juniferyw - Tumblr blog

juniferyw · 11 days ago

Text

𝐩𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝. [costco misadventures]

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬: it costs nothing to be kind. so you leap at your chance to do a good deed for a clearly irate stranger and in return you’d feel a warm, self-righteous feeling in your heart knowing you’re a good person—though you start to question the depth of your kindness when said stranger asks you for a favour you should, by all logic, refuse.

masterlist | ao3 | mdni | take heed: simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader, afab reader, domestic au, pretend relationship, fake marriage, size difference, love at first sight, dubious consent, obsessive behaviour, possessive behaviour, fluff, angst, stalking, manipulation, dark romance.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢.

The glaring fluorescent lights from above strains his eyes just a little. The clamour of customers busying themselves with their tank of carts from every which way only exacerbated Simon’s growing irritation. He can’t even hear his thoughts above all the noise; if he could, he’d choose to be back in the derrick, suspended high above the rig floor just labouring away through all the mud and chemicals in the height of summer.

Simon is only at the threshold of the large wholesale warehouse, and yet he is already flexing his taut fists, ready for a poor lad to even look at him sideways. The anger in him is palpable.

Price is the only reason for why he is suddenly at earth’s very own purgatory. Hearing him mention something along the lines of scoring a fair deal on a bulk of premium meats piqued his interest enough to drive ungodly miles for some measly groceries.

Simon has been meaning to stock up his barren fridge since he got back less than a week ago. The amount of takeout he’s been ingesting was beginning to slow him down. The food was quick, easy and predictable. But there was always an after effect where he’d feel the lull of his energy depleting. He figures he might as well make use of the grill he got for his twenty-ninth birthday that’s been collecting dust ever since.

Then again, that might not even happen.

A short elderly woman clad in Costco’s garish red trademark vest is staunchly refusing him entry, pressing him hard about some bullshit membership card. Still, Simon has to commend her, to be able to have gumption at her age against someone like him—even if the shrill of her critical, condescending tone is getting under his skin.

He’s about to call it quits. Despite wanting—with every fibre of his being—to sock someone in the throat, he’d figure a punching bag was a better alternative for some stress reliever at times like these—mainly for one, they don’t call the police on him.

The rumbles of an oversized cart emerges close from behind, and with that incessant noise accompanied the sweetest sound he’s heard in his waking lifetime.

“Honey!” a laugh that sounds strikingly like a gentle, chime of bells follows. “Honey—I thought I told you to wait for me by the trolleys.”

“Silly man.” You shake your head in feigned indignation; the smile on your face never falters.

—And god have mercy, that smile..

Simon wonders if he really is with the land of the living or if he finally kicked the bucket. But too many tell-tale signs reminds him that he’s alive—because the stale air around him still lingers and the obnoxious, blinding lights have finally given him a slight migraine that rings softly in the back of his head. And above all, Simon can feel the blood pumping through his veins; he can feel his heart beating—pulsing so hard he fears you can hear it too.

“Please excuse my husband—he hasn’t listened to me since I told him Liverpool was better than United.”

You dig into your purse before flashing the employee your card. The woman takes a quick scan of your printed picture and back up to your face; her face remains hard and unconvinced. “Why do you not have a household card?”

Simon raises his brows slightly and crosses his arms, looking down at you expectantly, wondering what you’ll say next to cover up your impromptu façade. Impressively, her question doesn’t shake you. Instead, you casually tuck the card back into the pocket of your purse and stand closer beside him—close enough that he suddenly feels off about himself. Like he isn’t sure why he’s caring about his attire that haphazardly chose this morning—or how the scent of his aftershave that permeates his being might be received.

So he hardens his face and resolve, flexing his taut muscles as if the tension alone could will away the flicker of doubt he refuses to acknowledge.

“I’ve just never bothered to change it—especially since he rarely comes with me to do the groceries.” You bump your shoulder against him lightly in playful admonishment.

Simon is afraid to admit to himself that the touch was electrifying. Quite embarrassing really that you, a pretty stranger, could have such an effect on him. He doesn’t necessarily consider himself a philanderer, but he also doesn't consider himself particularly celibate either. He had his fair share of experiences with women—tasted them enough to kill the mystery.

The countless nights where he tangled with naked limbs in the throes of passion had never reset him back to his awkward youth. But somehow with you, he is reminded of what he used to be; where simple, innocuous exchanges would render him useless.

Simon clenches his jaw and puffs up his chest.

“Next time, if you come without your wife you will still be refused entry—doesn’t matter if she is a member, you have to come with her or exchange your membership card for a household one.” She waves the two of you off to continue manning her post with more shoppers trickling in.

You take a furtive look back behind your shoulder before sharing him a knowing smile.

“They’re very tight on security around here, unfortunately you have to show your card when you checkout as well.”

