My name is Sayde, you can also call me Bisou (any pronouns), and this is my blog! I wanted a place to dump all my random writings and ramblings! I like to write second person, I usually have an OC in mind but they can all be read as reader inserts I don't mind!
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Currently thinking about
⋆˚꩜｡COD (MW a lot)
⋆˚꩜｡Marvel (Punisher, OG avengers, thunderbolts)
⋆˚꩜｡ BG3
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FAQ/General Info
࣪ ִֶָ☾. I’m 24 so 18+ only please!
࣪ ִֶָ☾. Do I take requests? Yes! Feel free to send me message about anything, I can’t promise I will write everything but if your rambling inspires some of mine then that’s wonderful!
࣪ ִֶָ☾. What won’t I write? Honestly I don’t know. Feel free to send an idea or a scenario and if I don’t like it I’ll probably just leave it. I never know what could inspire me so I won’t turn down any topics :3
You have a horrible break up, the guy isn’t even your type, but your friends all implored you to try something different. You weren’t even with him for that long, but the feeling of being dumped is just annoying. You do what any scorned woman would do obviously, turn to day drinking and calling all your exes.
When Kyle sees your name pop up on his phone mid briefing he can’t do anything beside turn it over and let out an exasperated huff through his nostrils. Your break up had been mostly amicable, but it stung him all the same. Your schedules just never lined up, he liked you obviously, but it was hard to get a hold of each other. You were too busy to be together, and so you agreed to go your separate ways. Even if the sex was some of the most top shelf, stellar sex he’s ever had, even if he told himself he was going to marry you after one particularly life changing orgasm where he just so happened to have you in a headlock. Of course you said you would keep in touch, but that’s just something nice people say, and on top of being a fantastic lay, you were nice, which added insult to injury in his eyes. So when you start texting him after you leave a voicemail he just kisses his teeth and tries to ignore it. Occasionally reading a message on his watch.
Buzz
‘What cologne do you wearrrr???? This is Kyle right???maybe I’ll buy it’
Buzz
‘Grrr answer’
Buzz
‘Kyllleeee did you tell me you hated flavored vodka that one time or was it someone else?’
Price looks mildly amused by Kyle’s clear annoyance so he lets the continued buzzing interruptions slide. “Need t’take that, Sergeant?” Is the only smug acknowledgment Kyle gets for his struggles. To which he responds with a muttered ‘no sir’.
Buzz. He grits his teeth.
‘Finneee whatever. U stink. >:(‘
Buzz.
‘But call me later if ur done STINKING’
Kyle lets out a relieved sigh and tries to focus on the task at hand, but then…Johnny’s phone starts to ring and buzz.
You were not pleased to be ignored by your favorite ex, of course you had a favorite and of course it was Kyle. He was so good looking, and so good in bed, and you wished you’d been able to work it out.
Scorned anew you return to your proverbial rol-a-dex of names and stumble upon Johnny. Oh. You almost forgot about him. He wasn’t technically an ex, just a rebound turned week long endeavor. But then he went on some sort of work trip, left in a rush, you figured he got cold feet. But he was a great lay, and you were just drinking to make phone calls anyway.
Johnny might be a little bit of a prat but he knows better than to answer a phone call while Price is talking. So he lets it ring, more than a little intrigued at your phone call. You hadn’t spoken since he’d all but moved into your flat for 8 days after meeting at a pub, save for a few nights here or there. Maybe you were calling for that, and if he was being honest Johnny didn’t mind having something easy to look forward to. You leave a voicemail which he finds funny even if he can’t listen to it, then you start texting. He supposed he had liked you. You listened to cool bands he’d never heard of and had seemingly seen every movie on the face of the Earth, he’d had a lot of fun, now that he thought about it.
Buzz
‘Johnnnny? Did u switch numbers? I hope this is u still’
Buzz
‘voicemail is gonna b so awkward if it’s not’
Buzz
‘What kind of cigarettes do u smoke I remember I had one of urs at the pub when I was drunk and it was sooo good’
Buzz
‘Need that’
Buzz
‘Ughhh grrrrrrr I hate my life answer’
That makes Johnny snort and turn his phone over in his lap. Price notices.
