Sergeant!Johnny "Soap" MacTavish rushes home for a birthday fuck with his secret girlfriend!reader but task force!141 end up catching catch him in the act. | ANONYMOUS REQUEST FILL
It was rare to see Johnny "Soap" MacTavish move with that kind of focus when he wasn’t breaching a door or under fire. But today was different—his birthday, for one. And he had a very good reason to leg it home before anyone could rope him into a round at the pub.
You’d promised him a “fun night in,” said it in that teasing way that had him grinning like an idiot through the whole bloody debrief. He’d been counting down the hours since wheels down, half-listening to Price talk while mentally peeling you out of whatever you said you’d be wearing.
He was halfway out of his kit before he even hit the barracks, muttering something about “needing to sort somethin’ back home.”
“Sort what, your laundry?” Gaz had called after him.
Johnny just grinned, already backing toward the exit. “Somethin’ like that, mate.”
Price frowned over his tea. “He’s never that quick to bugger off after training.”
Ghost grunted. “Aye. Probably a date with his mirror.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Gaz said, shaking his head. “He’s his own biggest fan, that one.”
But the hours ticked on, and the lads got restless. When the bottle came out, someone—maybe Gaz, maybe Price—suggested swinging by Johnny’s flat to drag him out for a proper birthday pint.
By the time they reached his building, night had set in. The street was quiet, save for the hum of the city and the clinking of the six-pack in Gaz’s hand.
Price rapped on the door. No answer.
“Maybe he’s not in,” Gaz offered.
“Window’s open,” Ghost noted, eyes narrowing at the soft glow spilling from inside. They exchanged a look.
Ghost leaned closer, listening. “You hear that?”
Gaz tilted his head. “Is that… a fuckin’ porno?”
It wasn’t.
For a moment, they all just stood there, trying to place the sound—rhythmic, low, and muffled.
Then came a groan.
Then another sound.
Price’s brow furrowed. “Bloody hell, he’s not—”
Ghost’s head snapped up. “Sounds like he’s celebratin’ just fine.”
And then—clear as day—your breathy voice broke through the quiet: “Johnny, I’m gunna—gunna cum—” followed by a low moan. The rest of the sentence drowned under the creak of the bed frame and a noise none of them could mistake. Skin slapping, wet and lewd, followed by a crack of Soap’s hand on your ass.
Gaz froze. “No way.”
Price took a slow sip from his flask. “Well, that explains why the man was in a hurry.”
For a beat, the three of them stood there—half stunned, half amused. Then Price huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he set the six-pack down by the door.
“Let the lad have his birthday,” he muttered.
Gaz grinned. “Did you know he was seein’ someone?”
Ghost gave a low grunt. “If I did, I’d’ve told her to run.”
That earned a laugh from all three as they started back down the walkway, the muffled sounds from the flat still echoing faintly behind them.
Price adjusted his cap. “Remind me to ask him about it tomorrow.”
Gaz snorted. “You think he’ll admit it?”
“Not a chance,” Price said. “But I reckon the look on his face’ll be worth it.”
A/N: This was so fun and cheeky! Thanks to the anon who requested. Keep em coming! PS: First Soap Fic!
— cw: established relationship; smut and fluff; domesticity; wc: 5.5 k
— S. RILEY:
Simon loves handling knives. It’s one of his specialities after all. And he’s caught you watching him multiple times; whether it was him cutting vegetables for supper, cleaning his combat knives, or shaving with a razor blade.
So, when you pad into the kitchen in nothing but his shirt and ask him to help you shave, he doesn't even blink.
“Where?”
You tug at the hem. He follows the gesture, and his expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes does.
“Right.” The chair scrapes over the tiles as he rises to his full height, rolling his broad shoulders. “Bathroom. Now.”
He has you up on the counter with your legs spread before you can overthink it. Clinical and efficient, like he’s done this a thousand times.
“Hold still,” he commands, lathering soap between his mammoth hands. “Squirm and I'll nick ya.”
You snort, “Reassuring."
“Wasn’t meant t’be.”
His hands are rough but warm and deliberate as he works the lather over you, one palm flat against your lower belly to keep you pinned. He tilts his head, surveying you like a problem he’s solving.
He clucks his tongue, “Not takin’ it all off.”
And you blink owlishly, “Why not?”
“Because I like it.” He drags his thumb through the dark curls at the apex of your cunt, appraising. “Leavin’ a clean strip. You'll thank me later.”
The razor comes up before you can argue. First stroke—slow, precise, the blade gliding through lather and coarse hair with a control that makes your stomach flip. His jaw is set, focused, and there is something unbearable about how steady his hands are when yours are gripping the counter edge so hard your knuckles ache.
He rinses the blade. Goes again. His knuckles brush bare skin this time and your thigh jerks involuntarily.
“What’d I say?” His voice is low, flat; his eyes almost bored as they flick up to meet yours.
“Sorry—”
“Don’t apologise. Stop squirmin’.” He resettles his grip on your thigh, firm enough to bruise. “Almost done.”
But you’re not making it easy on him and he knows it. He can see it—the flush creeping down your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, the slick gathering where his hands keep almost-but-not-quite touching.
“You’re wet,” he remarks, the same way he’d say It’s raining.
“Can you blame me?” you squeak.
“No.” Simon finishes the last stroke, rinses the blade, sets it aside. Then he runs his thumb along the neat strip of hair he’s left, then lower, over smooth sensitive skin, checking his work. “Did a bloody good job, if I say so myself.”
His thumb drags lower. Slides through the slick with zero hesitation, and you gasp loud enough to echo off the tiles.
“Responsive,” he murmurs, smug. He does it again—slower, more deliberate, watching your face like he’s taking briefing notes. “All this from a shave, love?”
You nod, voice thick, “From you.”
Something shifts in his expression; shifts to something darker, hungrier. His free hand grips the inside of your thigh and pushes it wider, and he drops to his knees on the bathroom floor like a man settling into a foxhole.
“Si—”
“Shut up,” he growls against your skin. “Let me admire my work.”
His mouth finds you—hot and wet, and completely unhurried. He licks a long, flat stripe over the freshly shaved skin and groans low in his throat like he’s tasting honey on a warm, buttered toast. Your hand flies to his head, fingers digging into the short hair, and he lets you.
Then he pulls back, and you almost whine, but he’s not going anywhere. He brings both hands up instead, spreads you open with his thumbs, rough callused pads pressing into soft skin, holding you apart so he can see everything.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, low and self-satisfied. “All swollen already.”
Your hips buck, but his sheer strength keep you pinned to the counter. “Simon, please—”
“I heard ya.”
But then Simin leans back in and his tongue finds your clit—not a broad stroke this time but a quick, focused flicker, right over the swollen nerve. Your hips buck harder and his grip tightens, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your pussy lips, keeping you spread wide and pinned open.
“Stay. Still.” Spoken directly against you, the vibration making your thighs shake.
He does it again—that precise, maddening flicker—and you make a sound that’s closer to a sob than anything dignified. He rewards it with a low hum, adjusting the angle, working the tip of his tongue in tight little circles that make your vision blur.
“Knew you’d be like this,” he groans, pulling back just enough to watch your clit twitch under his breath. His thumbs spread you wider, obscenely so. “All wound up from a fuckin’ razor and a steady hand.”
Your cheeks are burning while your hole clenches around nothing. “You’re so full of—oh—”
“Myself? Yeah.” His tongue flattens against you, then flickers again, fast and relentless. “And you love it.”