Simon notices the way you do not attempt to abandon him, keeping close to him like a familiar friend. He bites the bottom corner of his lip to keep it from pulling and looks ahead after stalling his gaze a second too much.

On your end, your stomach was doing leaps, walking aimlessly with a stranger who you thought would be filled with gratitude. You imagine a scene where you both share a laugh at the whole situation—something along the lines of cheating the system; the man would tell you that it is his first time at this store, tell you that the security was as tight as the military, and thank you for your generosity and quick wit to help out a poor, lost soul like him.

Instead he passively strolls at a leisurely pace, letting you take the lead of the direction—which makes sense as he has never stepped foot here before—but his silence was overbearing; your previous attempt failed to invoke some sort of conversation from him.

Perhaps, you have overstepped.

Perhaps he does not need nor appreciate the help—that he would want to sign up for a membership on the spot and not have a convoluted lie follow him from a stupid, intrusive stranger who gave him an unwarranted favour. Thinking about it much harder, he does not seem like the type to even ask for help.

Big. Formidable. Intimidating. You’re now all too aware of the tattoos that ran across his arm, the scars and the permanent glower etched onto his face. You’re never the type to make assumptions based on another’s appearance, but the man next to you has you breathing slow and careful—waiting for the moment he’ll cuss you out for dragging him into your needless fabrication.

Your mind races as you second guess your actions—but he never protests.

Still, he allows you near and yet you still feel small next to him. Like a stray dog, you are unsure whether he’ll bite your hand if you keep stretching it out.

When you feel the moment has gone far too long with words unspoken, you instinctively kick your sociable, friendly pretence into overdrive—something to quell this oppressive hold he seemingly domineers over you. You start with your name.

“I come here once or twice a month, I don’t necessarily need a bulk every time but I guess it’s just the novelty of shopping wholesale—plus their bakery selection is amazing!” You look up at him with eyes wide and hopeful, desperate for just one acknowledging nod.

“Simon.” The man finally utters. You inconspicuously breathe out a sigh of relief and he contains the blood rushing to his cock when you repeat his name to yourself.

“What are you after? I noticed you didn’t grab a cart, something small?” Your steps instinctually lead you to the fresh produce aisle you religiously start with.

You stop slowly, inspecting the array of fruits and vegetables before you. He adjusts the crotch of his pants when you busy yourself with finding the ripest box of strawberries.

Simon clears his throat before replying, “steak cuts.”

“Oh I won’t be long then–” He cuts you off by taking a sharp breath through his teeth and shakes his head.

“Take your time,” Simon says with a gruff, slight upward tilt of his chin—and for some strange reason, you feel the need to comply. It’s as if he was your commanding officer, and he just gave you an order you’re bound to fulfill. You feel comfortable and uncomfortable all the same. He gives you no reason for you to be afraid of him, yet not enough for you to let your guard down.

You give a frail smile and put down your chosen box of berries. Unexpectedly, Simon grabs a hold of the handle and begins pushing, in which you entwine your fingers at the end of the metal cart, allowing you to resume taking charge of the navigation.

When you look back to flash him a gracious mien, Simon is suddenly lost in his view.

Time seemingly ceases to exist. The world he once knew unravels before him. His core beliefs—his ingrained convictions after years of moving through life with grit are now being questioned. His soul that is tempered by struggle and unyielding resolve, weathering the harshness of whatever finds him; it slips through his fingers like sand.

The meaning of life. The purpose of his existence is suddenly here. In a wholesale warehouse. With you.

This sudden domestic bliss. Unfamiliar, surreal, hopeful—it makes him sick and yet he craves it all the same.

His ghost leaves him for a mere moment, leaving him whole and human. For the first time he is unsure, can someone like him be deserving of something so good—something so innocent and pure? After all he’s done, what he’s seen—does he even deserve someone like you?

Simon is not above stealing. No stranger to the sins condemned in every house of god. Anything shiny he’ll take—no moral conundrum in himself or as to how his actions would make him seem to those who have the chance to perceive him.

And yet he is laughably wary and wanting. He wants to earn it, wants it given to him freely, unconditionally—can’t pull your hand in his and drive off in his truck to where you’ll cease to exist to none other than him in this world. No—you’ll run for the hills, won’t look at him the same way ever again, he’ll be lost to you forever.

This time something is different. He doesn't know what happened—but something happened.

All Simon knows is that he wants you to keep calling him ‘honey,’ introduce him as your big, silly husband to the masses—wants you to want him just the same, and you’re making it so hard for him to stay grounded to reality.

He doesn’t allow himself to be deluded enough to believe your kindness was only reserved for him—there are others before, and a part of him finds himself resenting you for that.