“That your little group chat, lads?” He gestured between the men, boys really, if you asked him. Kyle quickly shakes his head. Johnny hadn’t even really been paying attention to Kyle or his earlier buzzing phone. But he can’t resist the chance to brag about another pretty girl on his arm.
“Just some bird I used ta’ see. Think she’s drunk callin.”
Kyle’s face immediately falters. “Drunk callin…you?”
“Yeah me.” Johnny finally scrolls through the messages, now that everything was properly derailed.
Kyle just sighs as it all clicks. Of course.
Of fucking course.
“Think we dated the same bird.” Kyle mutters and Price just can’t help laughing. A real laugh too, a booming, amused noise.
“Yer joking!” Johnny also seems amused, “this her?!” He turns his phone over to show Kyle the selfie you’d sent him sitting on the floor in your flat with a shot glass by your lap.
“Oh bloody hell.” Kyle nods and groans, rubbing his face with both hands. “Yeah. That’s her.”
Johnny’s tapping around on his phone, then Kyle’s phone buzzes. A text from Johnny…in a group chat.
‘Think we can arrange something soon?’
“You serious?” Kyle laughs and raises his eyebrows at Johnny.
“Like a heart attack.” Johnny nods and flickers his gaze down to his dimming phone screen.
‘Free Friday?’ Gaz’s reply comes wordless, and as a buzz against the counter top, in Johnny’s inbox. The sight of it makes Johnny’s face peel into a shit eating smirk.
“Now it’s a ‘little group chat’, sir.” Johnny chuffs at Price, clearly more than a little proud of his quick wit, and when his phone starts rattling on the table he can’t do anything but grin like an imp. Price just groans.
being Simon’s neighbor that he absolutely does not like at all at first, you’re always listening to music and laughing and talking on the phone and your cat is always getting out. Then you go away for a week and the silence is deafening. After that he shows his appreciation for you in small ways. So that you never EVER get the idea that he dislikes your noise.
You like Simon, of course, you like everyone. You wave at him, say good morning, say good night, water the plants in the hall, offer to help him carry his shopping bags (he snorts when he thinks about it later). He’s a bit curt, impersonal but not unfriendly. He might be a big guy but he’s not a brute. He likes you, he has to admit, albeit begrudgingly. So he nods and grunts when you say hello, he doesn’t shut you down when you call him Si’. He helps you carry your bags in from the lift (he doesn’t ask he just takes them and stands at your door while you scurry to catch up). He even scares off a pushy hook up who won’t leave you be (no questions asked). You don’t know what to make of him, he usually just grunts and nods at you, the occasional yes, no, thanks. But he seems like such a sweetheart underneath it all, so you keep him close as he’ll let you.
You call him for help, sink’s leaking, door’s creaky, help build this bookshelf. He always shows, and you always make him something to eat, offer him a drink to repay him. He seems fine with your little arrangement. You actually learn a bit about him too. Simon likes feeling useful, and you seem to have an affinity for strays.
Then you’re stumbling up to your apartment complex, drunk and collapse onto the front steps. Your friend was sick and took your keys when she left the club, now you need her to buzz you up. You drunkenly jam the buzzer over and over and whine into the speaker. Until a gravely voice crackles through.
“You alright?”
You aren’t expecting Simon’s voice at all, it confuses you.
“Where’s Julia?!” You jam the buzzer some more. Simon is grateful you hit his buzzer and not another random neighbors, you would probably cry if someone yelled at you right now. He even likes that, you can be such a crybaby. God. Instead of dwelling on it he just laughs to himself at the indignant tone in your voice
“Dunno.”
“Why are you in my flat?!”
“‘Re you drunk, luv?” He’s not in your flat, obviously, you’re just jamming the wrong button. “Where ‘re your keys, what happened?” He may not be a people person but he can read anyone. And it doesn’t take an expert to know you could talk, yap, blather on…
He hears the beginnings of your ramble. Julia got sick, you lived closer, she came back to rest…you’re still rambling into the intercom when he opens the building’s door to see you. Shoes in your hand, barefoot, skimpy outfit, little purse on the floor.
It’s the first time you see him smile, or his approximation of it, he’s laughing. At you. But he’s laughing.
“Get inside luv.”
Maybe it’s because you were drunk but you were seeing him in a whole new light. “Simon?!”
