SunnyLilac

Hi, I'm Sam just reposting what I like

[pricesprincess]

𐙚⋆.˚ nonsense | j. price x fem reader

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ wc: 4.4k ˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Your dad's best friend and biggest crush moved in after early retirement, giving you three months to finally fuck him before you go back to college. ˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ 18+ only content: mdni + explicit smut + age-gap + height difference + dirty talking + piv + teasing + daddy kink.

an: this is based off this post!!

June was a bust. 

Instead of three months, you have two to get your father’s best friend to sleep with you. 

It proved that John Price is a strong man indeed and was good at dodging your advances. 

You had purposefully gone down to the kitchen so many times when you knew he’d be leaning against the counter with a glass of whiskey, unable to sleep. 

So, you’d trot in the shorts that your ass ate, the fabric bunched between your cheeks giving John plenty to think about later, and a skimpy tank top that left little to the imagination. 

One night you told him you liked his tattoo, and he replied, saying that “they were older than you," and if that didn’t spark a fire under your ass, John didn’t know what did. 

All you wanted to do was drop to your knees and suck his dick like it was a melting popsicle, but instead you giggled and touched his arm and told him that it was hot, then you scented him with your perfume while you wished him a good night before you disappeared upstairs, leaving John rock hard and alone to gather his thoughts before he went to his bedroom. 

He truly had no idea that his career in the military would land him here, retired with a bum knee that aches when it rains and living with an old friend and his family. It wasn’t all bad, though; your mom always had breakfast in the morning and was nothing but the perfect hostess, but you? 

That’s a completely different story. 

John could see the gears working in your head as you stared at him at the dining room table every night, your foot sometimes 'accidentally,' as you like to say, brushing against his. 

Times like those he has to remember that you’re his best friend's daughter, much younger than him—hell, you’re young enough to be his daughter. 

All he had to do was wait until August, when you went back to college; then he wouldn't have to jerk himself almost raw in the shower while sniffing your body wash—and using it as lube—like some horny teenager to relieve the ache you give him because you'll be gone and he won't have you around like a constant reminder. 

Two more months. Shouldn't be bad, right? 

John really should've known better. 

Especially when your parents went out of town for the weekend, leaving John in charge even though you're twenty-four. 

He could hear the pipes whenever you started the shower, and like some sort of minx, you'd end up in the hallway in nothing but a towel, still dripping wet, water droplets rolling down your arms and legs, but John stared at the mist on your chest. 

“Sorry, forgot my clothes.” You giggled and brushed past John as he came out in the hallway to go downstairs, the scent of your body wash was almost too much, it made him stagger a moment as he trained his dark, hungry gaze on you and sighed deeply. 

After a few times of that, John finally put his foot down and cornered you in the kitchen one evening when it was pouring rain outside, knowing it was risky because your parents were home. 

You both faced each other in the small space, the air buzzed with anticipation and desire. 

Thunder clapped outside, a strike of lightning zipped through the dark sky, making the tension burn hotter in the kitchen somehow. “You need to stop.” 

“Stop what?” You asked, spooning the sides of your yogurt cup while leaning against the counter, dressed in a very short nightgown, the lacy hem barely stopped at your thighs. 

He rubbed his face tiredly and put his water bottle down, the plastic crinkled from how tight he squeezed it. “Walking around naked.” 

You hummed and sucked on your spoon, unknowingly smearing yogurt on your bottom lip that caught John's attention. 

Immediately, his gaze fell down. 

John hesitated for a moment before he reached out and wiped it away with his thumb that he sucked clean. Your breath hitched, making him feel like he got a point in whatever game you two played. 

“I'm not naked, and you really should stop staring.” You said and bristled, irritated that he wouldn't go further with you. How much more do you need to break him down before he kisses you? 

His eyes drug up and down your scantily clad body with a raised eyebrow. “Bend over the counter and let me see how short your little night gown is.” He challenged, knowing he was playing with fire and in the end would end up burned. 

For a moment you stood there with your breath stuck in your throat, then you quickly turned around, braced your hands on the counter, and spread your legs, bending over like a good girl.    

A cool breeze caressed your exposed flesh, making you shudder and ache to be touched. 

Something between a grunt and growl vibrated in his chest as his fingers trailed under the crease of your ass just where the hem barely ended. “Too short, love.” 

“You're not my dad.” You said through gritted teeth, making John chuckle, his breath fanned against your neck. 

“If I were, you sure as bloody hell wouldn't be wearing this around a much older man. Don’t you know what he probably thinks?” 

John's body pressed against you, his pelvis flush against your ass as he skated his open palms down your arms, his rough, calloused skin against your satin skin. 

You wanted to snap back, truly you did. 

But all coherent thought leaked from your skull like a filled-up sink with a crack when he flexed his dick in his pj shorts. 

“What? Cat got your tongue? You were all claws seconds ago. What happened, love?” 

The mocking condescension only served to turn you into a dripping wet mess, so much so that you felt your panties sticking to your aching cunt. “Kiss me, please.” You begged. 

Did it sound and look pathetic? 

Maybe. 

Did you care? 

No. 

The scent of whiskey and smoke curled around you as John kept you pinned against the counter lazily and subtly grinding his hips. “No, princess.” 

“What?” You backed your ass up and pushed him back enough to face John, your eyes narrowed and hissy. 

John hummed and traced the shape of your bottom lip with his thumb, never moving any closer, letting the air crackle, it was beyond frustrating that he won’t give in. “I know you've never been told no before, so let me tell you again. I won't kiss your pouty little mouth, love.” 

“Fuck you!” You weren’t sure where the sudden flare of anger came from, but you looked up at John with rage burning bright in your eyes and pushed on his chest before you stormed upstairs to your bedroom, where you slammed the door shut and flopped on your bed with a grunt. 

Left in the kitchen alone, John sighed and rubbed a hand over his beard, knowing he had to stop teasing you, it was torture for both of you. “Bloody fuckin’ hell.” He grunted and downed his whiskey, then walked upstairs to his bedroom, where he heard you moaning his name. 

Your door was wide open giving him the perfect view of you atop your mattress, nightgown hitched up around your waist and a dildo sliding in and out of your slick pussy. It made him pause and stand there with his jaw slack, feeling all his blood rush to his dick, making him dizzy. 

With each thrust, you sighed in pleasure and arched your back, feeling John’s hot gaze on you. 

“John! I’m so close! Keep going!” 

From where he stood, John could hear how wet you were and see how the dildo stretched your pussy lips. It was so fucking obscene that he cleared his throat and hurried to his room, where he burst inside and sat on the edge of the bed, still able to hear you masturbate so loudly. 

You were too close to your orgasm to care if John stood there still or not, giving him the perfect time to shove his hand in his pajama pants and grasp the base of his cock gently and jerk himself off, trying to match your pace. His eyes squeezed shut, he conjured up the mental image of you like that again, groaning your name while he leaned back and freed his dick to go faster. 

Thick ropes of hot cum made a mess of his pants, so John changed and quickly cleaned his hands before he lay down, feeling the regret of doing something so dirty even though you teased him and pushed him over the edge, and John could feel the disappointment of your dad if he learned that his best friend fucked his daughter like she was his personal slut. 

After that night, John kept his distance from you for a few good weeks. 

Until a Saturday night in late July—almost August—when the nights were sticky with the hot air when your parents had their annual summer BBQ, where they invited everyone they practically knew, which meant somehow your ex-boyfriend had showed up. 

He sat down with your dad and a few other friends, Simon Riley and Kyle Garrick, who talked in low murmurs about the ‘old days’ that John wasn’t interested in because who the fuck was the idiot talking to you? His arm was slung around your waist, and his lips no doubt brushed your ear when he leaned in to whisper something, making you giggle and slap his chest playfully. 

“I wish her mother wouldn’t invite everyone. It gets crowded, and everyone doesn’t take a lot of food back, plus my daughter's boyfriend is here. Don’t have kids unless you want to go to jail for beating up boys who hurt your baby girl.” Your dad sighed and drained his first beer. 

Everyone’s head turned to look at you, then back at your dad, able to understand that, even though they themselves didn’t have kids, you were like family to everyone but John. 

Your laughter floated across the fairy-lit yard. Lights were strung from tree to tree, and all the partygoers were either at the makeshift dance floor or sitting down or at the food table, and even over the music, John listened as you giggled some more and dragged your ex to the dance floor. 

John’s jaw clenched. 

He couldn’t get up and rip him away from you so he could wrap you in his strong arms, hold you close, and kiss you stupid. It made him mad, a deep rage settled in his lower gut as you held your ex-boyfriend and danced to the beat of the sensual music. “You okay, mate?” Kyle asked from the left of him, he followed John’s gaze and gave his former captain a knowing look. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

Standing up, John pushed his chair back and went inside to the bathroom to throw some cool water on his face and stare in the mirror. “She’s trouble, so much fuckin’ bloody trouble.” He murmured and sighed, then dried his face and went back to the table, seeing you grabbing more beers for your friends now while your ex watched you from his own seat, grinning. 

Part of him wanted to ask why your dad hated him but didn't want to look like a creep and tip anything off to him either. John was sleeping under his roof and eating his food, which made him feel like a bum, but you were there, and he had company, so the house was never silent. 

“Hi, Daddy!" You squealed and walked up to the table clearly tispy, you wobbled and wrapped your arms around his neck from behind. All the guys smiled at the show of affection. 

“Enjoying the party, dear?” He asked. 

You giggled and nodded before pulling away. “I am, yes, it’s almost time to call it a night though. Mom is tired and I’m leaving, don’t stay up late.” You told him and subtly glanced at John, who stared at you, his face unreadable. 

“Where are you going?” 

“With friends.” 

You weren’t about to tell the whole table that you’re going to your ex’s for dick. 

“Be safe and have fun.” 

Your dad slipped you some cash that you stuffed in your pocket and kissed his cheek before you hurried away to the group of friends waiting for you along with your ex. 

After John helped clean up—which was barely—he ended up in your bedroom, where you stood swiping on more glitter lip gloss. He watched you smack your lips together, and all he could think about was his cum smeared on your lips instead. “Where are you really goin’?” He asked as he leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed over his broad chest. 

You jumped, not even seeing him until you turned and looked at him with narrowed eyes and a slight sway. “None of your business. You’re not my dad, remember?” You hissed and looked back in the mirror, feeling John step into your room, changing the air into something hot and thick. 

“You keep bringing that up, I can’t but think you want me to be your daddy.” John said with that smile that made your tummy burn with something between lust and raw affection. 

“Keep wishing. My friends are waiting outside for me.” 

John stepped closer until his chest was pressed against you, his large hands settled on your waist, keeping you from falling. “Should they be driving? I don’t want you gettin’ in the car if they’ve been drinkin’, love. Come on, I know you’re mad at me, but don’t do it.” 

Your stomach dropped as his scent—clean laundry, musk, a slight smoky odor, and pine—filled your nostrils, making it incredibly difficult to think about anything but John. He was right, though. 

“Fine. I’ll text them. You owe me a night out now.” 

“I’ll take you to the shooting range then.” 

You laughed and turned so you stared up at him. “That sounds so much fun.” You deadpanned with an eye roll and gripped his shirt, letting your hazy gaze fall down to his full lips. 

John’s chest swelled with something foreign as he held your stare. 

“Kiss me.” You asked again, your voice soft and whiny as you blinked. 

Everything melted down to this. 

Having you in his arms and you looking at him like he hung your moon and sun. 

Oh, how bad he wanted to do it. 

“I can’t. Your dad—it would hurt him and betray his trust, and he’s done so much for me.” 

You sighed, feeling tears burn behind your eyelids as you rocked back on your heels, knowing John was right, but you didn’t care. You’re both grown and can do whatever you like. 

Sounds from downstairs broke the moment, forcing John to step back and run his fingers through his hair with a heavy sigh. “Get some sleep, princess. See you tomorrow.” 

After that you ignored him completely. 

His denial stung like a bee's stinger, it sent hot pulses of hurt to your chest that lingered there, festering with each second. 

You never went out with your friends that night, you crawled into bed and blasted songs from your headphones like some heartbroken teenager. 

In a way, you were heartbroken. 

For the last seven years you've crushed hard on John, and he's always been around, whether it be physically or sending the family letters where he asked about you. 

August crept in like fog. 

It blanketed the whole city in a heat wave, making it unbearable to step outside. Each time you did, it took your breath away and left a thin sheen of sweat all over. 

With the rising temperatures, your clothes merely became shorter and thinner. 

John had a hard time not staring, but he was proud of himself for not giving into you even when he wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees and bury his face between your legs. 

It felt like a stab to his dick whenever he got a glimpse of you sucking a popsicle. You slurped on it lewdly, making a damn show of it as you sometimes looked at him. 

Even though you never said it, your eyes did—that the damn thing was his cock. 

John wasn't sure if it was fate tempting him when your parents left again for a week and a half this time, leaving you two alone. 

Your parents trusted him. 

Don't they know that was a mistake? 

The first night was quiet with you in your room doing whatever and John on the couch drinking a beer while he stared at the TV but not actually watching it. 

He had no idea what you were doing up there, but the idea of being in his own room with a wall separating you was hell. 

A few hours trickled by and John figured he must've fallen asleep because he was awoken by sounds in the kitchen. 

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, John stood and stretched, then went to investigate what was going on. 

It was the first time in weeks you two have been in close proximity. 

“Can't sleep?” He asked in a raspy tone. 

You looked up from grabbing a few bits of fruit from the bowl your mom kept fresh and stocked. “No. I saw you sleeping on the couch.” You sounded hollow. 

John hesitated, then stepped inside until he stood next to you by the counter. He grabbed a grape and shifted to face you, holding the grape up, he touched your lips with it. 

He was tired of fighting it. 

For a moment you stared at him and parted your lips, letting him slip the fruit in your mouth. You closed your lips and sucked on his finger, then chewed the grape when he withdrew and wrapped one arm around you. 

His blue eyes bore into you, still unsure of what he was about to do. John lifted his hand again to cup your cheek, pulling you closer so he could bend down and press his mouth against yours in a fleeting kiss. 

Electricity shot through your veins as you gripped the front of his shirt and melted. You didn’t give him a chance to pull back. 

Your mouth met his again in a long kiss that slowly turned into his tongue probing your lips apart, licking and tasting the fresh sweetness of the fruit. 

His hand that cupped your cheek moved to the back of your neck, which he squeezed, holding you still. "John," you mumbled. 

In a brazen move to show off how strong he still is, John's hands slid down your sides all the way to your thighs and picked you up, forcing your legs to wrap around him. 

“Yes, princess?” 

You stared at him for a moment so flustered and in heat almost that you almost knocked him back when you kissed him, swirling your tongues together slowly. 

It was needy, the way you pawed at him while he carried you to the couch and laid you down where he pinned you against the leathery cushions, never breaking the kiss. 