It doesn’t matter. In the end he’ll have you on your knees begging for his forgiveness, pleading for mercy for how could you possibly think to be so generous for anyone other than him. Just the mere fact that this isn’t your first time is enough for him to persecute you. There will be no leniency—won’t hear it, doesn’t care if you weren’t aware of his existence prior to this; he’s astute in his jurisdiction.

Simon slouches languidly against the handles with his arms crossed in front of him. His eyes follow your swinging hips as you walk ahead, blissfully unaware of his perverted fantasy to bend you over his knee and have you atone for the sins you’ve transgressed against him; he’ll make you believe as if kindness and decency were crimes worth condemning. Simon will do proper work to get through to you; a scornful, apathetic woman to the rest, a simpering, delicate bird just for him.

The cart quickly fills up with time. You begin to feel your shoulders drop, slowly learning to be comfortable with the silence, but you never let it linger long enough for it to be prolonged; always at the ready to share your personal opinion on the products you meticulously choose. You point out their longevity, their taste—hell, you’re sharing with him how much he can save by doing calculations on your phone.

Your prattle doesn’t seem to exhaust him, even if all he replies is in either a grunt or a nod; his eyes and demeanor tells you he’s ready to receive whatever you have to say. An oddly endearing feeling.

“Oh–Simon,” you stop him in the middle of traversing into another aisle. “They’re handing out free samples!” You're embarrassingly too excited about this. You catch yourself when he gives you a slight huff accompanied by a faint smile. “Would you mind waiting? O-Or you’re free to go on ahead without me, I’ll catch up with you later.”

You turn and join the small hoard of customers waiting for the next fresh batch of dumplings to be served. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, you do not dare to look back—instead, your attention is now solely on the savoury pieces of steam-fried morsels of assorted meat. You await your turn with impatience, feeling anxious at the time you’re taking away from the man and his one, single item he means to purchase.

Finally, when you stand at the front of the counter, the woman behind gives you two pieces in lieu of one as per everyone else. When you think it’s just good karma coming your way, she acknowledges you with a gushingly, sweet grin, “you two are absolutely adorable.”

“Oh..” Your mind works overtime to generate the meaning behind her comment before you grasp it entirely. Simon stands imposingly behind you—eyeing the dumplings wrapped in parchment paper liners in your hands. You look back at the woman to give a bashful smile. “We’re not–” Strong arm winds its way naturally around your waist, guiding you gently into the gravity of his being. The words fall silent at your lips; your eyes search for his, glancing up cautiously and gauging his face to read into his intentions. Simon instead softly envelopes your wrist and leads it to his mouth, easily capturing the sample with a quick swipe.

Your bewilderment must have been plain on your face, seizing your features altogether as he chews absentmindedly to the side and gives a curt nod to the cooing woman before him.

“It’s good,” he approves with calm indifference.

You don’t reply; a spell enchants you, rendering you useless in speech.

You wonder if this is appropriate, whether you both had gone too far for a simple subscription to shop in a discounted store. Granted, you were the one who initiated the ruse of being a married couple—however, with this man, it is difficult to gauge if he is a willing participant in the silly, white lie of your own making.

So you are entirely blindsighted when he leans in and soothes the sides of your hip with his thumb, casually asking you if you wanted a bag to take for home.

In the end, two bags of dumplings now sits neatly at the front of your cart—one spicy, the other original. Simon has yet to let go of you, even when you both are far out of line of sight from the woman who enthusiastically asked far too many questions for you to be comfortable with.

It was easy to put out a blanket statement, but turning the lie into something more personal, something more lucrative—knowing you could never back it up if you ever come across her again—made you restless, for this particular Costco was one of your usual haunts.

When the temperature shifts, indicating that the fresh meat and seafood selection is near, you vacantly pull from his embrace to busy yourself by scanning at the rows of packaged salmon, studying its vibrancy in colour with tunnel vision to conceal the tremor in your chest.

Too absorbed in your own focus, you fail to notice the disappointment that flickers across his face—how his hand follows the spot he previously occupied longingly; Simon clenches his fist in defeat and lets it fall limp at his side.

He picks up two packs of Aberdeen Angus in one hand and returns to his post by the cart. You look back and set the kilo of salmon back down to join him readily with an air of ease. A moment of solitude with you and the fishes is enough for you to gather your thoughts and dismiss your need to read into the meaning between the lines that were never written.

“All done?” you ask, pushing the cart towards the entrance to check out. Simon trails behind you, and this time you don’t endeavour to fill in the silent gaps with your small talks—though every part of you inclines to do the opposite—it feels somewhat natural, to leave what is needlessly complicated behind and forgotten on this busy Saturday morning.

Walking up to a slightly less crowded register, you begin to unload your items into the conveyor belt strategically, placing your boxed and compact goods before your fresh and delicate produce. When you’ve empty the bottom of your cart, you take the sizable prime cuts of meat from his hand with a reassuring smile and place it among your other items as well.

