imagining simon thinkin its his abs that got u swoonin over him but no its his tummy!!

thinkin about how he pretends not to notice the way your eyes rove over his pudge, watching the happy trail trickle from his jutted belly before disappearing underneath his low-hanging grey sweats. or the way when he wears a shirt, you can see the way the muscles round when it drags to his tummy, his hard lines softening to his curves.

thinkin about simon getting confused about your extra enthusiasm when he fucks you in doggy. but how could you even begin to explain the way when he fucks you, you feel his belly pressing onto your back and it drives you fucking crazy because you feel the soft ripples of fat mingling with the robust tensing of muscles, both working together to flatten you on the bed so he can pump his thick cock deeply-

and of course simon isnt one to notice your attention only to dismiss and ignore it so he begins buying shirts that are just a size smaller so he can watch the way your eyes gloss over, your lips parting for a quiet gasp whenever you see him strut in the room.

you get so horny and needy so fast that all simon’s got to do is fall onto the couch, spread his legs a bit, and then you’re clamouring to get between them, your head pressed on the inside of his thigh, looking up at him with wide eyes. simon cups your cheek, this thumb swiping over your lips, and coos when you begin sucking his finger even without being told to.

just!! im droolin over the prospect of a retired simon whose bulk isnt about his muscles anymore but his pudge rahhghh i need him sooo bad

[3amfanfiction]

Thinking about Ghost who's as good as a virgin, only ever had proper sex once and he was too big for the bird, fucked her too hard, too deep, too fast, to the point where she had to push him off and run to throw up. Made his stomach churn, certainly didn't make him eager to do it again. He's used to being the last one at the bar, watching with Price as Soap and Gaz take their prizes home with a wink over their shoulders. Used to the birds that only have enough confidence to ask him to take them to the bathroom, that balk when they feel the monster between his legs. Used to licking between a pretty thing's legs so she doesn't feel like she made the wrong choice, even when Ghost knows she did.

Which is why he doesn't know how he ended up under you. Your hands pressed against his chest, your brows pinched together as you circle your hips, easing your way down, down, down his thick cock. Maybe it was the way you'd dragged him to the door of the bar, pointed out your car and held the door for him. Maybe it was the way you'd stopped him from stripping you when you closed your apartment door. Maybe it was the fact that he'd bounced when he hit your mattress, his body weightless for just a second before you'd climbed on top of him and fixed your mouth over his. Maybe it was the way you'd coo-ed at him, held his face between your hands and pouted those pretty lips when you told him, "what a good boy you are for me."

It could have been the way you'd sat on his chest while he lapped at your folds, or the way you'd moved his head with a tight grip on his hair. Or maybe it was the pure and simple fact that when you tugged his straining cock free of his trousers you'd told him, "I really hoped you'd be bigger" with a sparkle in your eyes. All Ghost knows is that when you settle on his lap, the sigh you let out makes his cock twitch, and he has to pull you off with a garbled apology before the way you grind against him makes him come.

[3amfanfiction]

The TF 141 Compatibility Love Report

For: @sentientcave

Disclaimer:

This is based on my personal opinion and interpretation of you and the character. 

the user makes no claims to be a real doctor or any medical professional. The (not) Doctor has but a penny and some lint to her name so please don’t sue if you hate the results! (seriously these student loans are already taking their pound of flesh, in the words of Whitney Houston (RIP Queen) I have NOTHINGGG!)

The Doc says your TF 141 Perfect Match is…

Captain John Price!

Romance: Do you possibly have a thing for authority? Maybe you like the idea of having a partner who is consistently solid in the face of adversity?  If so then I think Price is for you! John is a solid force. Often his more forward nature is overshadowed by Ghost, but Price is just as focused and relentless. As a partner to you I think Price would help guide and affirm you in a way that is calculating and keeps in mind your need for agency. Despite his more gruff qualities I think he has the capability of being kind and affectionate to his partners. Holding you close by a fireplace, kisses on the cheek that itch because of his beard, drives in the countryside with his hand on you at all times. Price’s relationship with you would be like Whiskey and Sunday mornings.