He settled perfectly between your legs like a puzzle piece. “So fuckin’ pretty.” John muttered as he stared down at you, his breath fanned over your face as he just watched you before kissing you again. 

Your fingers clawed at his shirt while he slid his hand under your shirt, making you shudder in anticipation, a soft squeal spilled free when he brushed his finger against your nipple. “Please—daddy.” 

“Oh, baby. You're goin’ to kill me. Do you want to be my sweet girl?” John asked in a velvety rasp, already knowing the answer, he just wanted to hear it. 

“Yes, I can be the sweetest girl ever for you.” 

He chuckled and clicked his tongue while cocking his head to the side. “I don't know about that, love. You've been bratty.” 

You pouted and tugged on his shirt while avoiding eye contact. “Because I've been trying to get you to sleep with me and you kept pushing me away.” You mumbled. 

“So that gives you the right to act out?” 

“Yes. No. Kinda. I like you a lot.” 

You didn't expect the kiss to end like this. 

A confession could easily ruin everything. 

John sighed and cupped your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “I like you a lot too, more than I should. You’re trouble, I don’t even care anymore. I’ve been shot at, but nothing hurts more than knowin’ I can’t have you.” His fingers stroked your face and then trailed down to tug your t-shirt off. 

His words made you melt like ice cream under the summer sun. “You can have me, John. We’re adults, and I want you. You want me to, my dad can get over it.” You told him and tugged on his shirt, pulling him further on top of you to kiss him passionately with all tongue. 

The invisible string was severed, it snapped and frayed as you swirled your tongues together, grinding against his bulge, moaning against his lips. John’s large palms cupped your tits, making you shudder, feeling the liquid desire seep into your blood, sending heat to your pussy that drooled with so much slickness it made your panties stick to your cunt. 

In a flurry of needy hands, John got you naked first and admired your bare body. “I need you, your lips on my skin. I need you deep inside me.” You whined with a pout and arched your back, giggling when John’s beard tickled you, his lips pressed against your chest and latched around a nipple while he played with the other, pinching and twisting it gently into a stiff peak. 

“I want to spend every night buried inside of you, pleasing you, fucking you like you’re meant to be.” John murmured as he kissed his way down to your stomach, where he nuzzled his face against your soft skin before going further south to the apex between your legs. 

John’s rough thumbs parted the lips of your puffy pussy, moaning at how soaked you were, his digit slid over your cunt and pressed against your clit as he sank two thick fingers inside you with such a wet squelch that it made your face burn. “Such a pretty pussy, all for me, baby?”

“Yes, Daddy, it’s all for you.” You moaned and swirled your hips, then bucked them when John’s tongue swirled against your clit, and then he was eating you out like a man starved, his strong arms hooked around and over your thighs, squeezing the fat while he devoured you. 

His tongue licked up and down your pussy, slurping loudly and spitting on it as he finger-fucked you, curling and scissoring them in tandem with sucking your clit again. It was such a mess, so much spit and slick dripped down the crevice of your ass cheeks as you rolled your hips. 

With your fingers curled in John’s hair, you ground against his mouth with your eyes squeezed shut, feeling the pleasure unwind in your lower belly like a ball of yarn that was cut. “Holy fuck! John, please don’t stop!” You begged and squeezed his head between your legs. 

He didn’t plan on stopping anytime soon. 

With each stoke of his tongue, John was sending you higher into orbit. It was obvious he knew what he was doing, and it blew every guy you’ve been with out of the water, he picked you apart, wanting to make you cum so he could piece you back together for his own selfish desires. 

You tugged on his hair particularly hard, feeling your orgasm crash over you like an ocean wave taking you under. Sparks burst behind your eyes as you rode out your high, hearing John slurp it up with a satisfied moan. “Suck…let me suck you off.” You slurred, looking down at him. 

From between your legs, John grinned like a cat who caught his prey. 

“I have different plans, love, you can do that later.” 

Later? 

That one word was enough to reignite the flame inside your chest. 

You tugged John back up to kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips. “Don’t you taste so good?” 

With a nod of your head, you reached down between John’s legs and tapped his heavy cock against your pussy, then slid him inside of you, feeling the stretch. Your eyes widened then rolled as he fed inch after thick inch until he bottomed out, making you squeal and moan. 

Your arms hooked around his neck, holding him still for a moment, savoring how he felt. 

His forehead rested against yours while he kissed you tenderly, letting his hands trail over your body like he was trying to memorize every dip and curve. “Your pussy is suckin’ me in like she needed this, you poor thing. Those college boys only leave you disappointed, don’t they?” 

John rolled his hips, grinding against you before he fucked you with heavy, deep thrusts. 

“Only you can fuck me so good, Daddy! Thank you!” You babbled and held onto him tighter, feeling your cunt squeeze him, almost making it impossible for him to pull out. 

He chuckled and kissed your forehead and gripped the armrest of the couch while his other hand lifted one leg over his shoulder, forcing himself deeper. Wet squelching noises sounded from where you two were connected, adding to the sex-scented air. “You don’t need to thank Daddy, you’re such a sweet girl when you want to be, that is.” John grinned and nipped your lip. 

You didn’t reply, only just moaned and bucked your hips, trying to fuck yourself on his dick that molded your pussy around him. “Feel how deep I am? Goin’ to make a fuckin’ mess out of you.” 

And he did. 

After he let go of the couch, John threw your other leg over his shoulder and folded you in half, pulling out until only the tip was nestled in your slick hole before he bottomed out in a mean thrust. His fingers found your clit, making you whimper and whine while you clawed at his shoulders. You two were so lost in each other, sharing wet, sloppy kisses, that neither you nor John noticed the front door that opened. 

It seemed that your parents came home early. 

[x-strwbrry]

🪽 being yer bonnie 🪽

johnny “soap” mactavish x female!reader

18+, fluff, romance, soft!soap, established relationship

You’re pretty sure there’s a hole in your chest the exact size of Johnny MacTavish.

It’s not a bad thing. It’s no gaping, tragic wound, but rather a warm, solid space perfectly shaped for the man who fills it. And God, does he fill it. Every inch of him, from his stupidly charming smirk to the way his calloused hands map the contours of your body, is an anchor in the chaos of your life.

Being with Johnny isn't a gentle, quiet thing; it’s a full-body experience. It’s the thunder of his laughter in your ear, the bright, electric blue of his eyes when he looks at you like you’re the only person left on the planet. It’s the way he swoops in from a mission, still smelling of gunpowder and foreign skies, and pulls you into a hug so tight you can feel his heart hammering against your ribs — a beat that says, I'm home, I'm safe, I'm yours.

You fell in love with the soldier first, the man with the sharp tactical mind and lethal grace. But you stayed for the romantic. And that’s the secret, isn't it? Beneath the layers of muscle and cocky bravado, Johnny MacTavish is a fucking poet. A goddamn, sentimental, heart-on-his-sleeve romantic who will absolutely wreck you with a single sentence.

It’s in the small things. The way he always brings you back a stupid little trinket from wherever he’s been. He’ll hand it over with a casual shrug, like it’s nothing, but his eyes will watch you, bright and hopeful, waiting for you to understand what he’s really saying: I was thinking of you every second I was gone.

He remembers everything. The name of your favorite coffee order from that one café months ago. The exact way you take your tea. The story about your childhood pet you mumbled at 3 AM when you couldn't sleep. He files it all away, not out of duty, but because every detail of you is precious to him.

And the man can talk. You swear he could sell snow to an Eskimo, but he saves that silver tongue for you. He’ll whisper sweet, filthy promises in your ear in a thick Scottish burr that leaves your knees weak. He’ll tell you you’re beautiful when you first wake up, hair a mess and face puffy with sleep, and he’ll say it with such conviction you actually believe it. He calls you his “wee hen” or his “bonnie lass”, and it should sound ridiculous coming from a man his size, but it just melts you into a goddamn puddle.

There was this one time, after a particularly rough few weeks, when you were feeling small and insignificant. You didn’t say anything, but he knew. He always knows. He didn't push. Instead, he took you to the roof of your apartment building, spread a blanket out under the stars, and held you while he pointed out constellations, tracing the wild, dramatic myths behind them. He didn't try to fix your sadness; he just sat with you in it, his presence a warm, steady weight reminding you that you weren't alone in the vast, dark universe. He kissed your temple and murmured, "Stars are just like us, bonnie. They burn bright, even when no one's watchin'."

Naturally, you cried.

Your Johnny’s not perfect. He’s gone for long stretches, and the worry can eat you alive. There are days when the silence is too loud and the bed is too cold. But then he comes back, and he’s all sunlight, noise, and energy, filling up every empty space he left behind. He’ll scoop you up, spin you around, and press his forehead to yours, eyes closed as he breathes you in, as if trying to absorb your very soul.

When he makes love to you… God, when he makes love to you, it's as though he's trying to pour every fractured piece of himself into your willing body, to remake himself within your warmth until you are both indivisible.

Some nights, it unfolds with the slowness of honey, his hands tracing the landscape of your body. His calloused fingertips, which have known the cold steel of weapons and the brutal force of combat, now worship your skin with a reverence that catches the breath in your throat. He kisses you with tenderness, his thumbs stroking the delicate skin beneath your eyes as he moves inside you with a rhythm that speaks of timelessness, of a patience born of waiting through too many lonely nights. His blue eyes, normally alight with mischief and fire, burn with an intensity that sears through you, and in their depths, you see everything he cannot shape into words; the bone-deep relief, the desperate gratitude, the absolute certainty that you are his sanctuary.

Other times, making love is frantic and raw, a desperate reclamation after close calls and near misses. He'll take you against the wall of your entryway, still half-dressed in his tactical gear, the rough fabric scraping against your oversensitive skin as his mouth claims yours with a hunger bordering on violence. You taste the lingering bitterness of adrenaline on his tongue, drinking him in like he's the only thing that can quench a thirst you never knew you had. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bloom purple across your skin tomorrow, and you welcome the marks, welcome the beautiful pain that proves he's real, that he survived another day to come back to you. In those moments, there's nothing gentle about the way he drives into you, just the need to feel alive, to feel connected after staring death in the face and walking away.

But it's in the aftermath, when you're both breathless and tangled in the damp sheets, that your emotions finally overflow. Not from pain or sadness, but from the love that threatens to burst from your chest like a supernova. You'll press your face against the skin of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him as your body shakes with sobs. Johnny will just hold you tighter, his strong arms wrapping around you like armor, his large hand rubbing soothing circles on your back to ground you in the reality of his presence.

"Shhh, bonnie," he'll whisper, his voice thick with emotion as he presses soft kisses into your hair. "I've got ye. Always."

And in those moments, you know you're not just loved, you're cherished. You're the anchor that keeps this wild, wonderful Scottish bastard grounded in a world that's tried its damnedest to break him. You are his homecoming, his peace, his everything.

That’s the thing about loving Johnny MacTavish. It’s not a quiet, gentle river. It’s a fucking whirlwind. It’s exhilarating and terrifying and all-consuming. It’s knowing that this brilliant, chaotic, romantic man has your heart in his hands, and he’s holding it with the same gentle care he’d use to defuse a bomb.

[demiene]

› previous piece

𐔌 cw: age gap with reader mentioned to be a student, financial to emotional struggles, not so casual relationship, simon is madly in love and also a perv .ᐟ

simon’s deployment call came at midnight. he had been sprawled over the tangled sheets, snoring loudly with one hand pinned numb and heavy under his ribs and rugged face nuzzled deep into the pillow. the ringtone roused him instantly, his muscle memory taking over before his brain did, not even having to reach out and see the caller id on the screen to know that price was on the other end.

noting the time displayed on the lock screen as his thumb swiped it away, nowhere near dawn yet, he picked up. clearing his parched throat, spitting a rough, barely legible grunt, only to be met with john's deep, gravelly chuckle, stating he needed him on base by sunrise.

the call had ruined a perfectly good dream, leaving him stranded with an aching hard on from remembering the way you squealed whenever he had you split vice tight over his girthy cock, hiccuping in those sweet, shattered whimpers that sounded a hell of a lot better than the focused scowl you wore when busy.

still, he hauled his massive frame up and stretched toward the ceiling until his joints cracked, muttering a curse, rolling his sinewy shoulders before reaching down and yanking a pre packed duffel bag from under the bed rungs. already with his essentials, he only had to get dressed and remember to pull his worn out balaclava from the bedside drawer.

grumbling under his nose on a way to the front door, he ran a hand through his tousled hair when freezing at the kitchen threshold, hooded gaze landing on the fridge. stacked neatly inside were the stash you’d made for him, some meaty pasta, seared beef slices with vegetables in a savory sauce, and even freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, his stomach putting up a starved roar.

he opened the duffel bag and stuffed it all inside over spare uniforms without an issue, since he only packed a meager few. zipping it all back up, he pulled on his boots, tugged a hood over his head, and made sure to leave a key beneath the doormat. simon had never given you a copy, hadn't had one made, so he left his own, making sure to fire off a quick text message he knew you’d wake up to.

› simon (creep): got deployed, don't know how long, key under the rug luv'.

you had known he was in the military since your very first meeting, back when he mentioned it was the sole reason his flat was such a disaster. he hadn’t told you what exactly he did for a living, but it hadn’t mattered much, as long as his payments cleared. now, however, things had changed.

pacing through the empty, spotless flat that no longer required your daily attention felt entirely wrong, there was no loud snoring vibrating from the gloomy bedroom, the one where he kept the drapes bolted tight because he couldn't stand the daylight, and the tv wasn't blasting some trashy reality show loud enough for you to yell a commentary at the screen from the bathroom.

forgetting for a moment that there was no one left to cook for, you cracked the fridge door to start prep only to find it completely bare. there wasn't a single container left inside, the massive mountain of food, enough to satisfy a small family or keep his heavy muscle mass fueled for a week, had simply evaporated.

reaching for your phone where it lay on the kitchen countertop, you pulled up your chat with simon. your brief, polite understood in response to his sudden deployment was already flagged with two blue checkmarks, and you began typing out a new sentence, never anticipating the near instant vibration of an answer hitting your screen.

› my witch: did you eat all the food?

› simon (creep): packed it with me, shared some with boys, they told me i'm lucky to have you.

› my witch: okay. thanks.

johnny and kyle were not only surprised to see so much homemade food, but practically wept with joy as they shoveled it down, polishing off the entire haul in one single sitting and licking their forks clean. they repeatedly told simon he was a lucky bastard, more so kyle, who kept rubbing it in that he’d been the genius to suggest hiring a housekeeper in the first place.

once the plastic tubes were spotless, bearing no trace that food had ever been inside, with even the creamy sauce completely licked from their edges, simon snapped a picture to send you. the photo showed the boys slumped back with their palms flat over their full bellies, the stacked, empty containers balanced right on simon's thick, muscular thighs.