“Hadta come let y’in.” He takes your shoes, your purse, he’s holding the door open with his back, he jerks his head inside. “B’fore ya get sick lovie.” You stumble in with a flummoxed nod. You were instantly smitten by him.
He doesn’t flinch away as you lean on him in the lift. You’re yapping about your friend her shitty boyfriend who wouldn’t pick you all up. Leaning on him and trusting him to hold you up, of course he will.
“Call me next time.” He doesn’t know why he hates the idea of you taking a cab drunk and dressed like this. But he does. “If ‘m not workin’ I’ll come f’r you.”
“You’ll come get us?” Simon doesn’t like the idea of 4 drunk rowdy women in his truck, he had meant you, just you, but now you were looking up at him like he offered you a million bucks.
“Shouldn’t be gettin’ inta cabs drunk.” He steers you to your door, drunk and stumbling. Incompetence usually annoyed Simon. Right now he felt…endeared. He watches you knock on the door, try to call your friend. Your door stays firmly shut.
Aw shucks, he guesses he’ll keep you for the night.
Simon “Ghost” Riley who gets dumped by you because he’s too much of a stupid, damaged prick to stop pushing you away, even when you beg and cry and tell him you love him.
Simon “Ghost” Riley who goes a week without you. Feeling shitty and miserable. Kicking himself but feeling confident you’ll come back. You always did.
Simon “Ghost” Riley who realizes (as your absence stretches from one week to two) that no one beside you had tried so hard to break down his walls, to coax the simpler man from the hardened solider. No one had ever had a use for Simon. Not really. Not beside you.
Simon “Ghost” Riley who felt himself slipping back into survival mode, all the creature comforts of his relationship with you long gone. Ghost again, Simon dead and buried, only rearing his head late at night, in the shower, thinking of you. Missing you. What a thought.
Simon “Ghost” Riley who gets your name tattooed on his back 6 months after you dumped him. He can’t beg for you back, he doesn’t think he deserves it, knows he’s fucked up and broken. He can’t promise to be better. But he’s a glutton for punishment and he’s certain that he deserves to be tortured by you, even if it is just your name on his back, for the rest of his life. Puts it on his back because he thinks he doesn’t deserve to see it. Because he needs you behind him, chasing him like you used to.
ughhh the concept of being new to the 141, you mention a boyfriend offhand, Soap and Gaz push for more intel They’re nosy bastards they want all the gossip; his name, a photo, how did you meet, anything. It’s an on again off again, cat and mouse bullshit excuse for a relationship. Frankly, you’re embarrassed by it, so you keep tight lips about it. (It’s just embarrassment, nothing to do with the fact that this man is a John Price clone).
After a successful mission you all go out to a pub. Everyone’s on the curb having a smoke when your sort of boyfriend pulls up for you. The lad’s jaws hit the ground. He’s a decade older at least, thick facial hair, impressive shoulders. Your captain was just your type, and now he knows it.
You snuff out your cigarette and hop in his car as quickly as you can. But the texts are already coming in. Soap is too drunk and the fruit is hanging too low. Jokes about Cap’s twin brother, didn’t know you liked them older bonnie, that your dad or your boyfriend? You tried to insist it’s not serious, that you’re not together right now, but that just makes it worse. You leave the group chat promptly.
You make your sort of boyfriend sort of ex drop you at your flat, take a million melatonin and wake up with a hang over. You call Simon, hadn’t taken the piss at all last night. Maybe he’d be helpful.
“Is everyone still talking about it?” You warble into the phone. Simon’s blunt, a kind person, but a blunt one.
“Johnny’s ‘aving a right field day. Cats out the bag now. Y’know nothin’ stays secret f’r long.” He doesn’t sound judgmental or particularly interested in this bit of gossip at all.
You groan into the receiver face in your pillows. “So everyone knows about this?”
“Which part? That you’re into older men? Maybe. That your ex looks very similar to your boss? I think so.“ His reply is laced with his usual dry humor. “Are you just gonna keep crying into the phone?”
“You make it sound like a fetish and he doesn’t look like Price. And yes I am gonna keep crying.”
“Right. So explain it to me then.” Simon huffs out a dry laugh into the receiver and you do, you explain your on again off again pseudo-relationship with the Price lookalike, Simon lets you know he’s listening with an occasional grunt or long winded sigh.