Don’t cuss me out, but I think maybe you’d like a bit of dominance and possessiveness kink? If I’m not wrong, Price would work for you well. He is someone with infinite control of his emotions but he makes what he wants and how he wants it well known. That would apply for you as well. I think you have an invested interest in morality or at least in being understanding. I can’t see you enjoying being with someone who is completely in it for themselves, so Price and his morally gray views are the perfect medium. He’d also be the type to go down swinging about you and God forbid if he can’t get down and dirty in a fight he’d use every trick in the book to psychologically handle business.

Which leads me to the freak shit!

Sex: Idk my radar is pinging off a possible size/dominance kink friend. Price is someone who would take control of your senses in every way. The layered notes of the cigars he smokes on his skin, using his broadness to overwhelm you, gruffly whispering what he’s gonna do and how. Yeah… he’s great if you want some nasty freak shit that toes the line to being a no holds bar wrestling match. Despite the fandom calling him old I think his pride and self control will keep him in the sack. Good luck Charlie (hahaha) because he’s not someone who’ll be okay with giving you the bare minimum. 

Possible points of Contention:

Self righteous

Obstinate bastard

Morally gray may turn a lil more in the black when threatened

Beard burn and your couch will always smell of smoke 

Your Poly Pairing (haha) is….

PriceSoap!

This is all intuitive and the dark spirits tell me this is the pairing that would work best for you. I think the two would always keep you on your toes in the best and sometimes worst ways lmao. Every day would be different with them and who doesn't like a owner (Price) who has perfect control of their dog (Soap). Soap can remind you to smell the roses and roll with the punches and Price will be the solid force behind you, ready to lend an ear or take over if you need him to!

[3amfanfiction]

hii! can you do what it would be like asking price to put pads on the shopping list?? and then when price goes shopping he has to call you to ask for what size ?? 😭😭 btw i love love your work, hope u had a good day💞.

im pretty sure you're referring to this post but i decided to make this price x reader so :) enjoy!

bsf marriage pact!price x reader, he's slightly creepy but he's sweet (this is actually a bit dubcon but its in good spirit)

you had had a shit day. actually, make that a shit week. emotional the whole time, feeling lonely, depressed, and with the weirdest cravings. right when you were about to call your best friend and rant about how terrible you felt, you had went to the bathroom and- oh.

that explains a lot.

and now here you were, sitting on the toilet for the past ten minutes, contemplating. you were completely out of all period products and your flow was so heavy there was no way you were making it to the store free bleeding or with toilet paper as a makeshift pad. of course, that's when john decided to call you (let's be real, who doesn't take their phone to the bathroom. don't judge.)

"evenin', duckie."

"ugh john, i told you not to call me that. its so annoying."

john grunted a chuckle into the phone, swiping a hand over his beard. "you love it." silence. he could practically hear your eye roll. "dinner tonight?" he was pacing his apartment, uncharacteristic for a man like him. calm, cool, collected. never when it came to you.

"can't, sorry. maybe in a few days." he grunted. "could order a takeaway?" you sighed in his ear, the sound a melody he craved to hear over and over again. on lazy saturdays and in-between small fights over laundry. baby steps, though.

"its just not in the cards tonight, john, i'm sorry." you were never like this, withholding information. even when you cancelled on him, it was with a long-winded explanation with the names of about seven people he didn't know and plans you didn't want to go to. "'s wrong, duck? got a hot date or somethin'?" he mentally crossed his fingers, not allowing a physical expression. he wasn't that whipped. not yet.

"no, im just sick. and tired." his muscles relaxed. he started putting on his boots and grabbed a fleece, something gaz insisted was not too tryhard for someone like him. "i'll run to the store and grab ya medicine, hm? what'dya need?" you sighed again, rubbing your fingers to your forehead. he obviously was not giving this up and you did really need pads...

"ill text you a list when you get there. thanks john."