› my witch: wow.

when your blunt, unbothered answer lit his screen, a slow, genuine smirk pulled at his lips at your response under skull balaclava. he scratched idly at the back of his fabric covered nape, looking entirely too soft for a man in full tactical gear, a slip that had johnny opening his mouth to throw a mocking jab. though the taunt earned him a wordless warning that glinted bottomless in simon’s coal irises, looking easily noticeable when accented by blonde, wispy lashes.

the flat required a sweep once or twice a week, there simply wasn't enough furniture in the place to hold dust, but you still found excuses to turn the key in his lock far more than necessary. you had grown used to driving there every day, only to be greeted by an empty silence instead of the broad, toothy grin that usually tugged at his scarred face whenever he looked you up and down, calloused hands reaching out to eagerly grope your delectable curves.

meanwhile, simon was being run ragged at the base, his eyes growing bloodshot from a lack of proper sleep, mind too wired to let him rest when he finally hit the mattress. even locking himself in a stall and jacking off until his fist was tired and his cock went dead limp, picturing your drooling pussy stretched thin around his throbbing cock and ass bouncing from his hips, didn't take the edge off, not at all.

his bunched muscles and scarred limbs put up an aching protest with every step, driving his temper through the roof, though none of it was enough to compromise his work, he was still sharp and moving, the rot trapped strictly behind the skull. john had informed him that this operation would take months, and upon hearing the news, simon had chewed his bottom lip raw at the words.

uneven edge of his teeth tearing skin until the metallic taste of copper flooded his mouth, thick eyebrows drawn into a tight knot. he knew it would take time, deployments were always a matter of months, only the digits on the calendar changing, but still, it ate at him that you were left entirely alone back there.

he hadn’t possessed the heart, rotten one or not, to tell you how long his deployments actually lasted, having settled for a simple lie that he could be gone for a week. messaging you whenever managing to find a free moment, given a two hour window to crash on a sleeping bag in some ratty, dark outpost room.

hadn't expecting a notification back, considering the clock had long since cleared midnight, but you did, having been huddled under your own sheets, restlessly scrolling through your phone, his screen litting up instantly.

› simon (creep): deployment will take about three months, still paying you though.

› my witch: okay, it's no issue.

a small square displaying a ridiculous sum of money flashed in your thread, sent by him to cover the months ahead. in truth, a girl could have taken the cash and vanished, ghosted him entirely, but simon didn't seem to give a damn about any possible risk.

the notification made you remember how he had laughed, the loudest you’d ever heard it and more genuinely than ever before, at the stubborn way you had furrowed your brows, scowling at the price tag of the ribeyes he’d requested for a dinner. it hadn't even come out of your own wallet, he’d handed you the cash himself, but you’d still managed to treat his budget like a personal crisis, fretting over.

such deposit was easily double your standard rate, you knew the exact math of it because your ongoing financial struggles forced you to count every single penny. overdue rent notices stacked away in a neat, suffocating pile, waiting for the moments you would inevitably sit and look them over and over, until a sickening nervousness churned restlessly in your gut.

this single transfer could cover your every need, perhaps even allow you to buy something new for the apartment, a proper couch, or a bigger, softer bed. but the longer you stared at the glowing font, the more the inheritance felt like a beautifully designed cage.

› my witch: the amount is bigger than it should be.

› simon (creep): know it, doesn't matter, if i give then it should be like that.

your thumb hovered frozen over the button to send the excess money right back to him, dragging a palm across your face, desperate to soothe the hot, stinging burn behind the lids. a tight, cramping lump gathered in your throat, ribs feeling crushed, making it agonizingly hard to even choke down a breath, chest tightening as you wavered at the very edge of tears.

and simon, sitting miles away, noticed your lingering silence, remembering all too well how fiercely you had bristled the first time he tried to pay double when you only started working for him. panicking in his own way, he scrambled for something to say, to break the tension and steady you, settling on playing the hard ass, trying to force some reassurance, but slipping embarrassingly in the process.

› simon (creep): won't accept any attempts at sending those back. you need to restore your magic with something, ain't ya?

the teasing came easy to him, tied to that witch nickname he’d branded you with, and the light banter actually made the pressure under your ribs dissolve, as though someone had finally uncuffed your lungs, letting a faint, genuine smile edge onto your mouth.

a tingling warmth began spooling deep in your belly, thighs shifting restlessly against the sheets, and it felt so incredibly foreign that a mere dialogue, this small shard of care you allowed him to show and subsequently received, could cause your skin to pebble with goosebumps. you simply weren't accustomed to such dedicated attention.

simon texted nothing in response, staring blankly at the screen, agonizing over whether he had made you uncomfortable or had crossed the strict boundary you had drawn on your very first day, a line you hadn't established for nothing. he didn't want to seem weird, let alone predatory, there was, after all, a undeniable gulf between you, one that would make any civil folk look askance, a problematic reality by most standards, both in age and status.

he was a hardened military lieutenant with a fat bank account and a scribbled mess where a normal romantic history should be, you were a struggling, cornered college girl he had every resource to exploit. you were smart, dangerously so, but the real joke was that you didn't even have to try, for all his size and power, you had the man completely, utterly wrapped around your finger.

he rubbed two roughened fingers over his bristly jaw when another quiet ping rattled the silence, no words, but a picture that made him choke on a heavy groan. eyes widening, umber irises glinting as they absorbed the cool toned light the screen cast, slowly turning into tiny voids, pupils blowing wide.

in the photo, your shirt was rucked up, the fabric stretched thin but remaining soft and comfortable to sleep in, caught firmly between your teeth. it left your pretty tits bounced right into the frame, nipples rigid and peaked close to the lens. with belly bare, your panties dragged low on your hips, the tiny ribbon bow stitched at the center perfectly visible.

simon’s cock thickened instantly at the sight of your tits, giving a kick so violent he had to clench his jaw tight, molars cracking together as his cock twitched hard against his burly thigh. but it was the view of your hand reaching down, two fingers parted across the clothed, plump folds of your sweet pussy, that sent all the blood rushing to the swollen crown, oozing sticky pre come and leaving his subsequent text littered with typos.

› simon (creep): chris, tbag' a gift for me, lovei?

› my witch: mm, thought you'll like it.

he took a deep drag of the air, getting so drunk on the image that his head spun, reaching a massive hand down to palm his heavy bulge, hissing low through clenched teeth. canines grinding together as his vision grew bleary all too quickly, utterly lost in a sudden surge of arousal that made it near impossible to string a single word together.

swiping a messy, trembling thumb over his phone screen while his other hand gripped his clothed cock tight, he found the call button, listening to the muffled, long tones ring into the dark. perhaps he had hurried, or maybe you thought that was the only remedy he deserved, but you picked up just as a ragged moan escaped his throat.

the surprised, breathless hiccup you let out in response had sent his fingers into a panic as he yanked down the brass teeth of his cargo zipper. growling like a caged animal, his focus drilling to catch the faint rustling coming from your end, though the rapid, thundering leap of pulse in his ears almost turned him deaf.

leaving his corded muscles heavy and numb as he breathed a raw, desperate prayer into the receiver “tauch yaurself, luv” he almost pleaded, voice strewn raucous and molassed with desire.

it was impossible not to obey a voice that sounded so close to being needy, you had never heard a man sound this way for you, a man who usually carried himself like a dog, all bared teeth, crushing hands, and territorial purrs whether you were wearing clothes or completely bare, sounded so brokenly desperate for you. you could have just stood there and done nothing, and that would have been enough for simon to haul you into his arms, chapped lips pressing to your throat and kneading your ass, completely unbothered by distracting you from your chores.

with all your worries banished and your head dizzy from his tender command, you obeyed, fingers pressed firmly against your clothed cunt, tips tracing gentle swipes along the sensitive, soppy seam. pelvis rolling in a slow, instinctive arc, rocking against your own warm palm as a high pitched, desperate whine welled up in your throat.

“saund so pretty when ya pussy teased. . rub that' littl' clit' f'me” simon let out a low grunt, hand already wrapped tightly around his hefty girth as his hips bucked upward in a frantic rhythm. even the hard ground beneath him, with his thin sleeping bag doing absolutely nothing to soften the stone digging into his tailbone, could not halt the relentless pace of his palm dragging up and down.

every single callus and scar etched into his skin only served to heighten the raw sensation even more, foreskin pulling back with pearlescent drops scattering around. you hummed something, a tangled thread of garbled words that bled together until they formed his name, sounding so deviously broken over the line that simon had to tighten his grip. ivory fist squeezing hard where the blood pulsed violently from the base of his cock all the way to its gorged, aching tip.

obscenely wet sounds that followed his every wanking motion flooded the speaker, causing your shoulders to curl inward as your toes flexed in a helpless reaction. the heel of your palm pressed firmly against your fattened clit, which twitched restlessly until it was trapped beneath the intense pressure, forcing a strangled, breathless noise from your throat.

as your fingers circled your entrance, the cotton fabric of your underwear gone translucent and clung to lacquered skin, drenched from the slick. loosened hole clenching around nothing but empty air, before gushing a fresh spill of warmth that caused your woozy movements to quicken in a rush.

simon hears it all, and it brings him too quickly to his peak, driven over the edge by nothing but the dazed, shy whimpers you let slip into the call, your ragged gasps, and the soft, slick noises filtering through the speaker the moment you slid your dainty fingers beneath the cloth. cotton gusset bunched and crumpled under your hand, creating an awkward discomfort that chafed against swollen, too tender skin, but your frantic pace never wavered.

breaking climax hit you both at once, a sharp, choked back scream ripping through. he even had to slam his teeth down into his own wrist, clamping his jaw shut to kill the raw, needy grunt that threatened to echo your dazed whimpers.

waiting for the trembling to leave his chest before he could drag up a voice that sounded like gravel “christ', yau did so good, sweitheart'.. the absolut' best' for me’’ simon soothed over, but you could only let out a small sniffle. face nuzzled deep into the pillow by now, mouth slightly drooly and parted, while one hand still cupped over your mound, feeling the throbbing aftershocks.

you didn't even bother with the sticky wetness or the way your thighs shook in the aftermath, instead reaching up with your other arm, two fingers finding one hardened nipple, pinching it firmly through your shirt and letting out a loud, deliberately dirty moan.

it caught his attention anew, as he sat there in the gloom of his outpost, cum splattered across his flexing belly, tight shirt riding up just enough to expose the haired, firm pudge of his stomach, cargo pants a complete mess. but who was he to turn away what you gave to him so eagerly? he drank it all in hungrily, hoarding the memory before your pride kicked back in and you turned into his sharp tongued, sassy witch.

time bled on, weeks passed in a blur, you kept up with your work, answering whenever he texted to ask how you were doing, sending him routine pictures of his clean flat, initially saying no whenever he demanded face pictures, but inevitably sending them anyway.

your eyebrows creased in a stubborn scowl in every single shot, a view that kept him grinning like a complete idiot in the middle of a briefing. sometimes, you would even send a nude or two, bent over on a rug with your butt perched up, panties pulling taut over puffy folds, or captured right as you exited the shower, twirling in front of the mirror before snapping a photo where the towel covered you strictly from the front.

breasts and pelvis shielded from the greedy eye, but your damp shoulders and glistening hips were exposed, skin looking so delicate and edible, so terrifyingly biteable that his throat bobbed hard, forcing him to swallow the sudden flood of saliva that filled his mouth.

you had stopped counting the days, or noticing them at all, growing thoroughly exhausted as your college workload turned more demanding than ever before. It had leaving you feeling caged, clawing at the walls of your own mind with no outlet for the panic, causing you to close off entirely.

› simon: how are you, witchy?

› simon: you're busy?

› simon: it's been days, luv, is everything okay?

no words, no answers, simon was on edge, less than a week away from clearing the base and flying back to his flat, back to you, when you suddenly disappeared, and simon was a remarkably paranoid man when it came to losing tabs on the few things he kept close.

you had no proper sleep and insufficient nourishment, the skin beneath your eyes bruising, while a simple assignment had you clawing at your temples because you simply could not fail. the lock clicked at midnight, the exact hour he’d vanished weeks ago, heavy duffel bag shuffling against his side, the only sounds around being the nocturnal hum of crickets and distant music booming from a few floors below.

his massive shoulders were locked tight under the weight of a bone deep fatigue, front door giving way, but the interior was a black vault, no lights, no noise, a dead unmoving space. yet, he immediately noticed the shoes by the entrance, not his combat boots, but your sneakers, the same worn pair he’d watched you slip into for months.

not bothering at ripping his mud caked boots off, he let the duffel drop to the floorboards, bending his knees low to let the nylon land without a sharp crack. simon circled the open kitchen and living room until his eyes caught your silhouette balled up miserably on the couch, face buried as you grunted into the cushions.

you woke slowly, dazed and heavy limbed, the sudden fog clearing just enough for you to realize your afternoon nap had swallowed ten full hours of the day. your head twisted aside, body bolting up so violently that simon lunged forward, his instinct tearing. he hadn’t taken that cursed balaclava off yet, and it terrified you.

had you cornered against the armrest, wide eyed, blinking frantically at his shadow and then at his massive, exposed hand, your vision blurry, unable to see him properly through the dark, but his voice broke the paralysis.

“easy, luv. . it’s me, it’s simon, yau’re alright'” the low, gravelly rasp hit your ears and had you easing immediately, staring at his outstretched palm, open and waiting, and didn't run when his heavy stride closed the distance, hovering over your small frame. his other hand reached up, thick fingers hooking into the tattered hem at his throat to yank the fabric up and over his jaw, showing bit by bit his patchily stubbled, scarred jawline and crooked nose.

he’d barely dragged the mask over his outgrown, flattened hair before your hands flew out, sharp fingernails clawing into the fleece of his hoodie to haul his weight down to your level. he caught his balance with a surprised grunt, chunky arms hovering in mid air as the skull balaclava spilled onto the rug by his boots, your face already buried into his hot skin with a frantic, desperate haste.

simon didn't waste another second in wrapping his toned forearms around your waist, heavy body flopping onto the couch, pulling you securely over his wide lap. he didn't speak, simply burying his mouth and nose against your temple, dragging in a sharp, lung filling breath of you.

you stayed pinned to his chest, clawing at his torso, and then, in a rough, cracked whisper that you’d spent months trying to choke back, you let the truth slip “missed you” stammered around a confession that was supposed to remain blocked behind your pride, but it tore out anyway, a whine for help.

fingers tightening around you, blunt nails biting firmly into your waist, but you didn't mind the roughness, instead, your muscles went entirely slack, turning limp under his palms. as if you’d been suspended by taut ropes for weeks and he’d finally stepped in to cut the ties and catch your fall. his lips pressed into the soft skin of your ear, breath hot while murmuring “i’ve got' yau, witch, i’m her'”

he didn't tease you about how needy his sharp tongued, sassy girl had gotten in his absence, indeed, he’d been ready to grunt a wicked jest, a shift that usually would have had you pinching his chest and hissing at him, but had refrainied instead.

hearing you already snoring gently against his throat, feeling your wet, clumped lashes swoop over his skin as your eyes closed for real, slackened face tucked safely under his chin. he knew there were tears on your cheeks, but he’d let you sleep, having all the time in the world to clean up tomorrow.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[thelonewolfdreamer]

you are the fucking bane to my existence

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Pairings : Simon Riley (ghost) x fem!reader

Genre : smut, mdni, 18+, sex-pollen, no plot, dirty talk, language

Summary : a forest, your enemy, a simple mission, what could go wrong, right?