You can’t argue. You can’t do anything except grip his hair and hold on.
He doesn’t let up. That maddening flicker becomes a rhythm—tight, relentless circles over your clit with the tip of his tongue while his thumbs keep you spread open and pinned like a butterfly under glass. You’e shaking, thighs trembling against his hands, and every sound you make earns you another low hum of approval that vibrates straight through your whole body.
“Simon—Si—I’m going to—”
“Then fuckin’ do it.” His tone is flat as ever, impatient, like you’re wasting his time by holding back.
His tongue presses harder, faster, and you come with a choked cry that bounces off the bathroom tiles. He works you through it—slower now, lapping at you in long, lazy strokes while your legs twitch and your fingers go slack in his hair.
And then you hear it before you see it—the sound of his joggers being shoved down, the slick rhythm of his fist. You lift your head, still dazed, and look down to find him on his knees with his fat cock in his hand, jerking himself in hard, fast strokes while his mouth stays pressed against your inner thigh.
“Simon—?”
“Shut up.” His voice is wrecked now. Rough. Nothing clinical about it anymore. “Needed this since I fuckin’ started.”
He’s close already. You can tell from the way his breathing fractures, the way his free hand grips your thigh hard enough to leave fingerptints. Simon pulls back, angles himself forward, fist working fast and tight, and his eyes are fixed on the mess he’s made of you—all swollen and slick, the neat landing strip dark and matted with your slick against flushed skin.
“Fuck,” he grits out, low and broken. “Look at you.”
He comes across your cunt in hot, thick stripes—groaning through his teeth, forehead dropping against your thigh as his hips jerk into his own fist, massive shoulders shaking against the onslaught of pleasure. You feel it land on smooth skin, on the strip of hair he insisted on keeping, dripping down between your folds, and the sound he makes is almost pained.
He stays there for a moment. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your leg.
Then he straightens up, tucks himself away methodically, and surveys the damage with the composure of a man reviewing a mission report.
“There,” he says, dragging his thumb through the mess on your skin. His and yours, mixed so prettily. “Payment for services rendered.”
Your eyes roll with fond exasperation as your head tips back to rest on the counter.
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re welcome, love.” He leans in, presses a single kiss to the landing strip, and stands. “Clean yerself up. Dinner’s in twenty.”
— K. GARRICK
Kyle notices things. It’s what makes him terrific at his job—reading a room in mere seconds, clocking the miniscule details everyone else always misses. So, when you come home looking like the week has chewed you up and spat you out, he’s already running the bath before you’ve kicked off your shoes and put down your bag.
“Self-care day!” he announces. “You. Me. Bathroom. Now.”
“Kyle, I’m fine—”
“Didn’t ask.” He’s already steering you by the shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you, yeah? Let me do this for you, baby.”
And that’s the thing about Kyle. He doesn’t ask permission to take care of you—he just does it, like breathing, like it’s the most natural and obvious thing in the world.
He starts with your arms.
You’re sitting on the edge of the ceramic tub, warm water lapping at your calves, while Kyle kneels beside you with a fresh razor and a bottle of fancy shaving oil he warmed between his palms. He lifts your arm above your head, long and gentle fingers circling your wrist, and works the oil into the hollow of your underarm with slow, thorough strokes.
“When’s the last time someone took care of you properly?” he asks casually, like small talk.
“You did. Last week,” you deadpan, brows furrowed.
He grins brilliantly. “Doesn’t count. That was just sex.”
You snort softly, “Just sex, he says—”
“Hush now.” He draws the razor up in a smooth, careful line. Rinses. Again. His touch is absurdly gentle for hands that can strip a rifle in seconds. “This is different. This is maintenance.”
“You make me sound like a bloody car.”
“Nah.” Kyle kisses his teeth, then switches to the other arm, lifting it with the same easy confidence. “More like a classic bike. High-performance. Needs the right hands.”
You snort again, but your skin is already tingling where he’s touched—warm oil sinking in, the faint sting of freshly shaved skin, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist while he works.
Your legs take longer. He’s thorough about it—kneeling on the tile floor, one of your calves propped on his shoulder, dragging the razor from ankle to knee in long, unhurried strokes. He takes his time with the oil after, working it into your skin with both hands, thumbs pressing into the muscle of your calf until you groan.
“Good?” he asks, gauging your reaction, and there’s something darker in his voice now. Something paying attention.
“So good,” you breathe, eyes closed in bliss.
He slides higher—past your knee, along your inner thigh. Still massaging, still working the oil in, but his fingers are brushing territory that has nothing to do with shaving. He watches your face the whole time, reading every micro-expression, cataloguing what makes your breath hitch, what makes your muscles relax.
“One more spot,” he murmurs, hands settling on your inner thighs. “Yeah?”
You nod. Your mouth has gone dry.
“Need words, love.”
And you nod more enthusiastically, “Yes. Please.”
His smile is warm, but his gaze is filthy.
Kyle repositions you gently, guiding you back against the fluffy towels he’s already laid out on the bathroom floor like he planned this from the start. Probably did. Kyle Garrick is always three steps ahead.
He settles between your thighs and takes his time with the oil, working it into the soft skin of your mound with his fingertips. Not rushing. Letting you feel every slow circle, every press of his thumb, until you’re breathing hard and your hips are shifting restlessly.
“Easy, my love," he says softly, one hand flat on your belly. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.”
The razor is careful. Feather-light strokes, angled perfectly, his free hand stretching the skin taut with a confidence that makes heat pool low in your stomach. He shaves you bare, all of it, pausing to rinse the blade and check his work with the pad of his thumb.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs thickly, and means it.
Then the oil comes back. Warm from his hands, drizzled over freshly shaved skin, and he starts working it in with both thumbs in long, slow strokes down either side of your slit.
Your thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he does.
“Sensitive?” he asks teasingly, voice low. Eyes crinkling with mirth.
“Kyle—”
“That’s not an answer.” But he’s smiling, thumbs pressing a little firmer, gliding through the oil and spreading you open slowly. “Tell me how it feels.”
You swallow hard, but your voice still comes out raspy, “Like you’re trying to kill me, baby.”
He laughs; warm, genuine, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Not yet.” His thumbs drag inward, slicking through the oil and your own syrupy wetness now, framing your clit without touching it. “We’re getting there, though.”
Kyle starts massaging in earnest then, and it’s devastatingly precise. Both thumbs working slow circles over your outer lips, pressing and releasing, coaxing blood to the surface until everything is swollen and throbbing and so slick you can hear it. He watches your face the whole time, dark eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-back sound.
“There she is,” he praises when your hips start rolling into his hands. “There you go. Just let it happen, baby.”
And he slides one thumb between your folds—just one, dragging through the mess—and your whole body arches.
“Fuck, Kyle—” you mewl, and Kyle mutters a curse under his breath, pupils blown.
“Yeah, I know.” He does it again, slow and firm, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb while his other hand keeps you spread open. “You’re soaking my hand, love. That all from the shave, or you just like being taken care of by me?”
“Both—God—both!”
“Greedy.” He says it fondly, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. Then he sinks a finger into you—one, then two—curling them forward, and your back comes off the floor.
“Oh—oh—fuck!”
“Right there?” He crooks his fingers experimentally, finds the spot that makes your vision white out, and presses more firmly. “Yeah. Right there.”
He starts working you open with slow, deliberate thrusts—two fingers buried deep, curling against that front wall, while his thumb keeps circling your clit in a rhythm that’s going to end you. His other hand is on your hip, holding you steady when you start to writhe.