Simon lets you, albeit not without a quiet struggle of hesitancy from his end—in which you find rather gentlemanly of his character. He’s even more so when he joins you at your side to help you load the checked items back into the trolley, effortlessly deciphering your preferences and aligning them to your own design.

After you sort the final pieces neatly together, you sift through your purse once again for your membership card to the cashier. He gives your ID a quick once-over, nods in routine satisfaction and hands it back over to you. Just as you’re pulling your credit card from its tight confines to pay, you hear a mechanical beep quickly following suit.

The receipt monotonously rolls out a copy of your invoice as Simon casually slips his wallet back in his back pocket. You’re reeling—you can’t fathom what just happened. He takes the receipt from the clerk without much thought and begins to drag the cart from the register with one hand to make way for the hoard waiting behind.

“Simon!” You exclaim in quiet, eyes wide-eyed with disbelief, trailing after him as he takes the lead towards the exit.

He only spares you a sideways glance, waiting for you to continue, as if what he just did were nothing at all; but you wait a beat for him to explain. Comment on the reimbursement of his purchase on your behalf. Elaborate on the efficiency he has done for you as a favour. Give a simple shrug. Anything.

Instead, his countenance remains still, like he can’t quite understand you’re looking at him like that and calling out his name with such urgency.

‘This man really has no social cues,’ you think—teetering on the verge of a crash out after a full morning reading into the obscurity of him as a being, second-guessing your words and gestures towards him. Your social energy is spent. And this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

You shake your head lightly and let out a soft sigh of laughter while still settling your gaze at him. Social diplomacy has always been part of your strength; avoiding direct demands and fluffing requests to preserve a sense of decorum is embedded in your speech and character. And now you find yourself getting tired of it—tired of him. He wants you to spell it out for him—and perhaps you should. You should figure by now he probably receives directness better than skirting around niceties.

“Give me your bank account details.” You pull out your phone and tap your screen rapidly with haste. “I'll transfer you right now, who are you with?”

He’s lost interest entirely.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You blanch, unimpressed at his answer. “I can’t let you pay for over a hundred pounds worth of groceries for me.”

“Why?” he furrows his brows together. The question is not meant to challenge, but one to understand.

“Simon,” you hold on to the handle of the cart he’s taken control of before he strays further from the exit. “It doesn’t feel right on my end to have someone else pay for something that substantial–especially when I’m fully capable of covering for it myself.”

He straightens at your words. Looking down at the space where your hand nearly meets his at the handle before looking at your steadfast disposition; he curses silently at your sweet face.

In the end he could give fuck all about being reimbursed—but Simon isn’t quite ready for this dream to end just yet. And so, he expects this—expects the refusal from you. Fully aware that the unspoken rules of courtesy that you live by will keep you from accepting his act of generosity; tying him to you indefinitely until a similar, if not grander, gesture is repaid. More than that, there is another incentive in this predicament he’s designed; he, a generous stranger who’s overpaid the favour, and you, will keep him in the back of your mind from now, always.

“You saved me a trip back; I don’t come home empty-handed,” He says simply. “Just paying it forward, alright love.”

You begin to feel the invisible string that entangles you to him—a debt that grows with interest, compounding over time—and you mean to cut it.

“Where did you park?”

A quiet conundrum remains with you, restless at the unresolved matter you take an issue with and even more so when your case is denied. In spite of all that, you guide him to your hatchback pulled in conveniently near the trolley bay; your apprehension is easy to see.

Simon helps you load your items into the back when you’ve unlocked it. You peer up at him from the corner of your eyes, looking for any kind of indication of smug—a sense of gratification or doubt that might flicker across his face. And yet he remains composed, simply focusing on lifting the heavier items you struggle to carry on your own and into the trunk thoughtfully.

Once you place the final item inside, you finally find your voice with a vestige of courage to offer him some goodwill to settle the debt there and then.

“Would you like a membership card?” You ask hopefully. Recalling the reason why you are with him in the first place. It seems like the best outcome for both parties, honouring each others’ generosity and kindness and parting ways with no strings attached. “I would love to pay–in fact, I insist.”

Simon quickly shoots down your offer, head shaking in refusal. Simon sucks the air through his teeth to reinforce his answer. He looks off towards the vast parking lot, hands on his hips before his attention returns to you, “Doubt I’ll be back here.”

You’re deflated but you accept defeat in his answer, albeit not without one last attempt to repay the favour. Your phone unlocks with a single tap of your thumb as you navigate the home screen to your contacts application, handing it to him with a blank profile at the ready.

“Well, at least give me your number–just in case you ever need the money back, in some way or another.” you explain, unsure in the latter part of your words but you’re hopeful he’s sensibly across the meaning behind them.

This he does not refuse.