Wc : 3.2k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Note : first time writing about my second husband Ghost, I dunno if i did him justice, but bear with me lol, hope you enjoyed it <3 , should I write more ghost content? Haha, English isn't my native language, nor I am well versed in writing.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Everyone in Task Force 141 knew you hated Ghost, or at least tried to hate Ghost.

And Ghost? He hated you right back, maybe even more.

So when Price pulled you aside for an extraction mission and paired you with him, you weren't sure what kind of sick joke he was playing, because you two couldn't stand each other— and now this?

And indeed it was ‘what the fuck situation’, for you, as well as it was for him.

Well…. that wasn't entirely fair, if you were being honest, you could stand him just fine. It was him who couldn't stand you.

He hated when you stood too close, hated when you spoke, hated when someone talked to you, hated that you existed in his orbit, and he acted like your existence was a personal affront.

Honestly? You'd adapted to the whole hate each other thing, pretty easily. and if Ghost wanted to play at hating each other, fine. Two could play that game, and you weren't about to let some masked asshole belittle you without returning the favor.

So obviously you fired back, sharp, snarky comments that landed just as hard as his silence did. You gave as good as you got, and maybe, just maybe— you were starting to enjoy it.

okay fine you did enjoy it.

even so, apart from this, everyone else on the team loved you, adored you even, but— Ghost? He looked at you like you were a problem that needed solving.

and it really didn't help… when beneath all that comments, and hatred, that you'd somehow developed the world's most inconvenient, obnoxiously massive crush on the very man.

not that he will ever know about it.

but the real kicker was that you'd never seen his face, maybe that was half the thrill— the mystery, the mask, the way he moved like violence personified.

The not-knowing factor that made everything more treacherous, and maybe he was the whole problem.

you didn't know what you were getting into with him, and somehow that made him impossible to quit.

Now you both found yourself alone inside the humidity of the jungle that clung to your skin like a wet shroud, beside you, was the man Simon Riley, who stomped through the underground grass , his combat boots crushing exotic ferns into a pulpy mess while the air shimmered with a sickly, iridescent haze, and the moonlight glowed down at you.

"If you step on one more tripwire because you're too busy staring at the scenery, I'm leaving you here," Simon growled.

"Being eaten alive, here, would be better than being with you, Ghost," you snapped, wiping the sweat from your brow, as you spat out his name with unmistakable contempt, yet somehow, saying it still left a pleasant taste in your mouth.

The question was, would you admit it? Nope, not at all.

"you're a fucking liability." he scoffed loudly.

"And you're a joyless prick in a skull mask," you snarled. "We make a great team. And just to be clear, I'm enjoying this every bit as much as you are," suddenly your irritation boiled over at his attitude. "No, actually—" You didn't get the chance to finish your sentence.

When he suddenly came to a halt, you stumbled straight into his back, colliding with his broad shoulders hard enough to make you grunt in pain. "What the—"

Was he made of fucking stone?

Fucking Hulk. You thought.

Simon didn't so much as flinch, and suddenly your brain fired a question at you, if he is so solid wearing his clothes, how solid he would be without them?

Damn it, you cussed yourself under your breath.

Then his shoulder tensed instantly. And a burst of golden spores erupted from a nearby cluster of oversized lilies, swallowing him in a thick, shimmering cloud.

He coughed loudly, waving the dust away with a gloved hand, but the pollen clung stubbornly to his gear, seeping into the fabric of his tactical vest and settling over his mask. "Dammit," he hissed.

"What now? Did you breathe in some glitter?" you asked, sarcastically, and each word that stumbled out of your mouth, dripped in amusement.

But oddly enough, Simon didn't answer you, instead his breathing shifted, turning heavy and ragged, suddenly he stepped back from you, his movements jerky. "Get the fuck back," he ordered, his voice rougher than usual.

Okay, wow. this was beyond absurd.

Ghost don't usually react like this around you. Sure, he hated you— the snarky comments, the constant bickering, the icy glares... that was normal. But this?

This wasn't.

His breathing was uneven, almost as if he were holding himself back from something, and for the first time, you were convinced he'd definitely inhaled something, because why was he acting as if you carried the bloody plague, anyway.

Then a mischievous thought crossed your mind. Maybe you could use this to your advantage, and perhaps teasing him now would be far more fun than waiting for whatever the hell was wrong with him to wear off.

After all, you didn't want to lose your chance.

Slowly, you took a deliberate step closer, tilting your head as your lashes fluttered innocently at him. Your voice turned sickeningly sweet. "You okay there, Ghost?" you cooed. "You're twitching like you ate something bad.”

"I said get the hell away from me!" His voice cracked through the jungle, sharper than before. Ghost took another step back, then another, until his broad frame collided with the rough trunk of a massive cedar tree.

He stopped there as if the tree behind him would fix whatever was wrong with him. His chest rose and fell in heavy, measured breaths beneath the weight of his tactical vest. His gloved hands hung rigid at his sides, fingers curling into tight fists before slowly uncurling again, trembling, as if he were fighting to keep himself under control. You barely had a chance to open your mouth before he let out a frustrated curse.

"Fuck..." With a jerky motion, he yanked off one glove, then the other, tossing them carelessly onto the forest floor. He flexed his fingers, before tugging at the collar of his shirt in obvious discomfort. "Fuck, it's so hot.”

"Is it?" you drawled, finally deciding to grant him a sliver of sympathy. Leaning casually against the trunk of a nearby tree, you folded your arms across your chest and regarded him with exaggerated concern. Then your lips curled into a wicked grin. "Oof... the great, great Simon is in heat, is that it?”

"Don't fucking test me right now." His head dropped forward resting on his chest, and his voice became a bit strained. "The pollen... It's a synthetic trigger, military grade. I can feel it in my blood, it's making it boil." He breathed.

"So? Take an antihistamine."

"We don't have—" He chokes on a groan, hips bucking forward before he freezes completely, and notice his cock already hard and straining against his pants like a fucking animal. Shit. I feel— I need— He mutters something filthy under his breath, voice wrecked. "Gotta fuck you. C’n smell your c’nt from here, feel it dripping for me.”

You push yourself off the tree and saunter closer to simon, grinning cruelly, and seeing you closer to him, his whole body tenses, he sucks in a sharp breath as you crowd him. "Yeah?" You drop your gaze to the thick ridge of his cock, obvious and obscene behind his zipper. "That so?"

You reach out, drag one finger down the straining fabric, and he shudders. "Fuck," you laugh, "You're practically leaking.”

"Shut up— shut up, I'm fucking losing it," he warned, but his voice cracked, high and desperate. He grabbed your wrist, wrenching your hand off his cock only to yank it away like he couldn't stand the contact or couldn't stand losing it. "I told you to leave.”

"What's wrong, Simon?" You reached out again and dragged one finger down his arm, watching him flinch like he'd been burned. "Afraid you'll break your precious asshole persona?"

He spun so fast that you barely got a moment to breathe and you gasped loudly, as he caged you against the tree with his forearms on either side of your head. His eyes blazed behind the skull mask, wild and desperate. "You have no idea what you're provoking."

"Then show me."

He doesn't get to reply, and you press closer yourself to him, your voice dropping to a murmur against his mask. "I want to see your face."

"No." The word comes out strangled.

"Ghost." You drag his call sign through your teeth like a provocation. "You're burning up. Why not just—" You hook your finger under the edge of his mask.

"Don't." He rasps it, breath scorching against your face, he was shaking, his whole body vibrating with the effort of holding back. "No one's ever... no one has seen me."

You reach up on your toes, and your fingers hovering where the skull print ends. "No one?" "Never." He catches your wrist, but doesn't pull you away, but you feel his grip is iron, yet his thumb strokes your pulse in a traitor's caress. "If you take it off... if you see me..."

"Then?"

"I won't be able to pretend anymore," he admits, voice cracking open. "I won't be able to stop—"

"Then don't." You hold his gaze, watching the war behind his eyes soldier versus man, duty versus whatever this is. "But if you're uncomfortable..."

He removes your hand from his mask himself. For a second you think he's pushing you away, but then he hooks his own fingers beneath the fabric and pulls it up, slow and deliberate, like drawing a blade from a wound, before hanging it on his neck. "There."

your breath caught completely. Fuck. He was, without question, the most handsome man you'd ever seen.

You swallowed thickly, your thoughts scattering as, for the briefest second, all you wanted to do was kiss him. Not just because he was devastatingly attractive, but because he'd trusted you enough to remove his mask and let you see the face hidden beneath it.

his brown eyes settle on yours, naked and fierce, and you realize you've actually seen him, but like actually never really seen him, now Simon, who stood stripped bare, staring back at you with nothing left to hide behind, his face was stark and beautiful in a brutal way— sharp jaw dusted with a light stubble, a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, lips parted and sweats dripped onto his face, and you could not peel your eyes away from him.

God he was so handsome.

"Fuck," he whispered, staring at you like you were the one who'd stripped naked.

"There's the real you," you teased, your voice breathier than you intended, because, damn the voice did match his face, "Not so scary without the skull."

But what you really wanted to say was, 'i have never seen someone like you,' but you couldn't so you stood there completely still , while his brown orbs, strips you naked with them.

His control snapped, and he drifts his gaze to your lips then he grunt in frustration before slamming his mouth on yours, and the kiss violent and starving— his teeth clashing with yours, slowly his tongue forces your lips apart.

Jesus, he tastes like copper and gunpowder, like a man who's been running on adrenaline and denial for too fucking long. "Say my name." He growls then his lips parts from yours, then he leans down and grinds his words out against your jaw, then he leans lower until his teeth grazes your throat. "Say it."

"Ghost," you breathe, a low pleasurable moan escaping your throat.

He snarls, shaking his head, eyes wild. "The real one."

Your stomach flips that annoying little butterfly running freely in your gut — at that and raw, stupid intimacy of saying his real name. You drag your nails down his chest and whisper, "Simon." you say seductively.

"Fucking—" He laughs mid-word, the sound of a man already undone. Then his hands find your hips, his grip going brutal on them, as his fingers digging hard enough to bruise, then he straighten himself before nibbling softly on your ear-lobe, which makes you close your eyes in immediate pleasure, "Turn around," he growls against your ear, while grinding his cock against your core.

"Say please." You teased, though a little moan escaped you anyway.

He snarled your name before spinning you around and pinning you against the rough bark of the tree. The coarse surface scraped against your chest, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips as your body instinctively arched away from the abrasive trunk.

soon his mouth found your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise while his hands yanked your trousers down, towards your ankle in one swift motion and his action burned your skin, with nothing but his touch, and you whimpered like a kitten who was in absolute heat, "do you ever get tired of runnung your mouth?" he growled against your skin, his fingers digging into your hips, "always testing my fucking patience,” he breathes, “Do you know how many nights I've—"

He cuts off with a groan, shoving his own pants down to free his cock— it was thick and flushed while already dripping with a bead of cum, then he slaps it hot and heavy against your thigh, making you grin like shameless whore, you were for him, and a second he drags the head of his cock through your skin, smearing slick pre-cum in a filthy trail that makes you shudder.

"Fuck," he grits out, watching it glisten on you. "look at that, already leaking.”

"How many nights you've what?" you taunted, pushing back against him, as you arch your hips giving him a better access to your cunt.

He doesn't answer, instead he lines himself up and drives into you in one brutal thrust, sheathing himself completely. "Fuck, so--wet."

You screamed his name, your fingers scrabbling at the tree bark, and he froze, just for a second— his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"want’d this s’ long," he confessed, his voice wrecked, broken. "Dreamed about it. H’ted myself for it. Wanted you since the day you walked into that briefing and mouthed off to the commander."

He pulled back completely, making you groan “si–”,

“shut up”, he snarls and thrust again, harder, setting a punishing rhythm. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed through the jungle, "Every mission," he panted, his hips snapping against yours, "every briefing... watching you... trying not to—fuck—you're so tight—"

"Simon—"

“Fuck, I love when you say my name like that.”

You could not form anything else to say, so instead he takes the moment to speak, "I've been hard for you for months," he admitted, his voice cracking as he drove deeper inside you. "Jerking off in the showers thinking about this, about your face, your cunt, when I'd finally—fill it with my cum."

his admission steals the breath straight from your lungs.

fuck, so he wanted this too.

then only you realize it wasn't hatred, it was need, need for this, need for you.

He shifted his angle and you cried out, seeing stars. He wrapped one arm around your waist, holding you flush against him as he rutted into you with abandon, all that repressed discipline finally unleashed.

"That's it," he groaned, his breath hot in your ear. "Take it. Take everything I've been holding back."

His thrusts became erratic, and you feel your walls clamp down on his member while the tree bark scrapes your palms as he uses you exactly how he'd fantasized. "Fuck, your walls are so desperate."

"Hmph", you breathe, your eyes rolling back inside your head.

"Never got dick, this good, eh?"

"No." The denial tore from your throat and dissolved into his name, and you screamed until your throat burned.

All while he was ravishing, your inside relentlessly and you felt the cartography of his cock, those raised veins mapping your walls like territory being charted, claimed, conquered, as every ridge dragged against you, marking you from within.

The confession a second before had broken something in him— and he grunts your name, whole fucking you like he was trying to erase years of denial, "I'm going to—" he gasped, his grip bruising your ass.

"Fu, fuck, me too–”.

He roars, in the night, his body locking as he buries himself to the hilt of your hole.

Finally you feel him pulse— in thick and furious motions while he floods you in hot spurts that don't seem to end, his hips jerking with each brutal wave, then finally as you think he is done he thrusts once more inside you, shuddering, grinding and rolling his hips, deep as he empties himself inside you.

Your walls clamp down around him, orgasm ripping through you sudden and vicious, and you let go too— your voice breaking into broken, guttural sounds against the bark. "Ngh—fuck, ah—fuck, Simon—"

He groans your name back, wreckedly while he still twitches inside you, when you both stopped quivering he collapsed against your back, his chest heaving, his face pressed to your neck, and for a long moment, neither of you moved, and you stay there in that position for a long while, hearing each other's ragged breaths and finally the jungle sounds returns around you, and the only you get the sense of 'what just happened', knock inside your brain, like a visitor from afar.

He withdraws slowly, the drag of his cock out your hole, with a wet pop, makes you tremble from the loss of him.

He shuffles backward, tucking himself back into his pants with clumsy hands, his expression dazed, blown out.