“Don't fight it,” he reminds you, and then his mouth replaces his thumb—hot and wet, tongue lapping at your clit in broad, flat strokes that make your thighs clamp around his head.
He groans against you and his fingers pick up the pace, curling and pressing in a rhythm that builds something white-hot at the base of your spine. You can feel it coiling, tighter and tighter, different from a normal orgasm, deeper, more urgent.
“Kyle—Kyle, I’m gonna—”
“I know.” He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing your clit while your inner muscles clench and flutter around his pumping fingers, urging him deeper. “I can feel it. Let go.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His fingers press harder, faster, rubbing firmly against that swollen spot inside you. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”
His mouth seals over your clit and he sucks, gentle and persistent, while his fingers thrust up hard until something inside you breaks. And you come with a sound you don’t recognise; your whole body locking up and then releasing in a hot, pulsing rush that soaks his hand, his chin, the towels underneath you.
“That’s it. Fuck, baby, that’s it—” Kyle’s voice is wrecked, awed, his fingers still working you through it as you gush and squirt over his knuckles, soaking the towels. “Christ, look at you. So fucking beautiful.”
You’re shaking. Trembling all over, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, and Kyle is already there to catch you; easing his fingers out gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip, the curve of your quivering belly.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, gathering you up against his lean chest. “I’ve got you, love. You did so well.”
You bury your face in his neck and he holds you. Always solid, warm, and steady. His hand strokes your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing comes down.
“Self-care day,” you mumble against his throat, chuckling softly.
He laughs, quiet and fond. “Told you I’d take care of you.”
— J. PRICE
John finds you standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fresh from the shower, towel discarded on the floor like an afterthought. You’re turning sideways, then forward again, fingers tugging at the dark curls between your thighs with a frown he recognises immediately.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watches you for a moment.
“Don’t even think about it, woman,” he says gruffly.
You jump, because of course you didn’t hear him coming. The man moves like smoke when he wants to. “Jesus, John—”
“I know that look.” He nods toward your hand. “You’re thinking about shaving.”
You tut. Caught again. “It’s gotten—”
“No.”
He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room, calm and unhurried, the way he does everything. Like the world operates on his schedule and it knows better than to argue.
“You nicked yourself last time,” he reminds you, stopping behind your back. You can feel the warmth of him through his shirt, his breath against the top of your head. “Bled all over the damn bathroom. Looked like a crime scene.”
You frown. “It wasn’t that bad—”
“It was exactly that bad.” His steely eyes meet yours in the mirror. Steady and final. “You want to be smooth, I’ll do it. End of discussion.”
That tone from your husband. The one that ends briefings and closes arguments. It means Captain Price isn’t asking.
He takes his time setting up, because John Price has never rushed anything important in his life and he’s not about to start with a blade near your precious skin. Warm water in a bowl. A fresh razor—not the one you butchered yourself with last time, but his, the good one he keeps in the leather case. A flannel. Shaving soap that smells like sandalwood and menthol.
“On the bed,” he orders. “Edge. Legs apart.”
“John,” you try to reason again.
“Did I stutter?” And he gives you that look. The head tilt forward to look down at you.
And you sit obediently. He pulls the ottoman over, settles onto it between your knees like he’s sitting down to a job that requires patience and precision. Which, in his mind, it does. He drapes the warm flannel over you first—pressing it gently against the curls, softening the hair—and the heat makes you exhale slowly through your nose.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, absent and fond. “Just relax.”
He works the soap into a lather between his palms, and his hands are broad and rough and unhurried as he spreads it over you. Fingers moving through the hair with a kind of proprietary ease, like this is his to manage. His to maintain. You watch him from above—the focused set of his jaw, the silver threading through his beard, the absolute steadiness of his hands.
You exhale slowly, willing yourself to relax while heat starts pooling low in your belly. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupts calmly, picking up the razor. “I want to. Difference.”
The first stroke silences you. Slow, precise, the blade drawing a clean line through lather and hair. His free hand pulls the skin taut, and his eyes never leave his work with the same concentration you’ve seen him give to maps and mission briefs in his office.
He rinses the blade in warm water. Goes again.
“You’re quiet,” he remarks eventually, a hint of amusement buried under the gravel.
“Hard to be mouthy when your husband’s got a razor on your—”
“Careful.” But he’s smiling, just barely, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Good time to practice some of that restraint I’m always on about.”
Stroke by stroke, he clears the hair away. Thorough. Methodical. He tilts your hips when he needs a better angle, adjusts your thigh with a tap of two fingers like he’s positioning you on instinct. There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing performative—just a man doing a job properly because it needs doing and he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right.
When he’s finished, he sets the razor aside and wipes you clean with the warm flannel—slow and careful passes that make your freshly shaved skin prickle and sing. Then he sits back, hands on your knees, and surveys his work.
“There,” he murmurs, thoroughly satisfied. “That’s how it’s done, woman.”
“Thank you.” And when you try to close your legs to get up, his hands stop you.
“I’m not finished.”
Your breath catches. He hasn’t moved—still sitting on the ottoman, still between your thighs, still looking at you with that calm, unhurried authority. But something’s shifted in his expression. His gaze has darkened, and you very well know what that means.
Your stomach swoops. “John?”
“Lie back.”
And you do obediently. Again. Not because he’s ordered you to—though he has—but because when John Price uses that voice, your body just listens. Your back hits the duvet and you stare at the ceiling, heart hammering, while he pushes your thighs wider with both hands.
“Smooth,” he murmurs absentmindedly, running his palm over you, feeling his own handiwork. His thumb traces the edge of your slit; barely there, maddeningly light. “Soft.” His eyes flit up to look at you, almost smugly. “See what happens when you let me handle things?”
But you’re still staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re wet.” John mentions it plainly, like a field observation. “Have been since I started. Thought I wouldn’t notice?” He snorts.
Your eyes close slowly, praying for patience. “Was hoping you wouldn’t.”
“I notice everything. Especially about my wife. You know that.” He leans forward, presses a kiss just above your mound. Utterly deliberate and proprietary. His beard scratches against the smooth skin and your hips jerk. His eyebrow raises. “Sensitive?”
You exhale a breath. “Your beard—”
“Mm.” He does it again—drags his jaw across the freshly shaved skin, rough against smooth, and the noise you make is mortifying. “That’s bloody new. Like that, do you?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just settles in, hands hooking under your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed and into his mouth like he’s sitting down to a meal he intends to take his time with.
The first broad stroke of his tongue makes you arch clean off the mattress. He grunts, low and satisfied, and pins your hips down with one forearm.
“Stay put,” he mutters against you. “I mean it.”
And then he takes you apart.
It’s not frantic. It’s not teasing. It’s thorough. The way John does everything. Long, slow drags of his tongue from entrance to clit, tasting every inch of smooth skin, learning the new terrain with the same patient focus he gave the razor. His beard scrapes against your inner thighs, your lips, the crease of your legs, and the contrast—soft tongue, rough stubble—has you writhing within minutes.
“John—John—”
He hums against your clit and the vibration shoots straight up your spine. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you closer, burying himself deeper. He sucks your clit between his lips firmly and flicks his tongue over it in a tight rhythm that makes your hands fist in the duvet.
“Oh God—oh fuck—”
He pulls back. Just enough. Lips still brushing you when he speaks.
“Language, darling.”
“You’re eating me out!” you whine helplessly.