Simon punches his numbers into your phone and dials it for good measure. When he feels the familiar buzz of his cell in his pocket, he presses the end call button before handing it to you.

“Thanks–and yes, call or text me anytime you need anything. And truly, thank you for paying for my groceries–you really, really didn’t have to.” You take a second to laugh softly behind your hands, alleviating the absurdity and the awkward tension of it all when he allows you to ramble by yourself. “Uh.. I hope you enjoyed your first shopping experience here–so much so you might come back? Maybe? Not too late for me to shout you that card.”

With his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he shakes his head again with a slight curve playing in one corner of his lips in a smirk.

“Well maybe the quality of that steak is so good you’ll dream of it for days and beg me for one when you run out.”

Your smile strains when he doesn’t join in on your playful quip. Instead he looks amused, almost satisfied with how much you seem to be enjoying yourself in this one-sided conversation. If you were a bit more pessimistic, you would think that he’s making fun of you—but you would ruminate on that later in the late hours of the night when you’re trying to sleep.

“Alright then, it was nice to meet you–and yeah, let me know when.” You take your leave first, turning your feet around towards the driver’s seat, but not without looking back to give him a small wave to keep up pleasantries. “See you.” Your words travel light and fragile, but he receives it all the same.

Simon nods in acknowledgement before taking his own leave when you shut the door beside you. Taking steady strides to his truck parked all the way across the lot, he repeats your registration plate like a mantra under his breath with an absentminded shadow of a smile painted across his face.

When he finally disappears from view from your rearview mirror, you let your head fall against the headrest and sigh in relief. As if you’re Atlas, the weight on your shoulders is relieved when you no longer burden yourself with the world. Closing your eyes tight in exasperation before looking up at the ceiling of your car, you take a moment to settle in what you had done to over complicate a simple errand run.

The feeling is heavy; being monetarily indebted to someone you don’t quite know—none other than that, to someone who is horribly unsociable and taciturn. This didn’t turn out exactly how you would want it to go, and now you sit and wonder just how you had let this happen.

First of all, there is no reason for you to turn the other cheek if it costs you more than you’re willing to give. It seemed simple enough back then. The man clearly intends to purchase from the store, there was no reason for that lady to berate him publicly. The woman must’ve thought that she’s just doing her job—but to you it felt like a power trip. And so you feel for him when he just stands there and takes it.

Your overly big and sensitive heart felt the inconsiderate reprimand like it was also yours to receive. That’s why helping him felt like second nature to you. In your mind, you had it all planned out. You get to stick it to the needlessly strict corporate rules and he gets to shop in peace. You’ll both share the same sentiment of how cruel the public display was, he’ll profusely show his gratitude through kind words and you would feel a great sense of self-satisfaction knowing you’re a good person.

Then you imagine the both of you exchanging in some playful banter, turning a rough start to a pleasant shopping experience in the early morning before you inevitably part ways—never to see each other again, but yet look back to think of this encounter as a fond memory to tell others.

However, this man is different.

You can’t read him as well as you do for others. You would rather him show his hands freely even if they're not the most agreeable to you. Preferring some kind of sign of indignation even, in lieu of being so reclusive and withdrawn yet—annoyingly rational.

And now he has your number and you’re sitting on the edge of your seat for his call at anytime.

It’s at these times you catch yourself recognising your weakness in character. Your kindness, it’s performative. You know part of the reason why you help is that it’s so you could also feel good about yourself—and you’re only as good as your last impression, keeping it up is what you struggle with. You could only spare so much of yourself for a stranger before it gets too close for comfort.

But that’s all meaningless now; your karma has been reversed.

You strongly believe that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction—and it doesn’t apply to just physics. Your intention to help out a man shop for his own groceries, have him transfer you his fair share has now ended up with you being a-hundred-and-eighty-four pounds indebted towards him. It doesn’t feel good. The feeling still lingers even when you pull from the parking lot.

The balance of the universe is law to you. In short, if something good comes about, then something bad tends to follow.

127 notes · View notes

juniferyw · 11 days ago

Photo

Illustrations from The Romance of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table by Arthur Rackham (1917)

4K notes · View notes

juniferyw · 13 days ago

Text

simon and gaz are the brackets of the home wrecking spectrum

like simon doesn't believe in cucking or homewrecking bc he doesn't believe in u dating someone else. any boyfriend that you pick up is either disappearing or is breaking up with u while covered in bruises

notable exception is for soap, if he's being too mouthy then simon will fuck his gf as a metaphorical yank of the leash. the only part that johnny takes as a punishment about it tho is that he can't get off as he watches.