“Do you really think he looks like Price?” You finish your tale with a long sigh and Simon laughs at you. Honest to god laughs.
“They could be twins, you daft bird.”
And OH, does it plague Price, to think about you with that man, his copy. Because let’s face it, John Price is the original, anyone baring even a passing resemblance to him is just a cheap copy. But this cheap copy has John seeing double every time he jerks off. He felt bad the first time, and quickly stopped feeling bad about it subsequently.
Frankly, he was thrilled by the revelation. He kept his secrets closer to his chest, but all anyone would have to do is scroll through his cellphone contacts and pick a few girls to quickly discover that you were just his type too. Younger, mouthy, yet eager to please despite yourself. He’d find a way to breach this particular topic with you without scaring you off.
In the mean time he enjoys watching you squirm and avoid him and worry that you’ve offended him. You haven’t offended him, you just made his year.
lowkey whole reason I made this blog was so I could make a post thinking about being retired!Price’s sweet, fresh out of med school physical therapist ughh.
He has to leave the field due to a shoulder injury, Laswell implores him to try PT so he can still be active in a non combat role, and have a long career with the 141/SAS.
He obviously does NOT want to admit something is wrong, that his injury causes him pain, he doesn’t need help he’s a big strong man, obviously!!!!! But the lads and Kate make the an appointment for him, they can see how he winces when he shoulders a door open, or sits back against a hard chair and they pester him until he agrees.
Of course he quickly realizes he doesn’t mind PT because his therapist is a, young, sweet, soft around the edges pretty woman and he can barely focus watching you point to your anatomy models and explain the ways his day to day life is straining his injury.
Your hands are so soft and pretty looking, your nails are always done, you don’t have a ring, he thinks, it’s fine...
Of course he feels bad for snooping around your office, he looks for anything to insinuate you had someone waiting at home. But there was nothing significant. A few photos, but it’s mostly you with children, clearly not yours, family, friends, nothing obvious, a few framed certificates, a degree, and a few adorable little trinkets on your desk. He already took photos, he’ll be buying you blind boxes and gifting them to you soon enough.
He feels like a creep but, god, he can’t help it. He needs you to demonstrate everything for him, stretch your arms above your head, he’s not even watching your shoulder he’s watching your blouse raise just a little over your stomach. Show him how to stretch. Can you show him the cross body stretch again? He missed it watching the way your perfect tits have just a little give in whatever bra you’re wearing under your scrubs. God he’s got it bad.
At first you don’t think much of him, he’s retired military, you worked with plenty of men like him. He seemed a little lost without his work and you don’t mind entertaining his little chats before and after sessions. When he complains and rolls his shoulders, sitting in one of your office’s little chairs, almost comically small for him, and asks you to take a look? You give him a 20 minute shoulder massage and ask him about the good old days. You're a doctor after all, and you know mental health is just as important, you hope he has someone to talk to.
And Price was already gone for you for all mostly superficial reasons but now you were rubbing his shoulders and laughing sweetly while you listened to him as he complained about cold Russian air and jammed rifles, At first he’s just imagining bending you over your purple yoga ball, spreading you out over your desk and knocking all those sweet little trinkets on the floor. Now he wonders if you like to cook, if you'd sit with him on his couch and rub his shoulders and talk to him about anything.
Now, he thinks your scrubs are cute but god does he love you in a little blouse, or a sweater when it rains, it feels more personal and feeds into his crazy domesticity kink. You’re just his pretty little bird helping him stretch out his sore muscles.
Of course over the course of a few visits he gets closer, puts a hand on your shoulder at the end of his appointments, calls you love when he greets you. He’s always respectful, calls you Doctor, by your last name, never ma’am, occasionally miss, or missy if he’s feeling brave.
You always look so chuffed at a little endearment, and it only encourages him. He’s an expert at pushing his luck, he wouldn’t have gotten so far in his career if he wasn’t. He puts his hand on your arm, compliments your first name, he watches it click on your face. Watches his luck change in real time as the color rises in your cheeks and you push out a thanks between pretty nervous chuckles.
He says his shoulder’s been treating him better, but maybe he should keep you his pocket huh, missy? What about dinner to celebrate? Or hecould pull the blinds in your office down and you could celebrate his unofficial graduation from your program right here.