“And you’ll still mind your mouth in my house.” But there is a rumble underneath the words—amusement and bone-deep arousal, barely restrained—and his tongue is back on you before you can fire back, licking into you with a hunger that contradicts every ounce of composure in his voice.
John brings a hand up and slides two thick fingers inside you without preamble, curling them forward, and the sound you make is broken and loud and not remotely dignified. He groans at the feel of you clenching around him, and you feel it everywhere.
“That’s it,” he groans, low and rough. “That’s my gorgeous girl.”
He fucks you with his fingers—steady and deep, curling against the spot that makes your thighs shake—while his mouth works your clit in slow, sucking pulls. He’s not rushing but savouring. Taking you apart piece by piece with the same relentless patience he applies to everything, and you couldn’t stop the orgasm building in you if you tried.
“John—I’m close—”
“I know you are.” He doesn’t change pace. Just keeps that maddening, steady rhythm. “Come when you’re ready. I’ll be here.”
It hits you like a wave. Slow and devastating, rolling through you from the inside out. Your back arches, your legs lock around his wide shoulders, and you come on his tongue with his name in your mouth. John works you through every second of it, fingers still moving, tongue still pressing, until you’re shaking and pushing weakly at his head.
When he finally pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks up at you with dark, satisfied eyes and a beard that’s matted and glistening with your come.
“See? That’s why you let me handle things.”
You can’t even argue with that. Not right now at least. You’re boneless, spent, staring at the ceiling while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and stands—unhurried as ever, straightening his shirt like he didn’t just ruin you for the rest of the day.
“I’ll make us a tea,” he calls from the doorway, completely composed. “You’ll want a biscuit after that, because I’m going to fuck my wife later.”
— J. MACTAVISH
“Nae, hen.”
Like every time before, Johnny straight up refuses when you ask him to help you shave your bush.
He takes one glance at it and his pupils blow up like an IED, swallowing the baby blue of his irises within milliseconds.
“Why?” you whine, stomping your foot like a petulant bunny. “Johnny, pleeease! I can’t do it on my own! I cut myself last time!”
And you cross your arms, frowning at him, and hoping it’s enough to make him cave. But, alas, it is not.
“Good,” he retorts, turning back to the telly where some Premier League match is playing that he’s barely watching anymore. “Maybe tha’ll teach ye to leave her alone.”
Her.
“Johnny, it’s hair.”
“Aye, it’s hair. Her hair. And I fuckin’ like it.” He slings his arm over the back of the couch, manspreading like he owns the entire living room, eyes fixed on the screen with a stubbornness that makes you want to scream. “End of.”
“You don’t get to decide what I do with my own—”
“Never said I did,” he interrupts flatly, then glances at you sideways, grinning. “I said am no’ helpin’. Big fuckin’ difference, lass. Ye want to hack away at yerself in the bathroom again, be my guest. I’ll be here Mournin’.”
You cross your arms, scoffing, “You’re mourning my pubic hair.”
“Aye. She’s a right bonnie. Deserves better than some dull razor and yer shaky hands.”
You gape at him. He takes a slow sip of his beer, utterly unbothered, eyes back on the match. The audacity of this man. The sheer, Scottish audacity.
“Fine,” you snap, and yank your leggings down right there in the living room. “Look at it then. Look. It’s a mess, Johnny!”
That gets his attention.
He turns his head slowly, beer bottle halfway to his mouth, and his eyes drop between your thighs. The grin slides off his face and something else replaces it—something hotter, sharper. His jaw works. He shifts in his seat.
“Come here,” he demands suddenly.
“No. You said no.”
“I said come here.” He pats his thick thigh. “Need a closer look, don’t I? Cannae make a proper assessment from across the room.”
You know it’s a trap. You know it is. But he’s looking at you with those baby blue eyes and that crooked, shit-eating smile, and your feet are already moving.
He pulls you onto his lap the second you’re within reach—hands on your hips, spinning you so your back is against his chest, your bare arse settled right over the growing bulge in his joggers. He spreads your thighs with his knees, hooking your legs over the outside of his, opening you up.
Your eyes widen. “Johnny!”
“Shh, hen. ‘M assessin’.”
Johnny looks down over your shoulder, chin resting against your temple, and his hands slide down from your hips to your inner thighs. He spreads you open with both thumbs and makes a low, appreciative sound that vibrates through his chest and into your spine.
“Aye, see?” he says, voice dropping into something rougher. “Look at her. She’s fuckin’ gorgeous. All soft an’ warm." He drags his fingers through the curls, tugging gently, and your hips twitch. “Why would ye want to get rid of this?”
“Johnny, I just—”
“Nah, hold on, ‘m talkin’ to her, no' you.” He dips his head lower, mouth against your ear, but he’s addressing your exposed cunt like it’s a separate entity. “Don’t listen to her, sweetheart. She doesnae know what she’s got. Ye’re perfect.”
You sigh deeply, lips pursing. “You’re literally insane.”
“Aye, she says thank ye,” he continues, ignoring you completely. His fingers stroke through the hair again, lower this time, brushing your outer lips. “She’s happy. See? Nice and warm in her wee fur coat. Ye want to take that away from her? In this economy? In this weather?”
“It’s literally June, Johnny.”
“Could get cold! Ye don’t know!” His thumb grazes your clit—barely, just enough—and you gasp. He grins against your ear. “Oh, an’ she’s awake now. See that? She heard ye talkin’ aboot razors an’ she got scared. I’m just comfortin’ her.”
“You’re the worst person I’ve ever—hah—”
His thumb presses down, firm, and circles slowly. “What was tha’?”
“—ever met in my entire—fuck—”
Johnny chuckles with dark satisfaction. “That’s more like it.” He circles again, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world, like the match is still the most important thing in the room. His other hand holds your thigh open, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Look at ye. All wet already and I’ve barely touched her. She likes the bush, babe. She’s tellin’ ye.”
Your eyes squeeze shut, trying not to make another sound. “That’s not—that’s not how that works—”
“No?” He sinks a finger into you—just one for now, thick and rough—and you clench around him so hard your vision blurs. “Feels like it’s workin’ to me.”
He starts a rhythm—slow, dragging thrusts with his finger while his thumb circles your clit—and you’re melting into his chest, head falling back against his shoulder. The telly is still on, some commentator yelling about a foul, and Johnny’s watching the match over your shoulder like he’s not knuckle-deep inside your hairy cunt.
“Johnny—fuck—pay attention to me—”
“I am payin’ attention. Multitaskin’, lass. Top o’ ma fuckin’ class.” He crooks his thick finger, and you nearly come off his lap. “Ooh, there she is. Found the spot, aye?”
“Please—”
“Please what? Please shave ye?” He tsks, adding a second finger, stretching you. “Still nae. But I’ll make ye forget why ye wanted to in the first place. Deal?”
You whimper. He takes that as a yes.
Then he pulls his fingers out, and you do whine, loud and needy, and before you can protest, he’s lifting you off his lap and onto your feet. You sway, legs shaking, and he grins up at you as he slides down the couch, lying back with his head on the armrest.
“Come here,” he demands again, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it. He folds his arms behind his head, looking up at you like he’s just ordered room service. “Sit on my face.”
“You—what?”
Johnny snickers at the dumbstruck expression on your face. “Ye heard me.” He licks his lips. Obscenely slow and deliberate. Like a wolf licking its chaps. The bastard. “Bring her up here. I want to have a proper conversation.”
“A conversation,” you repeat, not amused.