whereas gaz really gets off on being ur best friend that ur bf doesn't trust. everybody knows that gaz is too touchy, too close considering ur in a relationship with someone else. ur disbelief in gas's dishonesty is where he operates - makes ur bf seem paranoid and snippy with u whereas gaz is sooo understanding and sweet

gaz makes ur bf seem like such a dick that it finally upsets you, and gaz knows the best thing for you. bent over the side of the sofa with ur arse perked up for him. he might call ur bf and hold the phone to ur mouth to make u dump him. just to neaten things up in the timeline, don't worry about it baby

1K notes · View notes

juniferyw · 13 days ago

Text

when he fucks you, simon's usually just a panter. some grunts might find a way to slip their way out of him but he's gotten adept in keeping quiet, focused on hearing you and your noises and how to make them that much louder–that is, until the first time he fucks you raw.

after that, he's crumbling. trapping you in between the mattress and his heavy-as-a-ton mass of a figure, giving you little to no time to breathe in between the deepest stroke he can manage.

your shoulder is a mess of his sweat and drool as ghost pounds himself into you, groaning and whimpering at how he can feel every single soaking twitch and warm hug of your walls. how you leak and cream out so much your arousal that it mixes with his and splatters between the two of your jerking bodies. his accent slurs into something unintelligible, sounding worse than drunk whenever he speaks, most of his words either thick swears or shaking croaks of your name.

he cries and clutches you and wails so loud that you can no longer hear the thump of the bed against the wall when simon comes, stuffing you with a gushing load he just uses as lube to keep his thrust. completely intoxicated by you, simon can't quit. you just feel too good and he's too wrecked to not indulge.

6K notes · View notes

juniferyw · 16 days ago

Text

"ya keep squeezin' like tha', i'll start to think i'm bein' taken hostage," the words roll out from bullrider!johnny but he's talking about your pussy.

#hell yeah

359 notes · View notes

juniferyw · 18 days ago

Text

3K notes · View notes

juniferyw · 18 days ago

Text

daydreaming a fic where you’re deathly afraid of commitment but can’t help fucking price every time you get a smidge of free time because no one else has ever even come close to splitting you open the way he does. devastating. a man that good at ruining a woman so deliciously has to be kept at arms length, undoubtedly. unstringed fucks only. no room for error.

and we all know johns a patient man. he lets you run, each time. only because he knows you’ll come back. fucks you a little harder for it when you do. gives you a just little bit more to salivate over in his absence. gives you a little more filth to feed on when it’s just you and your pathetic fingers in bed at night. the gradual increase until you’re sure there’s no possible way he could make you feel any better than he already has.

and even when he continually proceeds to prove you wrong, even when your cunt is beggin for more than just quick weekend fucks — you’re a stubborn woman with a heart to protect. to which price stays steel-spined for as long as possible, even though he wants nothing more than to tell you to jus give it up cause theres no goddamn way you’re escapin this, princess.

his patience is commendable through it all. but maybe he forgot just how little commendations mean when that primal filth takes over the moment he overhears simon flirting with you. simon the behemoth riley. the only other man on earth price suspects could break you as much, if not a little more than he can.

it’s then that his patience is disintegrated. all bets are off. john price makes the point to not ask but tell you you’re his as he has you repeat it over and over with every orgasm he forces out of you til you’re sobbin with his cum leakin outta every hole.

on video, all for simon to watch, of course. (or maybe, if he’s feeling nice enough, simon might just get an non-refusable front row seat to the show. he’s a gracious captain, after all.)

3K notes · View notes

juniferyw · 20 days ago

Text

Johnathan Price fucking you while he makes you recite your wedding vows all over again because you were being a brat and telling him how you hate him.

@cupidsworstcrime 's version

4K notes · View notes

juniferyw · 20 days ago

Text

Husband!John Price x Wife!Reader

cw: nsfw, minors dni, 18+ | John Price himself is the trigger warning. choking, p in the v, buff arms, made her recite her wedding vows because the reader was being a brat, married man and filthy married man John Price. 1.15k words

note: you need to know how much i need an older man and that older man needs to be JOHNATHAN PRICE. RAWR. also I'm bad at marriage vows :(

You have been on it for a while. Maybe more than a while.

John is sitting adjacent to you, evening you as you huff and puff around, slamming drawers, aggressively chopping the vegetables for dinner, and snapping at him any moment he even breathed near your direction.

And it has been bothering him a lot. His sweet wife, always calm and composed, easy going most of the time— here, acting as a brat around the house. Almost breaking his favourite mug as you slam it on the counter to pour him some tea.

He cocks and eyebrow at you, as if saying You gonna drop that attitude?

He also knows the reason why you were acting such, as silly as it may be. You had asked him to come back home on time. Asked politely that morning, as every morning you did— with a kiss on his lips and a murmur against them; Be back soon today? Please.

And he did say Sure love, I will.

But he didn't. His excuse was a valid one, got stuck in traffic.