He could think of at least 4 different uses for that yoga ball, it’s all so multifunctional, let him teach you something for once, he can stretch you out too after all, it's only fair.
Dude one thing about Soap is that he is going to chase a cougar DOWN!!!!
You’re high up in the CIA, friendly with Laswell, two girl bosses you are. You’d worked closely with her before, you know her wife, you're friends. She calls you in for a favor, helping the 141. Kate only mentions your last name. A bit misogynistic of them, sure...but the lads expected a man. Johnny’s eyes all but bug out of his head when you follow Laswell into the briefing room. He has to pretend to drop his pen to turn around and get his bearings.
“Jesus wept…” He mutters under the table, Gaz laughs at him and shakes his head.
“Mate, she's outta your league.” Gaz whispers a warning and kicks him under the table. Johnny doesn’t care, he’s a dog, he’ll figure something out.
When you speak he looks like he’s listening with rapt attention. He’s not. No disrespect ma’am. (Oh dear god). He stares at your blouse, your fancy clothes, smart pants and sensible shoes, he could learn to cook, he thinks. He could learn to do a lot of things, he was a dog, sure, but not an old dog, you could teach him. He’s a quick learner he could learn to be your trophy husband, parade around shirtless all day, tightest briefs that money could buy.
He could do it naked too, upon request.
He’s trying not to drool, he’s trying not to look too wide eyed and eager at you, at your neat hair and- oh god...is that a grey streak? He could hit the ground again, he might.
You and Laswell leave them with mountains of papers, intel and maps, and lots of work to do. Johnny is utterly nonplussed.
“Cap, please.” Johnny turns to Price, desperately. Gaz is already laughing his ass off across the table.
“Didn’t know you’d fancy a cougar. Think she's old enough to be your mum."
Price rolls his eyes at the pair and mutters at them to have some tact. The way he says your first name and calls you an old friend makes Johnny’s stomach spasm. It must show on his face because Price finally laughs at him.
"Was she this fit when she was 10 years younger? Cap, help me out, put in a good-"
“No. Don’t ask me.” Price holds a warning hand up, but his poorly stifled laughter makes it lack heat. “That is wildly inappropriate.”
“She’s outta your league anyway. That’s a woman, Soap." Gaz can hardly hold his laughter in, even Ghost is snickering and shaking his head. Johnny is already plotting, he doesn’t believe it, he’s a young man, modesty isn’t a game for young men. he's got the world in his palm. He could pull anyone...or that’s what he tells himself.
“Don’t make an ass of yourself, Johnny.” Ghost warns him, and Johnny withers inside… he knows he shouldn’t, Ghost and Price are right. Level headed bastards, it is wildly inappropriate. But how could they handle the sight of you, mature and beautiful and full in all the right places, neatly kept and demanding respect. How do they contain themselves, how is no one else half hard right now? Did nobody else see your tits? Your waist, that grey streak in your hair? What is he supposed to do?!
Johnny finds out you and Laswell are going to be returning a few days later. So he sits in that damn briefing room all day, like a Rottweiler waiting for its owner to get in from work. When you show up without Laswell he feels equal parts mortified and delighted.
“Good morning Sergeant. You’re early.” You greet him politely, he’d never disliked hearing his rank out of a woman’s mouth before. But he wanted you to call him Johnny. Even if it sounded condescending, maybe even especially then.
“Och—“ He waves and tries (so hard) to sound casual, you’re talking to him, god you’re talking to him, the way your hair is tied back shows off that grey streak. He wants to see it down, find any other discolored strands, wrap it around his fist.... The lads were right, you had to be at least a decade older than him, he could feel himself chubbing up at the thought. “Just hidin' away a wee bit.”
You laugh, it’s a put together sort of polite laugh, professional and quiet and you nod.
“I understand. Laswell shouldn’t be far behind me. She stopped at John’s office for a cup of coffee.” The way you use Price’s first name makes him flare, he wants you to say his first name. Even his call sign, something more personal. He needs to pace himself. He watches you set up. Your computer, Laswell’s computer. He realizes he may not get the chance again, he has to talk. Which is usually easy for him, but now his nerves were in his throat, he wanted so badly to impress you.