“Aye. With my tongue. Now get up here before I drag ye.”
Your thighs are still trembling as you relent with a groan and climb over him, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his head. You hover, suddenly self-conscious, and he rolls his eyes.
“Oh, fer fuck’s sake—” His brawny hands grip your hips and yank you down onto his mouth.
The first thing you feel is his groan—deep, guttural, vibrating against your cunt like he’s just taken a bite of the best thing he’s ever tasted. His tongue drags through your furry folds, broad and flat and filthy, and his fingers dig into the meat of your arse hard enough to leave bruises.
“Johnny—oh my God!”
He can’t answer with his mouth full of you, but he slaps your thigh once—hard—and you jolt. And the message is clear.
You roll your hips against his face, tentative at first, then harder when his tongue licks your clit and flicks over it in rapid, relentless strokes He’s making sounds beneath you, groaning into your cunt like he’s getting off on it as much as you are. Perhaps more. His nose presses into the curls he refused to shave and he inhales deeply, moaning like he’s dying.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles against you, pulling back just long enough to breathe. His chin is soaked, his eyes are five shades darker, and he’s grinning like a maniac. “Ride my face, sweetheart. Fuckin’ use me.”
His mouth seals over your clit again and he sucks hard, and your hand flies to the armrest for balance because your legs have stopped working entirely. He’s licking into you with his whole mouth now, tongue fucking you, slurping, then dragging back up to your clit, alternating between sucking and flicking in a rhythm designed to make you lose your mind.
“I’m—Johnny, I’m going to—fuck—!”
He pulls you tighter against his mouth, both hands gripping your arse and leaving finger-shaped marks, and his tongue works your clit in fast, tight circles while his nose presses against your mound and you come so hard your thighs clamp around his head and your whole body convulses.
He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it—slower now, gentler, long lazy strokes through your folds while you twitch and shake above him. When you finally collapse sideways onto the couch, boneless and gasping, he wipes his face with the back of his hand and sits up looking thoroughly pleased with himself; face shiny and mohawk wild.
“So,” he says, reaching for his beer on the side table like nothing happened. Like his grey joggers don’t have a large, damp patch on the front where his hard cock presses against it. “Still want to shave?”
You throw a cushion at his head.
He catches it, laughing—that big, stupid, full-body laugh that crinkles his whole face—and pulls you into his buff, hairy chest.
“That’s what I thought.” He presses a kiss to your hair. “Now let me watch the fuckin’ match.”
"Please." You beg, needy kisses planted all over his face as he gropes you, one hand firmly kneading the fat of your ass while the other one is holding your neck gently, making sure you don't try to give him more neck kisses. He's already painfully hard, he doesn't need you making it even worse— not when he's having so much fun teasing you.
"I'll think about it." You can see the smugness painted all over his face, not allowing you to touch yourself yet refusing to fuck you even when you're all needy and willing for him, ovulation almost driving you crazy. His rough hand slips into your pajama shorts, squeezing the bare skin of your ass. You cling closer to him, eyes closing and fingers squeezing his strong arms.
"You're so fucking rude." Your desperation is cute, his smirk growing wider as he lets go of your neck and allows you to hide your face on the crook of his neck, planting open-mouthed kisses.
"If you don't fuck me, I'll find someone else who will." The empty promise gets his attention, dark eyebrow raising in mild annoyance despite the way he tries to keep showing you he's unaffected by your words. He knows you won't— but what if you actually try doing that? His ego bruises a little, grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand to cup his painfully hard cock, almost groaning at the feeling when you start to rub him through his sweatpants.
"Think someone else has a fucking cock this big?" He presses your hand closer to his clothed dick, helping you rub him up and down faster. Your lips crash against his to shut him up, ovulation throwing all shame out of the window as your hands explore each other's bodies.
You hesitantly break away from the kiss, already pulling his sweatpants down and hooking them under his balls, getting to action so fast that he can barely register. You're between his open legs, licking teasing stripes up and down his shaft, feeling him throb underneath your flat tongue.
"Fuck." His hand goes to the back of your head, guiding your open mouth to the tip of his cock, head throwing back when he feels you latch onto the tip. It's too much— his tip was leaking from the moment he saw how needy you were for him, yet you're making things so much worse for him now. Your tongue runs circles over his sensitive tip, tasting and spreading the salty precum all over before you start taking him in, sucking in your cheeks to make him feel even better.
His hands move your hair away from your face before cupping your cheeks and starting to thrust up into your needy throat. You relax your muscles as much as possible, feeling him hit the back of your throat as your nose makes contact with the his dark, curly pubes.
"Attagirl." He praises lowly once you take him all the way inside your throat, starting to fuck into you faster and faster, the wet sounds of your throat and saliva driving him closer to the edge even when you just started. He can't help it— you look too fucking pretty with your makeup all messed up, spit dripping down your chin and with his thick cock all the way down your throat.
Half-lidded eyes look down at you as he holds the back of your head, pushing his cock as deep as possible into your throat before shooting ropes of salty cum, the sounds of your gag reflex being triggered and the coughs you try to let out even when his cock is buried into you simply make it hotter for him, only letting go once you slap his thigh softly. He gently pulls out of you, breaths coming in ragged as he tries to recover, feeling your tongue lapping at his softening cock and cleaning him up before pulling his sweatpants back up.
"Come here." He encourages you once he's able to breathe normally, letting out a content sigh once you're cuddling him up and laying your head on his chest. His arms wrap around you and he plants gentle kisses on your forehead, baby blue eyes looking down at you with nothing short of raw adoration.
"Give me a few and I'll be ready to fuck you." He promises in a whisper, one of his rough hands sneaking into your pajama shorts, a deep chuckle escaping his lips when you instantly open your legs for him.
"So fucking wet." He sounds amused as his fingers make contact with your folds, teasing the entrance before rubbing small circles on your puffy clit. Lovely girl you are, making him cum first even when you were this wet the whole time.
His free hand cradles your head, angling it up so he can plant his lips on yours and muffling your whiny moan as his thick fingers begin to enter your cunt, giving you time to ease up to his touch.
His tongue wraps around yours, pushing your head closer to his to be able to kiss you as deep as possible as his fingers curl into your cunt, thumb rubbing your clit in gentle circles. He pushes his fingers in and out of your cunt, spreading the wetness all over and going back inside, fingering you faster until you can't contain your moans anymore.
You break away from the kiss, face hiding on the crook of his neck and taking in his smell, hand coming up to grasp his strong forearm as he fingers you deeper and faster. It doesn't take long before your orgasm hits, whiny moans leaving your lips as your hips involuntarily thrust up, making him go deeper as you ride out your orgasm.
He pulls his fingers out of you slowly, guiding them to his lips to lick off the mess you made, tasting you. The corners of his lips tug up into a smirk as he sees your slightly embarrassed expression, playfully pushing your head out of the way.
Everyone agrees Keegan is a NASTY old man, yeah? He loves messy stuff. Absolutely adores spitting in your mouth AND you spitting in his, so imagine DBF!Keegan when his princess starts lactating as a side effect from medication?? This man is in heaven.
The moment he sees the stains on your shirts, all hell breaks loose. It takes him almost an hour of begging and telling you he could help, how he'd be in the wrong for not helping his princess out because all that milk is there for a reason— it needs to come out, otherwise it'll hurt you and what a horrible man he'd be if he simply stood there and watched you be in pain.