The mask hangs loose around his neck, forgotten, and his face beneath the moonlight is unbearably open— stripped of all armor. You feel your heart squeeze tight between your ribs, breath catching at the rawness of him, the unguarded vulnerability

You turn around, leaning your shoulder against the tree, and smile, lazy and satisfied, and you feel his cum drip down your thighs, though you make no effort to clean it anymore, "So." You bend to grab your pants, stepping into them, the bark rough against your back. "Months, huh?"

He blinks at you, still catching his breath, then he huffs out a laugh— rough, and embarrassed, "Yeah and no..." you raise an eyebrow at him, then he runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, eyes flicking to yours before away again. “it was since the day I first saw you.” then he dragged a hand down his face, looking simultaneously sated and horrified, yet his eyes sparkled with feelings you both finally discovered "Christ. We're still on a mission."

"And you just fucked me against a tree," you pointed out, “Guess it was better than the mission.”

He stared at you, incredulous laughter catching in his throat. "I think I want you more now, you fucking bane of my existence."

A beat. Then you laughed too your voice dropped, rough and certain, "So. You are mine."

He stepped closer to you pressing himself against you, and slowly, he caught your hand before you could retreat, his grip unyielding, expression shuttering into something severe.

He didn't give you breath to speak, as his thumb pressed hard against your knuckles. "You should forget what you saw today."

"Never," you said, grinning through the threat.

He just smirked too shaking his head, in disbelief and this time, when he leans in and kisses you--

there was no pollen to blame.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[x-strwbrry]

sweetly pinned 🪽🪽

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, explicit but disgustingly tender, somnophilia, praise/possessive talk, desperate sex, PTSD nightmare comfort, unprotected sex, creampie, no use of condoms. [no physical descriptors for reader]

You wake to a heavy, stretching fullness. There is no gentle transition; you are suddenly awake, pinned to the mattress by a solid weight. Between your thighs, a slow, thick friction drags against your flesh, sparking sharp heat straight to your core.

A broken moan escapes your lips, muffled by the pillow.

Above you, Johnny’s frame presses down harder, flattening his chest against your back. A rough, sleep-thickened voice murmurs against your ear.

"Mornin', my sweet lass," Johnny rumbles. His Scottish burr is raw, trembling with a quiet desperation. His breath burns your neck as his lips brush your skin. "Didnae mean to wake ye. I just... the dark was too loud, darlin'. I couldnae breathe without ye."

You shift, sleepily arching your back to meet his weight, a soft sigh catching in your throat. "S'okay, my love," you murmur, tilting your head to give him your neck. "Mmm… Johnny…"

Your body is instantly, sharply awake. You register the scarred planes of his chest and the crushing weight of his arms caging you in. His hand splays possessively across your lower belly, fingers digging in. He is already buried to the hilt, his thick cock stretching you to your limit. He moves in slow, grinding rolls of his hips, fucking you, desperately trying to sink so deep that he can’t tell where he ends and you begin.

"Shh, my bonnie girl," he hushes. His fingers grip your hip bone, pulling you back to bottom out deeper. "S'okay. Just a wicked dream, aye? Thought... thought I was back there. Thought I was gone, and I couldnae find my way back to ye. I woke up and needed to be inside you. Needed to feel your heartbeat. Needed to know you're real."

Your hand reaches back blindly, fingers brushing his stubbled jaw. "I am real," you whisper, leaning into his touch. "And I'm not going anywhere, baby."

His movements are unhurried but heavy, laden with a terrifying hunger. It is the desperation of a man who knows any day could be his last, clinging to his only sanctuary. Each time he pulls back, you feel the empty ache of his absence; when he pushes back in, the powerful stroke fills you so completely it steals your breath.

"Steamin' Jesus, you feel so good," he groans, burying his face in your neck, inhaling you as if you are the only clean air he has left. "Always so warm. So soft. My girl. You save me, darlin'."

Your hands are trapped beneath you, useless against the mattress. You can't touch him now. You can only lie there and take this heavy, possessive worship, a man desperately begging for his life through your body. The thought that you are his peace, his only shield against the demons of the field, makes you tremble.

His hand slides down, rough fingers trailing through the slick heat between your thighs before finding your clit. He simply presses down with constant pressure, anchoring you as his cock ruthlessly claims your depth.

"Johnny," you whine, your hips twitching back against him. "Oh fuck, Johnny…"

"Shh, now, darlin'," he soothes, his voice a low, coaxing purr, though his breath is ragged. "Easy. Just feel me. Feel how deep I am, how I'm fillin' you up. I love hearin' my name on your lips when I'm buried in ye. Makes me feel like I actually made it home."

The pace remains relentless. His cock drags heavily against your inner walls, the head of it kissing that sweet, sensitive spot with every deliberate, bruising thrust. You are a slick, hot mess, creating wet, squelching noises that echo in the quiet room, dirty sounds of friction that make your pulse race with a dizzying heat because you are so desperately grateful for his weight.

"You're shakin', hen," Johnny murmurs, his lips brushing your temple, his grip tightening until his knuckles are white. "Am I hurtin' you?"

You shake your head, choking on a sob. It isn't pain; it is the sheer, terrifying volume of him.

Everything narrows down to this exact, suffocating space. You are intensely aware of the rough calluses on his palm anchoring your clit, the heavy, sweat-slicked drag of his chest hair against your bare back, and the faint scent of the field still clinging to his skin. You are being completely consumed by a man who lives on the edge of a blade.

Every heavy slide of his cock feels like a countdown, a desperate imprint of his existence into your very bones. You are memorizing him, the exact thickness stretching you, the dry heat of his throat against your collarbone, the ragged catch in his chest. If he doesn't make it back next time, this is the weight you will have to carry. The thought is sharp, dirty, and devastatingly beautiful. It coils in your lower belly, pulling so tight it aches.

"Good," he rumbles, his hand pressing firmer, driving you ruthlessly over that cliff. "I want you sensitive for me. Let me make you come, darlin'. Just let go."

And you do. Your body arches back against him as the orgasm finally breaks, a violent, sobbing wave of ecstasy that clamps your pussy desperately around his length, trying to lock him inside you forever. You gasp his name, your head thrashing against the mattress. Johnny groans, his hips stuttering, his cock twitching violently as your tight, pulsing heat milks him, holding him captive until you are a whimpering mess beneath him.

"Tha's my girl," he whispers, his voice thick with raw possessiveness. "Always so perfect."

The sleepy haze is entirely gone, replaced by a desperate, aching need to hold him. "Johnny," you gasp, trying to turn. "Please, I need to see you."

With a low grunt, he helps you roll over, keeping his thick length buried deep within your wet heat. Now you are face to face, legs tangled, your hands finally free. You scramble to grab his broad shoulders, your fingers sinking into the hard muscle of his back, before tangling desperately in his mohawk, the proof that he is here, alive, and yours.

His eyes are dark, intense, and shining with tears in the dim morning light. "Fuck, I love it when ye look at me like that," he groans, his hips resuming that deep, rolling grind. "Like I'm your whole world."

"You are," you whisper, pulling his head down.

The kiss is wet, messy. Your tongues slide together in a panting, frantic rhythm. The new angle shifts everything, his cock pressing ruthlessly against a devastatingly sensitive spot deep inside you. Your moans are no longer muffled; they are loud, uninhibited cries of pleasure.

"Johnny, oh my god, Johnny... don't stop, please don't stop."

"Never stoppin', my heart," he rasps, resting his forehead against yours, his gaze locked onto yours with a fierce, burning love. "I want to fill you up so completely. Tell me you want me. Tell me you're mine."

"Yes," you sob, the word torn from your throat as you cling to his neck. "I'm yours. Fill me up, Johnny. Please."

"My beautiful girl," he chokes out, his thrusts turning harder, more purposeful, the bed creaking loudly in time with your bodies. "Gonna leave my love so deep inside you that you'll feel me with every breath you take today. You'll never forget who you belong to."

The dirty, intensely romantic promise throws you over the edge. Another orgasm crashes through you, a blinding wave. You cry out his name as your pussy tightly milks his thick length, your hands scrabbling for purchase on his sweat-slicked back, desperately memorizing the feel of his skin.

"Fuck, that's it, that's it," Johnny growls, his rhythm faltering as your body convulsively clamps down on him. "Come on my cock, sweetheart. Take it all."

He buries his face in your neck, his own groans vibrating against your skin as he lets go. You feel the hot, thick pulses of his release deep inside you, an intimate, searing heat that seems to go on forever. He fills you completely, his body tensing and shuddering with each powerful spurt.

Johnny doesn't pull out. He collapses on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. The air is thick with the scent of sex. You can feel his cum, a warm, sticky pool inside you, and the sheer, fleeting safety of this moment brings tears to your eyes. You hold him tighter, your arms locked around him as if you could physically keep him from ever leaving.

You run your fingers through the short, soft hair at the sides of his mohawk, tracing lazy circles on his back. He is still inside you, softening but lingering, a constant, comforting presence.

"Bad dream, huh?" you murmur after a long silence, your voice trembling slightly.

He lifts his head to look at you, the tough sergeant completely stripped away, leaving only a vulnerable, raw affection in his eyes.

"Aye, well. Woke up in a cold sweat, thought I'd lost you," he admits quietly, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a rough thumb. "Had to make sure you were real. That I was still allowed to love you like this."

You pull him down for another slow, sweet kiss, tasting the salt of your own tears. "I'm real, Johnny," you whisper against his lips. "And I'm yours. Always."

He sighs, a sound of pure, melting relief, and settles back down with his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. "Best fuckin' dream I ever had, then," he mumbles, his eyes already drifting shut.

You smile, stroking his hair, feeling his warmth leak slowly inside you.

He is alive. He is here. Johnny Mactavish. Your Johnny. The love of your life.

[chronicgaywizard]

Hi uhh Simon Ghost Riley who huffs and puffs when you suck him off, desperately clinging onto the couch while you force his hips still. Simon Riley who is a shaking mess, so used to being in control and forcing himself to play the big tough guy that when you coo and lick his tip, he’s letting out cracked whimpers like a kicked dog.

Simon Riley, whose moans get louder when you lean further to suck on his fat breeder balls. They’re massive, hanging heavy in your mouth as you rest his dick on your face just to watch him squirm at how big he is against you.

“You like how big you feel, hm? Naughty boy,” you grin up at him, leaning further to slather the underside of his balls with- when Simon suddenly goes stiff. A high whine leaves his lips, eyes shooting open as he darts down to your equally bewildered eyes. Spurts of cum suddenly spurt from his swollen needy tip, all over his own stomach as you pull back to stare.

Your tongue had danced across the rim of his ass. Light, a gentle and quick sensation- apparently he was a quick shot when his ass was involved. Simon looks mortified at himself, desperately starting to apologize- grunting when you shove his hands back down against the couch.

“Love- ‘m sorry, won’t cum again till you do- I- I don’t know what happened-“ he tries to explain, only quieting when you cup his face.

“Simon.” You murmur. “Are you gonna let me eat your ass, or am I gonna have to strap down these pretty little hands of yours?”

He whimpers something pitiful- and excited.

[writingoddess1125]

Annoying Shit YOU Do

COD Men X GN Reader

Price, Simon, Johnny, Kyle, König, Horangi + Nikto

NOT PROOF READ

Oh Yeah- We Going there!

Annoying Shit they Do (Original) <<<

Simon

Simon likes some space at times- like a house cat in a sense.

He likes affection especially physical ones in doses- but it has gotten better over the years..

However there is something that annoys him to no end..

Poking

Its such an odd tick for him-

So when you want to mess with you all you got to do is poke him and you can quite literally see his eye twitch.

Simon had gotten on your last nerves after deciding to overpack on your last date, who brings a tactical knife to a resturant. So you had gone a bit petty..

Walking past him as you gave a small poke right on his back. The man turning his head quickly at you as you saw his face twitch.

"What..."

"Mind grabbing the fresh sheets off the top of the closet?"

He nodded but clearly had a grumble. This started with you asking random things of him, Or just walking past. Not without a poke- You saw him slowly start to lose it.

Poke

Poke

Poke..

It was the final one when he was watching the game, slowly crawling behind the couch so he couldn't see you and..

Poke

"FUCKING GOD DAMN IT FUCKING BLOODY GOD FUCK!-"

He yelled loudly roaring up at the ceiling. You giggle and run away as he loses his mind in the livingroom and goes to chase you.

Price

John Price is a man who always has things planned

He knows where things are, knows how to go about it all and has a way to get around anything.

That includes his house.

John is a man who can walk through his house blindfolded and with tape behind his back without bumping into a thing-

As long as you dont move stuff..

Move stuff and it's like you through him in a thorn maze buttass naked and with a stick to navigate.

He does not know were to start or where to go.

If you move an object from its normal spot it might as well have disappeared from existence.

And when it comes to major arrangements..

Just put him out of his misery

John should not come home and when he goes to find a cup finds the plastic Tupperware instead

"The Hell.."

So he goes into another cabinet and finds dishes instead. Now a frantic search takes place for a damn cup.

He slowly begins to feel his blood pressure rise as he pulls out plates, the spices and everything he could think of the find a damn cup.

"...LUV!!"

He yelled out, Now frustrated. You walk into the kitchen and raise a brow at the man who looks so out of his element.

"Where are the fucking cups?"

"Its the cabinet next to the fridge"

John stops over and opens said cabinet as he grabs a cup angrily.

"Why did you move stuff? I cant find shit"

"I told you I was getting the kitchen reorganized when you were underway. I also redid the closets and organzied your office"

He looked at you as if you told him you'd laced the house with bombs for him to find.

Kyle

Kyle is fairly laid back, man.

He can handle many things but he does have a few pressure points.

But his worse one are things not symmetrical

He will stare...

Oh he will stare

Before finally he breaks and needs to fix whatever it crooked or off.

Paintings, Pillows- Hell he has even evened out some flowers you had in a vase once since they all leaned to one side.

It is like watching a nature documentary of a bird needing to arrange something just right. From moving a lampshade a few times till its somehow perfect.

So when you get an abstract art peice that is MENT to be crooked

He almost loses his shit

Getting home from an assignment and while he takes off his boots sees a painting at the end of the hall. There it looked like a wave going across the shore which was even by the image but the canvas itself was tilted giving it a unique effect...

"Fuckin Hell.."

He instantly tries to correct it.

"Hey love, Welcome back"

You say sweetly prepared to give him a hug and kiss but see he is totally focused and even took the painting down to look at the back of it to see why it wasnt evening out.

When you scold him telling him its ment to look like that.

You might as well have just said

'Im going to give a headache everytime you walk down the hall'

So sure he tries but everytime he walks past it he attempts to make it straight before it goes back to his corrective form making him groan and stomp away.

You actively saw the man stressing out everytime he looked at it.

It would only take a week to find the painting thrown into the garden..

Johnny

Johnny has a few things he actually cares about that are small..

Just a few things he will take a extra moment on and kept an eye on.

So ypu unfolding all the clothes.. makes his blink one eye then another like he was a frog you kicked.