It didn't get a reaction out of you simultaneously, but there were after effects and he was very certain at this point you were acting like a brat on purpose. Brushing off his touches, muttering curses on him, slapping his hands away.

The audacity.

You were pushing him again.

Snapping back. Eye-rolling. Throwing out half-serious insults with that scowl that said, What are you gonna do about it, Captain?

He’d already warned you once.

But now?

Now you've crossed the line.

“I hate you, John. You’re a selfish, arrogant bastard who only knows how to give orders. If I wanted to be married to a dictator, I would’ve signed up for the bloody military myself.”

He stood there for a moment, eyeing you. The silence lingered long enough.

You felt the shift before you saw it.

He was across the room in three strides. You barely had time to gasp before his body was on yours, heavy and hot, pinning you to the counter.

“Oh, is that right?” he said, voice calm—too calm—as his knee forced your legs apart, his forearm sliding up to press firmly across your throat. Not cutting off your breath entirely. Just enough to remind you who the fuck you belonged to.

“You hate me so much you wear my ring to bed?” he murmured, glancing at your hand crushed against the sheets.

You arched up, defiant.

“I don’t wear it for you.”

“Oh, love,” he rasped, tightening the pressure slightly. “You wear it so you don’t forget.”

You struggled—not because you wanted him off—but because you wanted to feel how much stronger he was. How easy it was for him to break you down without even trying.

He dipped lower, lips brushing your ear. “You wanna mouth off, brat? Fine. You’re gonna earn every bloody second of this.”

You squirmed under him, half-laughing through the tight grip around your neck.

“Can’t even talk, John,” you whispered, voice strangled and teasing. “How the fuck am I supposed to mouth off now?”

That earned you a low, dangerous chuckle. “Then I’ll make it easy for you.”

His free hand curled into your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat even more. You were breathless now—but not from fear.

“Your vows,” he growled. “All of them. From the top. Or I won't let go.”

Your eyes met his—dilated, dark, daring. You were burning alive under the weight of him. You wanted to spit something bratty, something cruel—

But your throat clenched when his free hand pushed down the waistband of your panties. You hadn't realised yet, but you were dripping, cunt exposed to the cool air as a defiant pout made its way to your face.

“No”

You meant to be a brat, really. You wanted to piss him off as bad as he had angered you, you wanted to get to his head and fry his nerves away with your mouth and actions. Act like some immature kid just to get him all riled up.

Now you think that might have been the greatest idea because your husband, John Price has never looked so good and so worked up because of you. And certainly turned on because of your behaviour.

His hands unbuckled his belt, a forearm still choking you. You squirm as he increases the pressure slightly. Patience brat, he snaps. He unbuckled his belt, languidly and helped his semi hardened cock out.

Rubbing the tip on your entrance as he pushed in slowly making you whine, Not fast enough. You try to push your hips back at him but he has one leg between yours and you pinned to the counter.

You whimpered.

“Come on brat, speak up” he grunted, the pink head of his tip stick rubbing against your folds to gather all the slick before he pushes in, “Come one don't make this hard for yourself baby girl, just obey” he huffed, softly pushing in and then pulling out again, leaving you empty.

“John please—” you whine, wiggling your hips again. He chuckles before pushing himself in you in one string thrust and pulls back out again, expect the tip, “Come on sweet thing, don't make it hard for both of us”

And you obeyed, nodding with a moan as he pushed in.

Through gasps, half-choked, you whispered them.

“I… I choose you.”

The pressure didn’t lift, his other hands now rubbing your clit in slow circles.

“I… follow you. Trust you.”

Still nothing. He keeps himself inside, deep as you can feel him— he hums praising you a little, urging you to say more.

You reached for him, fingers curling into his shirt like a white flag.

“I love you. Even when I hate you. Even when I wish I didn’t. Even when it hurts.”

Finally—finally—his grip eased, his hand replacing his forearm, rough fingers stroking the flushed skin of your throat. He looked down at you with something like pride. Or possession. He pulls back his hips and snaps softly, a slow rhythm. Nothing close to satisfaction between your legs and in your belly.

“No more of that hate talk, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “You don’t hate me. You just want me to remind you.” He chuckles, increasing pace as his forearms tighten again, making you go lightheaded.

His thrusts are relentless, making you gasp and claw at his shirt. Mouth slack open as you gurgle on your spit and beg with sweet whines and please of John please please please. But to a certain extent, the brat in you still there reveals itself.

Your lips trembled.

“Remind me again tomorrow,” you whispered, lips curling faintly followed by a moan.

That grin—the dangerous one—came back.

“Oh, I will.”