He doesn't waste any time once you give him the green light, barely managing to lift your shirt before he's latching onto your nipple, one of his hands squeezing your tit softly while the other one is running up and down your back soothingly, helping you relax while he starts drinking the milk coming out. It's sweet— something he can definitely see himself getting addicted to, sucking a little bit harder, wanting to drink more of the breast milk.
''You're like a big ass baby for liking it, weirdo.'' You try to tease despite the way his hand is now stimulating your other sensitive nipple, pinching and pulling softly until the milk starts to come out as well, not minding the mess he's making on his hand and your body. You look down and he simply offers you a grin, not embarrassed at all by enjoying this so much. He swallows before hesitantly letting go of your nipple, giving it a few teasing licks.
''I'm just helping.'' He shrugs, the smug smile on his lips telling a completely different story. The bastard is doing it because it feels good for him, now latching onto your other nipple and sucking even harder just to annoy you, slowing down when you smack the back of his head for being so rough.
We haven’t circled back to hybrid aus for a long time, let’s fix that.
Consider this — avian!141 with gn!Reader.
Rooster!Johnny who has always been the biggest presence in the room, who grins too wide when he notices you picking up his shimmering feathers because you like what you see, don’t you?
Colourful plumage on his chest shifts from orange to dark red to almost black, soft feathers cushioning your head when he wraps you in his wings, huffing out air with laughter.
Rooster!Johnny likes his flock and likes his mates, but don’t you remember how territorial chickens are, m’eudail? He could just keep you all to himself, away from the rest and be happy to have all of your attention to himself. All the compliments and all the touches and all the love.
Would you like that? Tell him you like Johnny the best and then you can pluck another feather straight out of him, ‘kay?
Peacock!Price who hates the bloody tail and the staring it always brings, because he is not some show off.
Peacock!Price who is used to fold it down and keep it close because you can’t exactly be flashy in his line of work if you don’t want a mercenary to wait for you in your shower when you get back home.
But you stare at him, stubborn and brilliant, arms crossed over the chest and fucking hell, he didn’t want to impress someone that badly since he was a green lad.
And maybe that’s why his whole fucking monstrosity of a tail fans out — glimmers with the dozens of ‘eyes’, iridescent and embarrassingly obvious.
The worst thing is — he can’t make it stop, not when you look at it with such awe, because the bloody bird in him is stronger, because he is a weak man and wanted your eyes on him for entirely too long.
“Want a feather?” Price tilts his head, eyes heavy and heat climbing up his face when you quickly blink and look him back in the eyes. Actually dazed at the sight of his tail. “Can give you one. Evening, my bunk.” It is not a question or even an offer, but you bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling too hard and something in his chest is spilling warm and satisfied.
Maybe there are some perks in having this stupid thing.
Eagle!Kyle who likes following you around whenever he has time, who spots you at gym and helps you at gun range. Pokes and prods until you grumble ‘fuck off, Garrick’, his grin widening — his claws graze your skin through the shirt when he pats your arm and has the nerve to huff out ‘easy, mate’.
Eagle!Kyle who has the time of his life chasing you through the building during escape trainings, he is faster than you’d like him to be and quieter than people give him credit for. Kyle catches you 9 times out of 10, but in that 1 time he doesn’t, you’d think Christmas came early with how wide he is smiling.
Sweaty and tired, you both are covered in cement dust and scratches from where you took a tumble through the ruined floors.
Eagle!Kyle comes to your bunk more often than others realise, he brings his pillows and blanket — nestles next to you, ignoring the attempts to point out that it’s not a nest for him to construct with you. Kyle tucks you under his side, claws tracing the skin of your lower back when he slips his palm under your T-shirt. Strokes your back up and down, his wing draped over your shoulders to keep you close and warm.
Kyle knows that you will be out cold in a matter of minutes. Kyle knows that with how much you let him get away with, he’s got to be your favourite.
Mourning Dove!Simon who keeps watching you cuddle Johnny and gawk at Price and nest with Kyle.
Simon no longer has his wings, not after torture and almost dying, he doesn’t take his mask off and he rarely is in anything other than black clothes covering as much skin as possible.
Mourning dove!Simon doesn’t like pity and doesn’t like the uncomfortable vulnerability. He doesn’t like you having this much power.
He doesn’t like that out of the whole flock he can offer the least.
Simon’s feathers are very few nowadays, he isn’t plucking them out to win your favour and can’t offer you a chance to pick out the loose ones.
Simon can’t fly and can’t wrap you in his wings, can’t keep you all cocooned and warm.
Simon Riley doesn’t really tell you that he is even an avian hybrid, because really, with how deficient he is, it’s probably best you think that he isn’t.
Saves him the pity, the questions and the slimy disgust inside his own chest when he stares at the bathroom mirror and wants to pluck the remaining feathers out for good.
But dove parts of him still resurface when you sit between his legs, back pressed to his chest — head tilted so he can nose at your neck. It’s a subconscious thing at first when he starts nuzzling you there, less so when he rolls the mask up to mouth at your skin.
Barely a nibble, but you still make these short sighs, melting into him and wings he no longer has itch to clap against the back of the couch.
The quiet soft cooing his throat vibrates with when you put away your book and look at him, don’t catch him off guard only because he doesn’t notice them. Simon is too focused on your lips, his arms wrapping around your torso, nose nudges your cheek so you’d tilt your head more.
So he can catch your lips and then let go, nosing at your neck again, chest rumbling when you grow restless.
Mourning dove!Simon is shite at making nests so he lets you do it yourself and just weaves himself into it, content to have you as a weighted blanket — his chest tight when you nose at his neck too.
Doves mate for a very long time and here you are, courting him back like you actually mean it. Like you understand what he is now without the parts that made him appealing, that made him someone, that made him Simon.
There is only Ghost left and yet, you nibble at the skin on his neck, just to glance back up immediately.
You are waiting for him to coo again, he realises slowly, jaw pressed together tightly because do you know what it means or do you just think it’s fun?
But the dove in him has been starved for this, the dove in him likes you as much as Simon does and the dove in him isn’t insecure.
“Can I ask something?” You mumble in a vulnerably space under his jaw one evening.
Could rip the meat out there and he’d bleed out in a matter of minutes, Simon thinks lazily, his fingers slowly tapping against your ribs.
He doesn’t answer but just makes a low questioning hum, too tired after a long mission. Too happy to have you in the nest and you this affectionate.
“Are you a pigeon?” You ask after a beat and Simon stares up at the ceiling for a long moment, some avian pride in him offended because do you think he is a flying rat, love? Is that so? So you don’t like him, that’s what he heard?
“Do I look that awful?” He asks in return, palm now lying on your ribs, up close to your heart so he can feel it rather than know it is there and still beating.
“No, you are rather handsome.” You are so deadpan that is difficult to say whether you are pulling his leg so just to be sure, Simon scoffs and doesn’t say anything. “So not a pigeon?” You try again after a moment and he just makes a short noncommittal sound.
You guessed what kind of eagle Kyle is on the first go and then you assumed Ghost a pigeon? Seems like maybe you don’t like him enough to put in some real effort.
Mourning dove!Simon doesn’t really want to admit to his hybrid half. It doesn’t matter anymore in any case.
Simon is hardly anything other than what he is right now.
What’s the point of discussing the irony of his species’ name? What difference is it going to make if you know what he is no longer and never will be?
“I like your cooing.” You say suddenly and Ghost pauses, glancing down at you, his thumb slowly stroking the skin against your rib cage.
“Don’t be daft, luv, I don’t coo.” Simon says because he never did, only you nose at his throat again and it fucking vibrates with another soft cooing sound.