Johnny has a strict thing about having things folded- he has been trained to a T on folding and making everything neat.

It was something that was weirdly important to him-

He would take a incredibly precise and almost meditative state while folding the clothes.

So when you bulldoze to grab one item in the middle of the stack or tear apart the drawer to were it looks like soup?

Yeah it gets on his last nerve.

He has folded up all blankets and towels so they were practically a masterpiece

To you in seconds reach in to grab a random towel not even looking and knocking over a stack of towels to use to clean up a major spill on the kitchen.

...

Johnny jaw dropping as he looked to you as if you had ripped his heart out.

"(Y/N)! I just folded that!"

You hear yelled out as you have the towel om the ground frantically moving it across the dirty floor in mild panic.

"Im sorry! Actually can you hand me another one!"

You were then promptly met with a towel to the side of your head.

Hong-Jin (Horangi)

Hong-jin appreciates you. He likes to make sure you are spoiled- well taken care of and content.

So You being a pushover over little things bothers him.

He will look at you as if you have grown a second head.

When you let someone just get their way or get in your way it frustrates him.

You are a strong person, he knows it. Yet you let someone insignificant talk down at you.

Standing with his arms crossed, lips curled down in a frown as Hong-jin watched the waiter completely ignore your every instruction as they set down your meal and you accepted the incorrect food.

"Say something-"

He will grumbled. When you try and strug it off or change thw topic he will feel his chest tighten as he would take a heavy breath.

Sure not wanting to be confrontational was an admirable trait but this was simply insanity.

Constantly he tried to push you to approach people with simple complaints that could bw resolved. A simple tiny mix up with change, the wrong dressing for your food, them giving you the wrong color of something.

It is something you want so why are you so okay with not getting what you want!

"(Y/N)- You deserve what you asked for. Tell them.."

When you wilt in your seat a bit flushed. He grumbles and looks around- irritated for the person in question.

"Excuse me- You"

"Hong-Jin!"

Konig

König likes to go in and out when it comes to certain things.. Choices being one especially if they are small. He would prefer to at least have some idea of what he wants so he can get back to where he feels comfortable

So being indecisive over small things

It will drive him insane..

Absolutely up the fucking wall.

Sure he knows sometimes it take a moment to think things over. He has even needed a moment to make a choice.

But taking 30 minutes to pick something low effoet is insanity

Switching back and forth constantly with something as simply as what you want to eat at the same restuant you two go to constantly.

Trying to think of what brand to get of bread

It makes him feel on edge since it means they are attracting more looks or prolonging a interaction he doesnt like.

He will try to be nice however it will slowly drive him mad.

"Schatz please.."

König will beg as he tries to keep from saying the choice he knows you will make.

So when you two are shopping for you to get a new phone he is leaned against the wall.

He will close his eyes and channel in all the calm of his body. His soul.

You going back and forth between two phones when he knows that you know which want you want.

"...(Y/N).. You want that one on the left.."

"Well yeah, but i don't know- This one is also good"

He will put his head in his hands trying not to cry.

Nikto

Listen.. Nikto doesnt like scarcity. He has known the feeling of not having enough. Of scrapping by, he never wants to experience thay again.

Listen.. He knows he eats a lot

So forgetting to stock up has a emotional grind to him.

He knows he can go through many things fairly quickly.

He has a card that you can use at any and all times. It is practically ENDLESS for you to use for whatever needs you have and whatever you could possibly ever want.

SO why do you wait till there is quite literally crumbs in the house? Or that there is barely anything in terms of house needs until its ABSOLUTELY gone.

So many times he has gone to different parts of the find there wasnt a restock.

Hell even of stuff you use constantly!

How do you not restock your own stuff!

So of course when things like that happen he will feel absolutely annoyed.

Nikto felt a twitch in his eye as he stared at the empty toilet paper bag in the bathroom. Stuck on the toilet as he felt a pain behind his eye.

"(Y/N!)"

You peak in to see your boyfriend there on the toilet- His scarred face a twisted mess of irritation.

"Где находится туалетная бумага?"

(Where is the toilet paper?)

"Oh- I must have forgotten to pick up some more"

Nikto closes his eyes and heavily sighs

"Of course..."

[godmadeaterribleerror]

delicate

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦

✦summary: you ask dean to sleep with you, he turns you down, and you believe him. you tell him you don't care, and he believes you. eventually, one of you is going to have to tell the truth, won't they. ✦

✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), virgin!reader, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, shameless smut (loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, pussy slapping, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 8.6k✦

✦author's note: i love writing idiots in love it's my favorite kind of idiot it's for love✦

“Have sex with me.”

Dean spits his coffee out. You sigh, bracing your hands on your hips, and wait for him to collect himself. You’re patient. He’s scrambling and slamming a fist on his chest, and you pass him a napkin with a sweet smile. You don’t think it’s going to win you a spot in his bed, but it might help.

“Better?” You ask, when he no longer sputtering and choking. He grunts, holding a hand up for a few more seconds. You roll your eyes—it wasn’t that crazy a thing to say—but bounce on your toes and wait.

Dean clears his throat, ears red, and looks up at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“What?”

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

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[slater-baby]

Part 2 of my Simon w/ F!Reader with anorgasmia

When you’re finally ready to try penetration in the new position, Simon goes all out to make sure you cum once—if not more.

The spreader bar strapped around your ankles shakes in time with your trembling muscles, body heaving with exertion. It’s been too long already, that inevitable crest just barely out of reach.

Meanwhile, Simon’s been edging for what feels like HOURS, moaning every time your pussy clenched.

Every time, he thinks you’ll finally cum, only for the waves to recede once more.

He’s nearly cum four times now. But, hell, if a man won’t get his woman off first.

When he has to force himself to pull out, he doesn’t leave you high and dry. No, he just drips his head between your bound legs, ravenously prodding at your hole with his tongue like a man starved.

At this point, there wasn’t an inch of his jawline not coated in slick.

By the fifth time he almost climaxes, it takes all his strength to pull out and wrap a hand around his base to stop himself from cumming, groaning long and loud as you whimper and whine beneath him.

You’re good and desperate now. Simon just knows you’re almost there.

With a dark, wolfish look in his eye, he yanks his shirt over his head. Every inch of his pale skin is red and coated in sweat. The bedroom smells like sex and exertion, and you’re so wound up, you’re hardly thinking of the position when he wrenches his hands around your thighs to drag you closer.

The buckles of spreader bar rattle when he settles your knees over his shoulders.

His swollen cock pulses against your stomach while he tiredly fumbles to line himself up.

“C’mon, darling,” he pants loudly, barely able to speak, “We’ll be here all night if we have to.”

[rassvetsky]

Field-Expedient Thermal Sharing

john price x fem!reader The one where John Price pulls rank on the mattress setup, demands you take his heat, and then thoroughly ruins any semblance of professional distance you ever had. [3.2k] safehouse trope, forced proximity, omg there was only one bed! competence porn, teasing, dirty talk, praise, hand over mouth, spooning, breeding if you squint, creampie, porn with little plot basically

The old, run-down, and quite honestly, shitty safehouse smelled of the distinct, biting chill of a Siberian winter bleeding through the floorboards. It wasn’t homey by any definition of the word, merely hidden beneath a disused mechanics shop that seemed to be out of business since the late nineties, barely large enough for two people to stand in without bumping shoulders.

And of course, to your absolute luck, there was only one cot. A narrow, rusted frame with a mattress that looked about as forgiving as a slab of granite. 

John Price stood by the reinforced door, practically swallowing the limited space. He had his heavy tactical jacket unzipped just a fraction, the scent of tobacco, rain, and sweat clinging to him like a second skin. His blue eyes, usually sharp enough to cut glass, always aware of everything around him, tracked you as you dropped your rucksack onto the dusty floor. 

“Cosy,” you remarked, wiping a layer of grime off the back of a plastic chair. “I see the Royal Army really spared no expense on the honeymoon suite. 

Price let out a low huff— the closest you’d get to a laugh while knee-deep in the red zone, halfway through a deep-cover mission. He pulled his watch cap down tighter over his ears. “You’re lucky it’s got a roof, love. Last time I was in this sector, I slept in a ditch with a wet poncho.”

“And you’ve been lovely ever since,” you shot back mindlessly, unbuttoning your own heavy coat to check the seals on your sidearm. You didn’t look up, but you could feel his gaze on you, always. Heavy, observant, laced with the respect he only reserved for operatives who were genuine survivalists out in the field. Sometimes you wondered if he only ever liked you because you didn’t know how to complain. “Don’t worry, Captain. If you get cold, I’ll let you have the chair.”

Price took a slow step forward, floorboards groaning a little beneath his boots. He leaned against the low ceiling beam, looking down at you with that maddeningly calm, knowing smirk hidden in his stupid beard.

“Is that right?” his voice dropped an octave, a rough purr that vibrated right through the thick, stale air of the room. “Generous of you. But I outrank you, Sergeant. Which means if anyone’s taking the luxury seating, it’s me.”

“Ah, pulling rank already? We’ve only been locked in a basement for, what, ten minutes?” you finally looked up, meeting his eyes with a challenging tilt of your chin. “I thought you liked a capable partner, John.”

“I do,” Price murmured, holding your gaze, his own darkening a little. Though you weren’t sure, as exhaustion had played with your brain way too many times before and told you that on quiet nights like this, Price was thinking exactly the same things as you were. “Which is why I’m letting you figure out how we’re both going to fit on a mattress meant for a single schoolboy without one of us falling off.”

Ah. Sure.

The unspoken rule between the two of you had always been distance. It wasn’t born out of dislike— quite the opposite, actually. In your line of work, professional distance was a life jacket. The cold, the bone-deep exhaustion, the proximity of holding the line with someone could easily play tricks with your head, make you see things that weren’t necessarily there, have you holding onto words like the world outside of that specific perimeter had lost all its meaning. 

Price was a man who carried the weight of too many ghosts, and you were a woman who valued her autonomy too much to let a commander see the softer edges of your armor. But there was a gravity between you, undeniable in its nature, a pull that both of you spent a massive, unnecessary amount of energy pretending didn’t exist. 

You took great interest in the smaller details of the room whilst your brain scrambled to find a way to get you out of the situation, before setting your eyes on him.

“A schoolboy’s mattress,” you repeated, voice a dry defense mechanism against the sudden tightness of your chest. “Right. Well. Good thing I practiced my posture in training.”

The banter was a shield, of course, but as the clock ticked past midnight, the cold began to strip it away. The heating unit in the corner, which you deemed hopeless within twenty minutes of settling in, gave one pathetic hiss before dying completely, leaving the air so frigid your breath bloomed in fragile, ghostly clouds between you. The Siberian winder certainly didn’t care about the military rank Price was always so eager to pull with you; if it could seep through the concrete this much, it could easily bypass your skin to settle deep into your bones until shivers wracked your shoulders.

Price noticed. Why were you even surprised, he noticed everything.

“Drop the boots and the rig,” he commanded quietly. It wasn’t his ‘Captain’ voice that you were used to— it was lower, thicker, roughened by the drop in temperature and something else he was trying hard to suppress. “We’re losing heat. We freeze up, we’re useless tomorrow.”

You didn’t have it in you to argue this once. The bravado was gone, replaced by the instinct to just survive which was quickly blurring into something far more dangerous in your book. You stripped off your tactical vest and boots, leaving you in your thick thermal layers. When you climbed onto the narrow cot, pressed flat against the damp concrete wall to leave him room, you realized just how impossible this was going to be.

The bed groaned under his weight as Price laid down beside you, facing away at first, trying to preserve a polite boundary. But you both knew it was useless. The cold was a physical blade, cutting through the thin fabric of your thermals, the skin beneath, your bones. You shivered again, hard enough that the rusted springs gave a little.

With a heavy sigh that sounded a lot like surrender, Price turned around. 

Thank God you were facing away from him because if you had to face him in the dark now, you would probably say something stupid.

“Come here,” he muttered into the dark. 

Before you could even try to fire back a witty retort, his arm reached out, hooking around your waist and pulling you backward against his chest. The impact took your breath away. He was a literal furnace— visceral, solid, and utterly massive. Your back pressed flush against his torso, thighs nesting into his, head tucked just beneath his chin. 

The dynamic shifted in an instant, you could feel it. You were no longer just two highly capable soldiers sharing a safehouse to lay low for the night. You felt skin and bone, heartbeat and heat, terrifyingly, deliciously close. 

Price’s breath hitched as your heat met his. Through the layers of clothing, you cold feel the hard expanse of his chest rising and falling against your shoulder blades, his heart thumping a steady rhythm that almost matched the sudden racing of your own. His beard brushed the crown of your head, the scent of him enveloping your entire being completely. He was rigid, every muscle in his body coiled tight as a spring, as if he were actively fighting the urge for something. To pull you closer, your treacherous mind whispered into you. To feel your body against his, closer, warmer, perhaps even wetter.

He’s affected by this, you realized, a sudden thrill of heat shooting through your veins that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather. The great John Price isn’t as untouchable as he lets on.

“Still cold?” he murmured, his voice rumbling directly into your spine, making its way down in between your legs, to contribute to the growing anticipation there.

You remained entirely frozen, terrified to your bones that even a single, misplaced shift of your weight would shatter the fragile illusion of military necessity. But the cold was unrelenting, forcing you to melt backward, pressing your spine firmer against the solid wall of his chest.

“I’ll survive, Captain,” you managed, voice nothing above a hushed thread in the dark. “Though I think you forgot to mention in your briefing that field-expedient thermal sharing involved being spooned by a human bear.”

Price let out a sound— not a huff this time, but a vibration that rippled right through your shoulder blades, making your muscles go taut. His arm, still wrapped around your waist, tightened just a little bit, pulling you a microscopic inch closer until there wasn’t a single millimeter of air left between his front and your back.

“It’s called survival, Sergeant,” he murmured, breath hot against the shell of your ear. You shushed your mind before it could tell you that he was doing it deliberately. “If you’ve got complaints, you can file ‘em with Hereford when we get back. Till then, shut up and take my heat.”

“Always so textbook,” you whispered, tilting your head back just slightly. The crown of your head rubbed against his jaw, the rough stubble of his beard catching on your hair. “And here I thought you were breaking character just to be nice to me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, love.” the term of endearment slipped out a little too easily, too breathily, with a weight that didn’t necessarily belong on a mission roster. Price’s fingers twitched where they rested against your stomach. His hand flattened there then, palm heavy and searingly hot through the synthetic fabric. He was pinning your hips directly against the apex of his thighs, and you didn’t have a single intention of complaining. 

“Besides,” Price added whilst shifting his weight, large thigh sliding between yours a bit. “If I were breaking character, you wouldn’t be doing this much talking.”

A treacherous thrill coiled tight in your lower stomach. The undercurrent of the remark he threw so casually wasn’t a blunt admission, no, that wasn’t in Price’s nature, but it was there— thick, sticky with a promise that made the back of your throat go dry.