#omg!!??#this piece is so moving #actually insane

4K notes · View notes

juniferyw · 20 days ago

Note

ok here me out. simon coming too soon. like this man does not have sex often. ah i think it would be hot lowkey

18+ MDNI

Think of football scores

Think of the weather report

Think of last week’s briefing

Think of your first drill sergeant yelling at you

Think of-

He tries to think of anything that’s going to help keep him from blowing his load way too soon

Because you, right now? You’re certainly not helping his case

“Oh my god, that ride felt like it took forever. I didn’t think I was gonna last ‘til we made it home.” You nearly whine as you hurry to get the front door to your flat unlocked

‘That makes two of us’ Simon thinks to himself, remembering the way your wandering hands kept brushing against his thigh during dinner, how your sneaky fingers teased the prominent bulge pressed up against the front of his trousers the entire drive back, how your impatient lips tickled against the vein throbbing in his neck, sending goosebumps across his skin-

No, he can’t linger on it for too long, the twitching in his pants nearly painful from how pent up he is, how ready to burst he feels from having been kept apart from you for months, his hand a pitiful replacement for the warm embrace of your arms wrapped around him while your cunt held him even tighter

“Finally.” You exclaim, the door swinging open at your insistence, the both of you stumbling inside like a pair of fools drunk off of nothing more than each other

With a hand between your shoulder blades, Simon is steering you towards the bedroom like a man starved, his hands never straying from your skin

“Get on the bed, love. M’hungry.” His lips murmur against your ear, hopeful that eating you out will give his member the time he needs to pull himself together, for his brain and his cock to sync up and not burst in his pants the moment you touch him

Your own fingers are trying their best to fumble with his belt buckle, though he pulls his hips back out of your reach, bringing a pout to your lips

“Simon, no. I can’t wait anymore, I need you.” You try pleading with him, though you put up no resistance whatsoever as his large hands make their way under your shirt, slipping it over your head with ease

The bra is next to go, being flung across the room without a single care for where it lands, your pants the next item to be discarded on the floor, until you’re left in nothing but your panties and the dog tags he drapes around your neck each and every time he comes home from deployment, the cold metal reading ‘Riley’ sat perfectly between your breasts where he feels it belongs

“S’too bad, I’m cravin’ somethin’ sweet after supper.” He replies casually, the ache in his crotch unbearable as his eyes wander over your nearly naked form, a sight he’ll never grow tired of seeing. “You got somethin’ sweet for me? Hm? Gon’ be nice and gimme a taste?”

“Simon, please.” You insist, though you’re already crawling backwards onto the bed, eyes locked with his as he lowers himself between your parted legs, rough and calloused hands squeezing the meat of your thighs as he drapes one leg over his broad shoulder

“Mmm, you’ll have me love. Trust me. But first, I need you.” He says just as his lips begin trailing their way from your knee, leaving kissing in his wake as he inches his way higher up your thigh, along your hip, on the edge of your panties, grabbing the fabric of the waist band between his teeth before letting it snap back against you

“S-stop teasing.” You manage to let out, though your fingers sliding into his hair, nails scratching slightly at his scalp, lets him know you’re enjoying this as much as he is

Simon can feel himself beginning to leak into his boxers, when he presses a soft kiss against your folds over your panties and your soft gasp of surprise has his eyes practically rolling into the back of his head

He’s missed this, missed you more than he could ever say, every part of you, but this in particular, being able to rile you up as you squirm beneath him, getting all hot and bothered and desperate for him, this he has missed dearly

He would love to keep on teasing you until you’re as worked up as he feels right now, would love to drag this out and make the most of the evening, but he himself can only take so much more of this, his pants feeling impossibly suffocating at the moment, and so he tugs your soaked panties down off of you until their dangling off one ankle, connecting his mouth to where you need him most in a sloppy kiss that is anything but proper

The ache never stops though, not where you start writhing beneath his touch as though you were as sensitive as the head of his cock feels right now, precum staining through his trousers now as he unconsciously starts grinding his hips into the mattress, not when your gasps and moans and whines and pleads are the most beautiful music his damaged ears have ever heard, his own grunts of pleasure mixing into your melody

He should have known, really, that while eating you out might have helped to avoid cumming inside of you after only a few thrusts inside your warmth, he should have known better than to think that he wasn’t going to get as much out of this as you would

For a man as vigilant as he is, he’s hardly aware that it’s about to happen, too focused on helping you reach the peak of your pleasure, too intent on getting you to that place you’re begging him to take you to, whimpering for ‘just a little more, a little more, please Simon, please’, that he fails to realize he’s cumming in his pants until it happens, the force of it taking him by surprise as he groans against your clit, the vibrations just enough to send you careening over the edge into bliss alongside him

He’ll clean himself up later, maybe get you in the shower with him before you notice the wet stain on his front, but until then, he’s going to need some time to recover and get hard again

Luckily, he’s sat at in front of his favourite meal, and the second course is only about to begin

#this is actually so sweet #im in love with him

2K notes · View notes