“Then I really like your not-cooing, l.t.” You breathe out in his skin and he can hear the smile in your voice.
Simon can feel it when you nibble at his stubble, enjoying yourself so obviously the bloody cooing gets only louder.
Mourning dove!Simon may no longer have wings or abundance of beautiful feathers, he might even not know a thing about making a proper nest.
Mourning dove!Simon can hardly call himself an actual dove nowadays, but maybe there are still parts that he can let you see.
And seems like you still want him with or without them.
Just thinking about how Simon was never the type of person who could take random naps through the day— until you.
You’d dragged him with you to take your daily nap in your soft, cozy, comfortable, pink, nest look like bed, changing into your, it was his but you claimed it has yours now, oversized shirt and some comfy panties. He’d just take his shirt and socks off because he just knew he was going to get a little hot when you’d wrap him up in your cozy pink blankies.
At first, he would fight you a little, stubborn man and his own little way to make you know he really wanted it but wasn’t sure, to then give up and let you prepare him for the nap. He’d tell himself he just wanted to for you to take your nap in peace and then when you’d fall asleep he could just get up do his own thing.
Of course that was not the case.
He’d end up taking one of the best naps he have ever taken in his life, and your would just look at him with a soft smile knowing that he needed it just like you did
It became a thing of you two, a routine where you’d just give him a kiss and a little tug on his shirt and he knew it was time to take a nap of the day.
just thinking about Simon being a big, scary, man all wrapped up and taking a nap in a pink bed. Agh I love him sm >< (I also wrote this during my lunch hour because I could not get the idea out of my head)
Dude, just in case you're not used to wearing rings.
So you take it off every night before you go to bed.
So every morning?
Ghost will hold up the ring and ask you again.
“Will you marry me?”
“What does it mean when we sleep together every day? Strangers who have gotten a marriage certificate?”
“I just want to ask you again.”
“Again and again, the answer will be yes.”
These are mainly fluffy headcanons with slight themes of angst due to the nature of long deployments with implications/references of a death that could happen.
One thing people tend to forget about König working for a private military company is that he can still go on long deployments/missions that can take months to even years to complete where he would not be able to see his beloved.
König may be an extremely cocky man, which is something no one can deny from his voice lines. On the surface level he may think that no other person is skilled enough to kill him, but deep down that is not the case. Even if his anxiety does not actively affect him on a level you would truly notice it is still rooted deep in his brain as it spews out harrowing ideas that he can not get rid of as they nip at him while being made bigger by his trauma and past experiences. This causes a deep-seated paranoia about the idea of him dying on the field and leaving you all alone with your last memory of him being a sad one haunts him, or even worse in his time gone you completely forget about him and move on to someone new that could fill the hole he left behind.
This leads him to make the day before his long deployment the best of your life while he puts together a surprise to ensure you always have pieces of him while he is apart from you.
The day before he makes sure you have the best date of your life so far. It first starts with breakfast in your shared bed after he lets you sleep in until late in the morning, it is all your favourite breakfast foods and some of his own as he lets you splurge a bit and have your favourite dessert items as well while he eats his waffles with pistachio and strawberry ice cream. He loves to cuddle you and just stay in bed with you for a couple more hours to bathe in your love and warmth as you brush your hands through his hair before massaging his scalp before gently kissing all over his face, paying special attention to his scars. Once you finally get out of bed he takes you on a little shopping spree through your favourite stores letting you buy anything you want without worrying about the price even if you have to go to the sketchy game place that smells of death and sweat so he can get more figures or knives or guns or mangas for his collection. To end your adventure he would either take you to an aquarium or museum of your choice later in the evening so that fewer people are there just so you could have your moment together that looks like it is straight out of a movie. Before you leave you drag him towards the gift shop and he buys you whatever gifts you want then he takes you home as he secretly calls your favourite takeout place so you can eat it together once it arrives as another surprise. Then to finish the day you spend the whole night cuddling and watching movies until you fall asleep.
On a more spicy note, if you want children and do not have any yet I can see him trying his best to get you pregnant that night as he feels and loves you one last time just so if you lose him you will at least still have a part of him with you to help you pass through the years before you are reunited again.
In the morning he probably leaves with no word to you at all as he would hate your last memory to be one of heartbreak. Only a letter on his side of the bed. The first few pages are him apologising for leaving without a goodbye with the explanation that he is going on a long deployment before detailing how much he loves you, then he explains how he took a few of your shirts to use as a mask so he could always have your smell with him as he battles and a photo of you that he keeps above his heart so you can still be close to him, and finally on the last few pages are a detailed scavenger hunt with clues that lead you all over your shared homes with each clue leading to a spot with the clue being based on an important memory that was in that spot.
The items he would put in these spots varied and each time changed (unless it was his last time) but it was always the same types of items every time even if the spots changed.
In the first spot would always be some of his shirts, jackets, or hoodies that smelled of him so that when you were around the house you could wear them and be comforted by his scent as they would always smell heavily of his cologne. Every time after the first time he did this he would put different clothes in his place so you never got bored of the options he chose.
In the second spot would be a mixture of letters and USB sticks. There would be a letter on top explaining that the letters with white lily petals on the front and USBs with white lilies painted on them were for if he died, they have a gold writing on top that labels which life event of yours it was for and if you had children they would have the same and even if you did not have kids yet he still made some for future potential children, and the letters with forget-me-not petals on the front and USBs with forget-me-nots painted on them were for when you missed in and were struggling to deal with your life and different emotions without him there, and USBs with pink carnations painted on them that were just recorded videos him talking about different topics just for when you wanted to hear his voice talking about topics he found interesting. He explains in the top letter that the reason he wrote the letters and recorded videos that he put on the USB was due to the fact that in the letters he had to be concise and direct so he could get to everything he wanted to say while the videos are for him to be able to express all his emotions and not be confined to what would fit on the page as you see him be himself in the photos. Every time after the first time he did this he would put new letters and USBs in the place of the old ones to add to the collection with new responses to situations, topics, and emotions he thought of.
In the third spot would be a bear from Build-A-Bear (specifically the Pumpkin Sparkle bear due to it being ginger like him) that has multiple voice boxes in it that has recordings of him saying “I love you” or different compliments or nicknames he would usually call you with a custom heart too that bumped in the rhythm of his heart. The bear would be dressed up in a mini version of his normal uniform he wears on contracts as it holds a bottle of his favourite cologne just for you to use. Every time after the first time he did this he would put new clothes you could dress the bear up in based on his other outfits he wears on his contracts or at home or from when he dragged you to conventions.
In the fourth spot would be a scrapbook of your life together next to the small journals he took on deployments or used when his insomnia overwhelmed him which made it impossible to sleep. The scrapbook would have photos of all your dates together and important dates such as birthdays, promotions, holidays, etc. with petals and small drawings decorating the pages while the journals would be filled with countless pages filled with drawings of you, poems directed towards you or wrote solely about you, and ramblings about how he felt about you and everything he adored about you. Every time after the first time he did this he would create new scrapbooks that could be paired with the old that shows off more of your life events together and more journals that are filled to the brim with you.
In the fifth spot would be two books he made himself, the first is a cookbook bursting at the seams where he has handwritten all of the recipes that have been passed down his family over generations upon generations but alongside it are also recipes of all the dishes you enjoyed together or recipes he knew you loved even if you had never had the time to share them together, while the second is a book of all the jokes and puns he has told you or he wanted to tell you or he wanted to use when he was finally a dad or the kids were old enough to understand. Every time after the first time he did this he would write down new pages of jokes or recipes that he thought of that could be added to the books.