“Is that a threat, Captain?” you whispered, your own voice taking on a slight edge. You tilted your hips back just a fraction into his heat, testing the boundary, testing him. “Last I checked, I’ve never had an issue keeping up with your pace. In or out of the field.”

You heard a jagged intake of air that ruffled the hairs at the nape of your neck, then, you felt the immediate consequence of your movement— hardening of a certain something against your lower back, thick and unmistakable even through the heavy layers of clothing. He was fighting a losing battle against his own restraint, and you weren’t exactly making it easier for him.

“Careful now,” the warning rumbled right into your skin. His hand on your stomach moved, palm spreading wide, charting the curve of your hip with an agonizingly slow pressure. “You’re playing a high-stakes game in a very small room, love.”

“But you’re the one who told me to take your heat,” you breathed, the dizzying heat washing over you entirely eradicating the chill that a few minutes ago was paralyzing you. “I’m just… following orders. Finding out how much you’re willing to give.”

“Wanna talk orders?” his voice was a rough purr now, lips brushing your earlobe as he spoke, sending an electric ache straight down between your thighs. His fingers dug a little deeper into your hip, pulling your backside flush against the rigid line of his groin. “If I give you an order right now, Sergeant, I’d have to make sure you take every single piece of it.”

The weight of his tone made your knees weaken, even lying down. It was a masterclass in control, a tether keeping the monster on a leash, but the leash was fraying way too fast. Every slow rise and fall of his chest rubbed torturously against you. 

“Then why don’t you?” you challenged softly, heart hammering against your ribs. “Unless the Captain is all talk tonight.”

Price didn’t answer that. The time for words, apparently, was over.

His hand moved from your hip with urgency, large fingers gripping the waistband of your thermal trousers before hauling them down along with your underwear in one heavy sweep, exposing your bare skin to the biting chill of the room. That didn’t last long, though, as his massive, burning body crowded right back against you. You heard the harsh, metallic slide of his own zipper, the rustle of heavy fabric, then the staggering reality of his bare length pressing directly against the slick, aching heat between your thighs.

He was massive. 

You let out a soft gasp into the dark, hands reaching back to blindly grip at the fabric of his shirt for leverage as he grabbed a hold of your leg, lifting it up and hooking it over his, opening you right up for easy access as his fingers found their way over to your aching clit.

“All talk?” Price growled into the nape of your neck, voice stripped of all the restraint it had before. It was deep, feral, and deeply, deeply hungry. “Let’s see how well you keep up now, hm?”

With a tilt of his hips, and a helping hand, Price managed to drive himself forward a bit, blunt tip catching onto your desperate entrance.

He didn’t ease into you, not that you expected him to. He sank straight into your tight, drenched heat in one long push, filling you to the absolute brim. The light pain of his thick length stretching you open took the breath out of your lungs, having your eyes snapping open in the dark, spine arching off his back as pleasure crashed over your brain. A loud, high-pitched cry built in the back of your throat, threatened to tear past your lips and echo straight up through the floor to the street above.

Before the sound could even escape, though, Price’s large hand slammed over your mouth. 

His palm was warm, smelling of one of his cigars, effectively smothering your voice into a muffled, breathless whimper against his skin.

“Shh, quiet, baby,” Price hissed against your ear, holding you completely still for one torturous second, letting your desperate body stretch and adjust to the fullness of him. “One sound out of you, and we’re compromised. You stay quiet for me, okay pretty girl? You hear me?”

You could only nod frantically against his palm. The danger of the mission outside was entirely eclipsed by the overwhelming danger and embarrassment of the orgasm forcing its way to the surface, before he even had a chance to move properly. 

Price let out an approving grunt. “Good girl.”

Then, he began to move.

Because of the cramped, narrow spooning position, every single thrust had to be so, so deep and agonizingly slow. He pulled back until he was almost entirely out, letting the freezing air hit the slick skin of your cunt, before driving all the way back in, bottoming out against you with a wet thud each time. His thick hips rolled against your backside, weight crushing you into the wall and the hard mattress with every relentless stroke of his. 

You writhed against him, muffled whimpers trapped behind his hand as he tore through all of your defenses. The pleasure was too sharp, too much. Every time he hit your sweet spot, your legs twitched helplessly, begging for a faster pace, but Price maintained a commanding rhythm of his own. He was using his size to dominate the space, thick thighs anchoring yours, chest pinning your shoulders flat when he moved a bit further to keep you under him.

“Look at you,” Price whispered roughly, lips dragging along your jawline. “Taking all of it. So quiet. Built perfectly for this, aren’t you? My perfect little soldier.”

The dirty praises sent an entirely new wave of heat straight to your core. You clamped your thighs tighter around his leg, tilting your pelvis back to meet his deep thrusts, desperately chasing the peak that had been building between your legs a while.

Price felt the shift in your body, the tight squeeze of your wet walls around his girth. He let out a low groan, hand gripping your jaw just a little tighter. “Yeah, just like that,” he muttered, breaths coming in short pants now as his own control began to fray at the edges. “Take it all from your captain, baby, take all of me.”

You felt Price’s restraint snapping cleanly in two when he stopped pulling back. He simply drove into you over and over, frantic thrusts that slammed his hips flush against yours with a wet echo, and at that point, his tight hand around your jaw wasn’t doing much to muffle you. The rusted springs of the cot creaked beneath, but neither of you cared about the noise anymore— not when he was so big and unforgiving, not when you were so tight and soft beneath his palms. 

“I’m gonna ruin you,” Price growled, voice barely feeling human as his teeth grazed your shoulder. “Gonna fill you up. Fucking breed you. Just hold on, love, hold on for me.”

Your walls clamped helplessly around him, and the orgasm actually felt like a physical blow against your pussy. You arched your spine, eyes rolling back in the dark as a choked, muffled scream was smothered entirely into his palm. Your walls clamping tight around his rigid length as you came around him pushed Price right over the precipice. 

He let out a guttural moan against your neck, body locking up when he drove himself into you one final time, burying his length as deep as it could possibly go, and then, he unleashed.

You felt the pulsing before the warmth flooded your tight space, filling you to the absolute brim. He poured into you in deep waves, the volume of his seed pooling deep within  your core until it slickly escaped the seal of your skin to drip onto the mattress beneath you. Price remained buried deep, chest heaving against your back, heart hammering on top of you like a war drum as he slowly emptied himself into you. 

For a long, beautiful minute, the only sound was the desperate panting of two people trying to catch their breaths. 

You felt him soften slightly, though he stayed put, preserving the connection there for a hot minute before carefully withdrawing his large hand from your mouth, fingers trailing down your jaw, over your chin, before resting against the pulse point on your neck. 

He pressed a soft kiss to the damp skin beneath your ear, breath still hot and shallow.

“Love,” he whispered into the dark, shifting his weight to ensure he wasn’t crushing you. “You alright? Did I hurt you?”

“I just might have to start disobeying orders more often, Captain,” you murmured with his soft chuckle rumbling against your back, as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Smart mouth,” Price whispered affectionately, thumb gently stroking the pulse point on your throat before he retreated a bit to pull the blankets back up over the two of you. 

[somedeadmoth]

obsessed with the idea of reader having special weird nicknames for the cod guys, little ideas and why. this is the way I give nicknames so

Price: "Milkshake." now you'd think its for maybe a cutesy reason? no. price had enough with his team,the poor lads were cooped up inside with nothing to do. the training grounds which he calls "the yard" is where he would take them to get all the pent up energy out. and you thought it was the funniest thing in the damn world when he said "I'm bringing the boys to the yard." it reminded you of that song Milkshake. You're just funny like that. he's made peace with it

Soap: Now theres many versions of this that you call him. "BB". which stands for "baby blues" it's the color of his eyes, for such a gruff man he's got very lovely eyes. Or sometimes you just refer to him as "Blue". Sitting atop a humvee in the middle of the forest, eating your MRES you glance over to soap, when he does look back at you, you kinda just stare. he doesn't seem to mind much to tired to even say anything, he just zoned out looking into your eyes, it was cute. his eyes looked nice in this light, strays of shimmering sun light dancing over his face, catching them just right. that's how he got the nickname. when Gaz got back from doing his rounds and saw you and soap just staring at each other, he couldn't help but be a bit jealous.

Ghost: "Monster" because of his size? no. because of how he looks? no. because of how he acts? no. because of how he eats pizza. he doesn't cut his pizza into slices, hell he doesn't cut it at all! he grabs it and lays it on his finger, so all the side drop down around his hand, toppings on the outside. he grabs the very middle and shoves the whole thing down his throat like a fucking snake. he's a monster.

Gaz: "Rocker" or sometimes its "Rockstar" you've seen his play list, if its not rock its rap, either way he's head banging, first pumping over and over in the air as he screams the lyrics with a huge grin on his face like a rowdy teenager, even if its a song you don't like or don't know, by the middle you'll be vibing just as hard as gaz is, how could you not when he looks over at your with that smile, seeing if you vibe with what he's playing, he'll hype you up to the whole time. its fucking fun, 10/10 would ride with gaz again

Graves: "Riddler" before and after the betrayal he was the Riddler. because he asked too many questions the first time you met, to his defense he was plastered and wanted to know everything about you. after he had betrayed you, it went from a silly and endearing jab to an insult deep and full of hate. the one and only time he got his grip on you and successfully kiddnaped you he smiled so brightly when you spit the name at him whenever he said anything. god he missed you, and if being the Riddler to your Batman is what it takes to get to see you again, he'll where the name with pride.

Alejandro: "Big guy" you know how gym bros will refer to another as "big guy" if they don't know the dudes name? yeah that's pretty much what happened, somehow he failed to mention his name so until you figured it out he was dubbed "big guy" until YEARS YES YEARS later you and the team, afew other were at his ranch for a bbq you heard one his men yell out "Alejandro! were out of ice I'll grab some from the store real quick" you paused and leaned over to Rudy "hey...who the hell is Alejandro? don't think I've met him." "...you can't be serious."

Rudy: "Sweetness" it started as a joke and became just what you called him. he only let you call him that, because well to you, he was Sweetness. the sweetest even. you had already had one to many drinks, enough to be aware of your surroundings but not the stuff coming out of your mouth, you leaned heavily against Rudys shoulder, his arm snaking around you to hold you up. you giggle softly at the soft smile on his face "hehe so sweet-hic like candy...mmm sweetness is what we should call you" Rudy was a soldier, a real man. but he sure flushed like a school girl. Ale can't wait until the wedding.

Nikolai: "gun man" that is a story in itself, pretty obvious. you love walking up to him, arms open wide "hey! there's my gun man!" he laughs and pulls you into one of his big tight hugs. it's the same way whenever you board his helicopter "gun man, keep use steady we got some injured back here" "of course malysh"

[lesserthan-3]

Pleaseeeee do more of the portal pussy with tf141🙏🙏

cw freeuse

it’s a ritual everyone must go through. hell, it’s the military, place where egotistical men get off on the power of being older- it would be weird if there wasn’t any type of hazing.

so when the new recruits come, the team finds the perfect opportunity where you’re home on leave to have some fun since youve up and left them dry without a nice cute body to dump their loads on or in.

they have the group of young men line up, each one standing with both resolve and tension. they await their fates as ghost walks up and down the line. tension hangs in the air…would they be cleaning the bathrooms? punched in the gut? who knew?

ghost approaches the man at one end, muscular, probably of latin descent with jet black hair. and that’s when ghost extends his hand with your pussy in it. the recruit doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even let his eyes drop down to the toy.

“know what this is, recruit?”

the recruit swallows. “yes, sir.” there’s a pause. “a pocket pussy, sir.” yes, a portal pocket pussy.

“good.” he takes the recruits hand, shoving the toy onto his grasps. “show me what you can do.”

and thats when the recruit finally shows some type of reaction, glancing back up and down from the pussy in hand to the ice cold stare of his Lieutenant. “you mean….use it? sir?”

soap interrupts, “lick it, finger it, fuck it, prove yourself kid.”

theres a moment of hesitation but with three of his superiors there, nothing could be done, so the recruit slowly brings his fingers up and down the silicon slit that feels just a little too real to be considered silicon. technology must have advanced quickly!

price looms over the shoulder of the recruit, eyes narrowing on his careful choices. “c’mon son, you a virgin? that how you fuck a lady?”

so the recruit swallows his inhibitions and sinks two fingers into the warm cunt. hes immediately met with a lewd squelch and his fingers burn with a heat that he assumes is his own embarrassment. and hes so enamored with the way the toy seems to squeeze around him that he doesn’t even notice three particular stares watching the way the toy magically gets wetter and wetter.

and then he passes it down the line as instructed to do per captain’s orders. the next recruit is much more eager, his dick already out as he slaps his hardened length against the plush cunt of the toy. he’s nudging the clit with his tip before sinking his average dick into the cute little hole thats just made with so much detail for a toy!

then theres a man whos pushing in the base of his knife into the hole, collecting the drippings and shoving it back in with the tenderness of a brick. then a boy who can only swipe frantically across its clit. then some brute who’s humping his dick lamely into the soft opening. one by one, they pass down the toy- some determined to show “skill,” and others just wanting an excuse to get off.

and then theyre nearing the end of the line. soap takes the toy and puts it in the recruits hand. the recruit doesnt hesitate, but calmly brings the toy to his lips. he experimentally blows against the clit and miraculously, it twitches. theres a soft kitten lick at the bundle of nerves before he engulfs it all into his warm mouth, sucking tenderly on the throbbing bud.

he pants softly against the sopping cunt, slipping in two fingers subtly and curling them up in an excruciatingly slow pace. “horny fuck,” says soap, but the recruit ignores him, spitting down the slit before feverishly taking whatever can fit into his mouth.

“at least the boy is committed,” remarks ghost, crossing his arms as he observes the way the recruit is practically grinding his own face into the toy, nose tapping on the underside of the clit with every press of his tongue.

if someone needed to know the meaning of addiction, this was the epitome of it- the way he was sucking on you deliriously, with no intent of stopping, licking and swallowing every bit of arousal that was produced. and it probably would have kept going, if not for the sudden squirt of the toy that sends the recruit pulling back from shock.

everyone stares in awe, and even more so from three particular men. its quiet and the only sounds that can be heard is the filthy drips of squirt falling onto the ground. “didnt know she could do that…” soap mumbles softly. “you ever…?”

and before he can even finish asking the question, ghost answers in one of the most unpleasant tones ever heard, “no. never.”

the recruit wipes his chin with the back of his hand, lowering the pocket pussy. “some toy youve got. didnt know they made those features.”

price stands curiously, approaching the recruit with an unreadable expression. “whats your name, son?”

and the recruit doesnt back down but rather, he stands tall. “kyle garrick, sir.”