“Not much for coffee then?” Johnny pulls his chair closer to the table, just to cover the growing problem he was having at the mere sight of you.
“Trying to cut back.” You confess and he wants to groan. He asks you where you’re from, you name some American city, tell him you’re living in D.C. now, not far from Kate and her wife. He sees a tan line on your finger. Divorced?
God, divorced, he could palm at himself, a weaker man would. He could show you the way you deserved to be treated, he could do things your prick of an ex husband would crawl out of his skin thinking about. Then he would make you dinner and fold your laundry, even the tiniest lace panties would be neatly folded, he’s that dedicated to his craft.
“I could show ya' a good pub—“ He’s saying it before the thought is fully formed in his brain, he’s too busy thinking about the way you would definitely ride him. How he’d push your pencil skirt up, he wouldn’t care to have his back spread over this table, he’d love for you to have your way with him. So he just spits out the first stupid thing he thinks. And you laugh. God smite him, you laugh.
“A pub? You and me?” The way you tilt your head as you laugh, less professional now, clearly amused, is almost condescending. He shifts in his chair, squeezes a pen, he was more than hard now, he should be embarrassed. He’s not. God, he is not.
“Are y’married ma’am?” He asks leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. He can feel heat prickle in his stomach at the word, ma’am, he could be polite. Yes ma’am, no ma’am, please ma’am, thank you ma’am. If that’s what it took to show you how much more preferable an impolite, desperate, greedy man would be for you.
“Not lately.” You raise two neat eyebrows at him amusedly. He knew it. He’d bet your ex hated your job, couldn’t handle being handled by a woman like you. He could handle it. He could take it, give him something and see.
“A pub then.” He repeats with a nod, and you laugh again. It makes your plush chest bounce a little, your shoulders shake. He wants to rub his hands over them, massage the pretty, sore, slope of your shoulders, the smooth crook of your neck, wrap his lips around the soft valleys of your chest while you labored over some paperwork. You wouldn’t even have to pay him any mind. He could take care of you both.
“I think I could be your mother, honey.” He’s shifting in his chair to thrust up into nothing at all. Yes you could. God you definitely could. His face makes you laugh again, he can’t bite back his groan this time. “You’re cute. But I think I have a car a few years older than you are.”
Johnny exhales sharp through his nose, cute. He wasn’t cute, he was 200 odd pounds, a killer. But you say it like you’re talking to a wayward dog snuffling at your pockets, and god did it make the muscles in his stomach twitch.
“Please—“ He’s about to make a right fool of himself, he could get on his knees, he could be cute, he could cook, rub your feet, draw you a bath every night, he could fold laundry, wash your car, he could do it all shirtless if you asked.
But Laswell and Price open the door. Price’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline, he shakes his head. Instantly disapproving. Johnny should feel chastised at the motion, he doesn’t.
“I’m sorry about my Sergeant....He’s over eager.”
You wave a dismissive, forgiving hand, it makes Johnny’s knees weak even as he sits. “Don’t worry about him John.” You pat Price’s shoulder in a way that makes Johnny’s poor cock twitch. You don’t need a man your age. You shouldn’t want one, you need a young man, a man who can chase and bend and love you for hours. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t care at the way Price huffs at the sight of him half leaned over the briefing table, doesn’t care that you dismissed him as younger than one of your fancy cars. He just needed one chance. He could show ID, if that would help, he's young but plenty old enough.
Price dismisses them later, says he needs to talk bureaucracy with you and Kate, he’s feeling generous, he’ll spare them the politics. You stand by the door as the men file out, Johnny feels you touch his leg, your fingers tuck into his back pocket. He nearly creams his pants actually, trips so badly he shoves Gaz over and earns himself a hardy punch in the arm. But there it is, your business card.
"John mentioned you're in demolitions. If you're doing favors I have a job, I've been looking for someone." You don't give him more information, he holds the card like a bible and nods dumbly at you. You nod back and send him on his way with a little flick of your wrist. It hits him like a blow to the stomach.
He shows it off for the rest of the day, and yeah, he gets a little chubbed up every time he thinks of the way you tucked that little paper into his pocket. He’s a dog alright, everyone tells him so, but he’ll implore you to find some room for an extra stray in your bed.