"anythin' for you, duckie."

list: pads, advil, that one chocolate candy you know i like, something for dinner

shit. price had been with a woman or two, but had never had to buy her pads. of course, he'd never let it get to that stage, not when he had you to take care of. but now here he was, staring at playtex and always and what the fuck was a diva cup? he'd better call you.

"all ok, john?"

"ya didn't give me a color on your pads, duck." you giggled. of course he paid attention to the green versus orange pads.

"its pretty heavy so some of the overnight and extra daytime ones would work." silence.

"...there's numbers." your cheeks warmed. you couldn't believe you were talking about this with john of all people.

"god, john. this feels so embarrassing. so weird to talk about with you."

"why? gotta know this for the rest of my life, duckie." shit. he was referring to that night a couple weeks ago, when you confessed to him you thought you'd never find love. when he said he'd marry you in a heartbeat, just say the word. when you compromised by telling him if you were still single in two years, you'd go to the courthouse then and there. when you didn't see him turn and write the date in phone, just as a reminder.

"5, john. there should be a moon symbol or something. and then 3. should be green, i think?" he grunted an affirmation, putting the respective pads in his cart. he turned around, having said goodbye and ended the call, and was subsequently greeted by three women, staring. paused in their product selection, staring openmouthed at how nonchalant he was about buying pads.

30 minutes later he was at your place, groceries and takeaway in hand as he used his spare key to let himself in. "duck?" all quiet. he stalked through your place and noticed the light on in the bathroom. one, two, three quick knocks. "john?" "'s me. can i come in?" "no i- need you to get me something." he waited patiently. "can you go to my dresser and grab a pair of underwear. something ugly, lots of coverage." who was he to say no to a free invite to your underwear drawer?

john dropped the pads outside your bathroom door and headed to your bedroom. finding your dresser, he had to give himself a second. calm down, old man. they're all clean.

that didn't stop him from sniffing a few, reveling at the scent of your laundry detergent. he almost groaned at the scent, imagining you in them. even in the "unsexy" pairs, your curves clothed in cotton and elastic, wrapped up in a lovely package. all his.

john selected a pair with "lots of coverage", whatever that meant, and headed to your bathroom. he opened the door with ease, setting your pads down on the counter. you shrieked.

"john! im half naked, you need to knock." obviously, the sight of your bare thighs and the top of your mound peaking out was most welcome, but he was more concerned about getting you off the toilet and putting food in your belly. "jus' me, duckie. come on, show me how to do it." he gestured at the pads. he couldn't be serious.

you slowly unboxed them, taking care to cover your naked body as much as possible. even while moving slowly, your shirt still shifted and he caught glimpses of your pretty pussy. an image for another day, when you weren't in pain. he focused on your fingers, deftly putting the pad on your underwear with years of practice. he memorized how you placed the pad, ensuring it stuck to your underwear before tearing the paper off the wings and tucking them on the other side. you looked up at him and he nodded, mission complete. "thank you, by the way." he kissed your forehead, so quick you could have missed it in a blink.

"turn around, i have to put it on." he sat back on his haunches, staring. "go'on. 've gotta learn somehow." you were too tired to care, ready to devour your dinner. you missed his hungry gaze as you revealed your cunt to him, wanting even though it was covered in blood. you missed his fingers twitching as you slowly pulled on your underwear, fabric caressing your skin like he yearned to. you got up, flushed, and washed your hands, missing how he tucked his fingers in belt loops and leaned back into the wall, a move he'd done many times in his tac vest.

"thank you, john. truly." he gave you a grin under the muttonchops, all satisfied. task finished, mission accomplished. you had asked him to do this, a husbandly duty. after you dried your hands, you made a move for the door, but he stopped you with a hand to the jaw. he brushed his beard against you, feeling the shiver in your bones. his mouth hovered near your ear, accent coming out low and sultry. "anythin' for my future wife, duckie."

--

ngl this got a bit weird but i like it??? had to struggle to not lean into my simon riley weirdness tendencies as im still learning john as a character.