~bonus~

*reader sending a picture of soaked through jeans to the tf141 group chat with the caption “you fuckers.”*

a/n gaz is a munch! I know it

[softaestluv]

John Price’s favorite position is a mating press because he’s a fucking dirty old man with a raging breeding kink. The position allows him to fuck you real deep, kiss your cervix just so with his fat tip so that he fills your womb thrust after thrust.

And he keeps you there long after he’s finished, legs pressed to your shoulders, cock keeping you nice and plugged with his seed, muttering something breathless and ragged about ‘making a baby stick.’

John MacTavish’s favorite position is cowgirl because he’s obsessed with you and it gives him the perfect view of everything you. How your face scrunches when you sink all the way to the bottom or the way your tits bounce with each new thrust.

How your weight feels on top of him, so you’re in control. And the way you look at him, eyes determined, when he starts to get overstimulated, and begs you to stop, but you just fuck him harder.

Kyle Garrick’s favorite position is doggy because he’s an ass man after all and your hips are the perfect handles. He can’t stare at the way your ass recoils off his hips for too long or listen to the loud smack or else he’ll finish too quickly.

And he doesn’t even have to tell you; you just know he likes it when you bury your face into your arms and arch your ass that much higher. You don’t ever run too, just take the way his balls slam against you, meeting him with each deep thrust.

Simon Riley’s favorite position is prone brone because he can’t look at your face without immediately needing to finish. He’d rather take you this way, with your body trapped under his, weight suffocating you, so you have no option, but to take it.

Likes curling his hand around your neck and burying his face against your shoulder. Likes the way your legs kick out even more when he’s fucking you too roughly hands scrambling to find purchase on anything.

[lesserthan-3]

“You’re totally faking it by the way.”

You look up, already annoyed because it’s Johnny soap mactavish, your roommates best friend that you find to be more of a pest than anything else.

“Excuse me? Why are you even here? Kyle’s out.”

He ignores the latter question. “That guy last night? Fakest moans I’ve heard in a long time.”

You throw your pillow at him “piss off.”

He chuckles, grabbing the pillow from you, “maybe you wouldn’t be so uptight if you just got a good lay in ya.”

Which is how you end up sprawled on your bed with two of soaps fingers sunken into your pussy. “T-this is only happening once by the way.”

He rolls his eyes, curling his fingers upwards at a nasty angle that causes your hips to buck. “Dinnae worry, Princess. I got the message the last four times ya said it.”

His fingers are thick and his palm is calloused as it slams against your clit with each pump of his fingers. You grit your teeth, refusing to believe that Johnny might be right and he in fact might be the best lay you’ll ever have.

“Tell me, doll. What was it like? Did’ya ride his face since he can’t eat ya out properly or is he not enough for a pillow princess like you?”

The scowl on your face tells him you have some choice words as a response but he quickly cuts you off. “Oh please, we all know you’re definitely a pillow princess.”

He leans down, blowing against your tender clit before suckling at it lightly. Your legs tremble, threatening to close but a gentle spank followed by a large palm pressing against your thigh keeps you open.

The build up comes quicker than you’d like to admit. Your shallow breathes don’t do anything to hide the fact that you’re about to cum.

oh god- you’re cumming…cumming, cum-

You gasp at the sudden removal of his presence. You look up in shock, finding a smug Johnny between your legs. By the look on his face, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Fuck him.

“Beg for me, doll. Tell me you’re sorry for being such a brat all the time.”

You refuse. You might be teetering the edge of an orgasm but you still have your pride.

However, your refusal doesn’t put him off, instead he inches closer, fingers playing with your folds as if they were pages of a book. “It would be no fun if you were compliant anyways.”

You learn Johnny is a stubborn man- ruining orgasm after orgasm. He brings you to your high quickly, reckless demeanor contrasting with his precise movements.

Even when your pussy is squeezing his cock like it doesn’t want to let go, he finds the will to pull out and leave you shamefully pulsing around nothing.

He does this over and over and over- until you’re a sobbing mess. His name sounds so nice on your tongue followed by a broken “please” or “I’m sorry.”

But one isn’t enough. You’ve been a bitch to Johnny in the past, as he had been to you (but Johnny ignores this fact), and he plans on getting his fill all in one night.

Maybe if he can get you to admit he’s the best you’ve ever had, he’ll let you cum in the morning.

[gloomwitchwrites]

High Sex Drive

How do the members of 141 handle reader with a high sex drive? Reader is insatiable. Can they keep up or do they tap out early? Do they beg for more or beg for rest?

requested by @/unknownbooklady

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader

Content & Warnings (mdni): sexual content, oral sex, rough sex, swearing, established relationship, gn!reader

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Trying to kill me?” huffs John, chest heaving.

Sweat-slick and naked, John runs his palm over his face, fisting the hair at the top of his head. The man is exhausted, but you said over text that you wanted to breed him, and you’re not finished now that you’re home.

Head bobbing, you bring John back to aching hardness, relentless in your pursuit of having it off. There isn’t nearly enough of John’s cum in you. Fullness is the goal. To leave him empty and you stuffed to the brim.

With a wet pop, the head of his cock bounces from between your lips, pointing toward the ceiling. “John,” you sigh, dream-drenched and heavy. “You don’t need to do anything.”

Hands slide up his hairy chest. Come back down. Fingers running over thick muscles. You take your time, curling those fingers to lightly drag your nails over his skin. He inhales sharply, and you grin.

“Bloody hell,” he groans, hips lifting as you tease him with your tongue. “You’re insatiable.”

With a mischievous smile, you shift, giving John your back. Lifting your ass, you provide him with a clear of you sliding down on him before you start to bounce.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

The room smells of sweat and sex.

“I need a moment,” says Kyle, his breathing deep. “Shit. Give me a moment.”

Kyle holds you in his arms, face nuzzling the top of your head, his eyes closed as he attempts to steady himself. You, on the other hand, are perfectly fine. As Kyle contemplates life and his sanity, you play with his dick.

“If I recall,” you begin.

“Hush, you,” mutters Kyle.

“You said you could keep up with me.”

Kyle grunts, a sliver of annoyed defeat in it. “I did.”

Hand roaming down to cup his balls, you gently squeeze them. “Are you sure now?”

A long pause, and then Kyle finally speaks. “Don’t know if I can come again that fast.”

You shrug, snuggling closer. “Sure about that?” You bring your hand back to his dick. “Feels hard to me.”

Kyle snorts and gently grasps your wrist. You cease stroking him. “I’m serious, love. Might be done.”

Drawing your hand away, you bring it to rest on his chest, placing a soft kiss on Kyle’s cheekbone. “Tomorrow?”

Kyle’s arm tightens, bringing you in until you’re smushed. “Telling Price you’re putting me on the path to an early retirement.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Fisting the base of Johnny’s cock, you give it a loving squeeze. A dribble of cum emerges from the tip, you suck it up greedily. And yet, you’re not finished. Hardly even started. Already you’re stroking him, teasing up that build until Johnny is rock-hard and throbbing.

“Oh, aye.” Johnny chuckles at your eagerness. “Want another round?”

You arch an eyebrow but don’t cease. “That a problem?”

Johnny shakes his head. Bringing his arms up, he tucks them under his head, a pleased smile forming on his lips. “No. Surprised is all.”

“Surprised?” you question, almost mocking. “Didn’t think I could fuck like this?”

Johnny snorts, clearly amused by the exchange. He’s trying to turn this around, to bring you to heel. Funny how he thinks you’ll take orders from him. A quick swirl of your tongue and the man is chocking.

“Talking about the stamina,” he manages, eyelids fluttering as you take more of him.

You head slowly ascends, lips suctioning until his eyes briefly roll back into his head. When the head of his cock pops out, you speak. “Is my stamina too much for you?”

Johnny’s gaze returns to your face. “Maybe. Won’t know unless we try.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Beneath you, the sofa shifts, imperceptibly moving with each hard thrust.

At your ear, is Simon’s voice, gruff and thick like he’s smoked too many cigarettes. “Think I can’t keep up?”

You know that tone. Simon uses it when you’re in trouble, or you’ve pushed him a bit too far and he drawn up a punishment. You hold your tongue. While you want to brat over this, to continuously poke at him, that’ll only take you further than you can go.

Simon doubles his efforts at your silence, fucking you harder. His fingers are in your mouth, cutting off your words anyway, though you could use your teeth. Simon’s brute strength severs your ability to do anything except take his cock.

“Always think you can out pace me, bird.”

He’s the one poking now, shifting the power to his hands, leaving you helpless. It’s always where you want to be with him, but the thrill is not knowing how much he’ll deal out.

Saliva pools around Simon’s fingers, dripping onto your lips and chin. Deep enough to stifle but not choke.

Simon lands a sharp slap to your ass. “This is mine. Always mine. You’ll be the one who tires.”

[ghouljams]

John "6 ft on tinder" Mactavish who has always gotten the short end of the stick from the rest of the 141 for being 5'11". who has seen and heard beautiful women excuse all kinds of behavior just because they have to look up at Ghost or Price. who has had Gaz pat his shoulder one too many times and tell the bird he's chatting up, "man's lying about his height." and who is frankly, fucking tired of it. watching with barely disguised malice as Gaz (who is barely over 6'!! the nerve of that man!!) hits on you at the bar, strikes out. and is immediately replaced by Price, then Ghost, each man taller than the last. each one gauranteed the lay if only because of his height, sulking back to their seat after less than a minutes conversation with you.

"the height not workin' out fer ya, ya deciduous bastards?" Soap grumbles.

"bird doesnt date horses," Ghost grunts.

"they what?" Soap's mouth twitches.

"don't date horses," Price grumbles, his lighter sparking pathetically as he tries to light his cigar.

"and that means?"

"Anyone over 6 foot," Gaz slumps, tipping the last dregs of his pint back and forth in the glass.

Soap nearly vaults the table, scrambling to spin you from the bar and announce,

"Ahm 5' 11"!"

you bite your lip hard against your grin, its the sweetest thing he's ever seen.

"could wear tall heels around me and ah won't complain," he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, "the horses have me well trained lookin' up."

"how about from your knees?" you laugh, reaching to hook a finger in his belt loops.

he drops before you even get the chance.

[ohclaire]

Secretary!reader who is incredibly shy. The boys love messing with you, like to see how you squirm. You’ve started getting used to the comments and innuendos, your face hasn’t gotten any cooler, though.

Without fail when they walk past your desk in the morning, they’ll throw some quip your way.

“Well aren’t you a sight for me sore eyes, bird.” Johnny is always the most dramatic, and spends the most time loitering.

“Lookin’ as delicious as ever, sweetheart.” The captain throws a wink your way, he’s a walking HR violation.

“Mornin’, pretty.” Simon’s gruff voice is muffled from under the mask. You’re sure if you told anyone he said things like this they would get you checked.

“You still being good for us?” Kyle raps his knuckles on the wooden top of the desk, barely sparing you a glance as he struts past.

And without fail, you’ll flail and flounder and the blood will rush to your cheeks and they’ll just laugh and walk away like you weren’t contemplating your whole existence.

Of course it sent you into overthinking hell, because why did they keep doing it? Were they bullying you? Did they just think you so obstructive that they needed to bring your poor, long-untouched hopes up? Were they testing your tolerance? Did…did they actually mean the things they said? That one was obviously not the answer, but gosh they made your thoughts run away.

You never knew how they actually felt about you until your desk got moved to a more central location.

Someone retired and you blessedly got to abandon your rickety old desk that was next to the fan unit that never shut up. What that meant though, was you were now in the central path of travel into base instead of snuggled next to the side door only the 141 used.

You figured you’d seen the last of them because of that, after all why would they change their routine simply because your desk got moved?

Your theory was quickly disproven when the following Monday they strutted in through the main door to swing right past your new desk.

“Tryin’ to get rid of us, love?” John leans over the new desk, elbows splaying on the ledge, bare forearms exposed and flexing. You avert your gaze fast.

“No…desk opened up.” Your gaze flits back to the paperwork you’re completing.

“Old one wasn’t good enough for ya?” Inquires Ghost.

You raise your eyebrows and snort to yourself, keeping your eyes on your computer, “pretty sure it had termites.”

“Ah! Wouldn’t ya know, you can make jokes.” Johnny joins the ‘leaning-on-your-desk’ party.

You roll your eyes. This is just like in high school when the popular kids would say you were just so quiet. Or in elementary when the meanies would tug your hair or clothes. They were totally making fun of you. (You wish they meant what they said. That they actually had an interest in you).

“So can I expect you to change your route to bother me here, now?” You finally find their eyes. Deciding enough was enough and you should start to push back a little (even if that meant your hands were shaking aggressively).

“Yes, love.” Confirms Kyle with his stupid smile, “see you tomorrow!” He laughs and pats John’s shoulder like a signal. They all walk away. You convince yourself you don’t miss them.

And you try to ignore everyone else’s nosy gazes.

The actual realization came the next morning, when instead of the familiar faces of the 141, another gruff military man is standing at your desk.

Now, that wouldn’t be too weird except you weren’t that kind of secretary. You didn’t direct people or answer questions, you mostly just handled some paperwork. So you were a little confused on what he might need from you…maybe he was lost?

“Oh! Hello! Can I help you?” Might as well assist him while he’s here.

His gaze is no where near your eyes, rather roaming your body in a way that sends a shudder down your spine. (Nothing like how you feel when your the boys look at you).

He’s licking his lips and still not looking you in the eye when he answers, “I think you very much can, baby.”

Ew.

You try to keep it together but you’re not very good with conflict or uncomfortable situations, “um, sir…if you’re lost you can be directed by that gentleman over there,” you point to the secretary that does direct people.

“No…no I think I’m right where I need to be.” He smiles and finally makes eye contact, which is somehow worse. “How bout you stand up for me, baby, and we can see what we’re workin’ with.”

Oh you’re going to throw up. You’re flustered, and not in the good way, and you have no idea what your next move is when a large hand lands soundly on the desk next to his. Another slaps firmly onto the creep’s shoulder.

“We have a problem here?” You never thought you’d be so grateful to hear John Price’s stupid little accent in your life. For as much as they flirted with you, they never made you feel uncomfortable.

Even talking directly to this man, John’s gaze is solely on yours. Your shoulders drop. The rest of the 141 are behind him, practically surrounding the new guy.

He turns around, sensing the new status quo. “No! No problem here. Just tryin’ get some directions from this pretty thing here.” He keeps digging his hole.

“Well I suggest you find them somewhere else.” Simon’s tone leaves no room for argument. Besides, who in their right mind is disagreeing with him, ever.

All of their faces are dark, which is a stark contrast to the smirks and smiles they normally have for you. You’re beginning to comprehend why everyone finds them so intimidating.

Luckily, the creep knows when he’s lost and he scurries away.

There’s a silence for a moment before John turns back to you, “‘m sorry ‘bout that, love. Won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.” He gives you his stupid eye-crinkling grin that you pretend to hate before they all leave you alone again.

The next time you see Corporal Creep he’s sporting a black eye…you’re not going to draw any conclusions about that.

Pt. 2