Apart from the scavenger hunt I also imagine him doing other things for when he is gone. The second most prominent thing is the little glass animals that he has hidden all around the house with a tiny scroll wrapped around their body or neck with a cute ribbon that matches the colour of the animal to keep it attached; once the scroll is unrolled it reveals it is a note about how much he loves you and how beautiful you are or compliments in general or motivation just so you can be reminded everyday of how much he loves you as if he never left, like he was still there with you. Something that could be considered as condescending that comes from his cockiness, and the undiagnosed autism I think he has, is how he writes down instructions and reminders for everyday he is on deployment for you to use as normally each morning he writes a chore list for the day with reminders for both of you to eat and drink. If you showed him how an Alexa worked he sets up the Alexa to do the reminders too but for the next 30 years just in case he dies.
When he is on deployment he will try to send back letters at any opportunity he gets as he collects trinkets to give you once he gets home. If you did have cameras set up around the house, whenever he has free time he is watching them to see how you are and what you are doing, and you can bet that if a speaker and microphone is attached to the camera he is using it to talk and have conversations with you even if they are short due to the nature of his work.
König can’t find it in him to get mad at you, Schatzi. Even when you’re following him around the kitchen snacking on all the ingredients before they even get a chance to hit the pan
instead, he’ll place a peck on your forehead and murmur, “Leave some room for dinner, ja? Meine schönste Frau” before shooing you away
"schatzi please?" he’ll pout, cooing at your ear as he grinds his hard on through the thin fabric of your shorts.
"no kö, this is because of your weird comment" you grumble, lightly pinching his cheek to tease the desperate man.
"but i thought you liked wurst?" he’ll mumble disappointed, laughing as you smack his shoulder.
he’ll continue trying to coax you, planting wet kisses on the slope of your neck and pawing at your chest as he sucks on your nipple.
slobbering over your mound as he plays with your delicate nub, "don’t you feel bad schatzi? he misses you.." he’ll whine, holding his fat erect cock on display for you.
pre drooling from the tip as he grinds it against your thigh, rough hands desperately thrusting as he tried to get off.
whimpering against your neck when he fails to do so, "komm on schatzi, i miss your sweet muschi. need to be inside you :(" he’ll pout, desperate for your attention.
how could you ever ignore this needy behemoth of a man?
König pulling you against his chest, bulky arms like iron bands around your waist, not giving you any space to move - or wiggle out.
every kiss he presses into your neck sends jolts coursing through your body, overwhelming every sense. it fogs your mind, you can’t think. You can’t be defeated by mere little kisses…
“König- my heart,” you shakily say, trying to pry him off but he doesn’t fucking budge. “Now’s not the right time for this—” You let out a cry when he bites you, face tucked under your chin, he doesn’t seem to want to move. “Nein.” He says sharply, emphasizing his frustration with another bite, wanting to get his way so bad, his voice begging. “Bitte, Schatz, ich brauche dich. I need to feel you around me.”
He presses kisses into your neck with such devotion, anywhere and everywhere, greedy, hungry lips of his trying to cover every inch of skin, where your cheek is, up your jawline, “Please,” he whispers so tenderly, nibbling on your earlobe. “I bet you’re wet…” his sureness over himself should turn you off, but he’s so cocky about you, knows you inside and out. Bastard’s too good at this…you’ve seen him fumble at bars before your very eyes! How’s this working on you… a whine bubbles out of your throat, catching both of you off guard.
you froze. Staying absolutely still like he’s about to pounce on you. König’s eyes are now on you as you stared at each other. You know that look, pupils blown.
“no.” you softly utter. “down boy.”
He doesn’t give you time to say another word of protest, he’s scooping you in his arms and relying that you’ll automatically wrap your legs around his waist so you don’t fall.
“König!” He’s not listening.
He silences you with a deep kiss, already fumbling with his belt. “Mine, all mine.”
He slips in, in one big thrust, his spongy tip kissing your cervix perfectly, he fits like a glove. Your cunt squeezes around his cock, you feel so full, it’s not helping that he grinds his pelvis on your clit. He doesn’t need another thrust, tucking his face in the crook of your neck, all it takes to get him off is to slightly rock his hips into you and occasionally press a kiss to your cheek or temple. “I knew you liked me too…” He cradles your head, allowing you to lean into his palm and your eyes to flutter shut. “I love you…” he whispers so slowly, those three simple words melting your brain through your ears. Again and again he repeats as he makes love to you at a languid pace, neither noticing the switch between languages when he felt himself getting close. “Ich liebe dich so sehr…” it doesn’t take long for him to spill inside you, pressing one last kiss to your lips as you come undone with him.
König getting frustrated with fucking you from the back bc it keeps slipping out so he flips you over and puts you in a mating press—I mean, who the fuck said that Doesn’t pull out, for the record, keeps you pinned down underneath his weight watching you squirm with tears in your eyes, begging him to slow down.
Kisses them away, so tenderly, mind you, all the while you’re clawing his back and he’s whispering, “Shhh… I know, I know, I’m here, Schatzi” like he’s not putting you through the mattress. His lips stay peppering kisses on your cheeks until finally, he presses one last one to your forehead, praising you for a job well done taking all of him while he pumps you full of his cum.
the idea is König insisting on washing your body, something about skin-to-skin contact being therapeutic, you think it’s an excuse for him to lather your bush with your body wash because “She needs care too, Spatz” skip to his ruddy tip poking out from between your thighs, using the slippery feel of soap as lube. can’t do anything about it because he’s nipping at your neck, grinning like a fool whilst alternating between sucking hickeys on your bare skin and kissing the red marks that slowly begin to form, coaxing you into relaxing against his chest by slowly rubbing eight figures around your swollen clit, telling you, “You’re doing such a great job for me, Schatzi” all the while he’s thrusting his hips from behind, thighs slapping against your ass, using your pussy lips to get off
hello! i absolutely love ur writing!! i was wondering if you’d be down to write a fic about reader sitting on simon’s face, you can have total creative freedom with it 🩷
riding simon riley's face
you were nervous, naturally. your thighs quivered as you hovered his face, his honey eyes heavy lidded, his blond lashes occasionally fluttered as he stared up at you.
your chest rose and fell with every heavy breath, sticky arousal drooling from your slit with radiating warmth. it didn't help your nerves that you could feel his uneven, warm breaths against your cunt. a low chuckle from deep in his throat as he watched you clench around nothing, a whine surpassing your lips.
his crooked nose pressed into your pudgy thigh whenever he'd pressed a reassuring kiss to your skin, "c'mon, baby, don't be nervous, yeah?" his tone was almost taunting, affectionately condescending as he cocked his head to the side with a smug smirk pulling at his lips.
"but, si," you squirmed as you felt his fingers trail, skin rising with goosebumps, your hand tightening their grip on the headboard, knuckles turning white, "i'm gonna suffocate you!"
he barks out a laugh, making you want to huddle into a ball and lay in a ditch, "then i'll die a happy man, love," his rough, calloused hands snuck around your legs, locking his grip on top of your plush thighs, fingers digging into the supple skin as he orders you, "sit."
you oblige. rolling your eyes at the stupid grin that broke out on simon's face as you nervously lowered your wilting cunt, stopping just shy of his lips, feeling his chapped skin just barely graze your soaking, puffy folds.
he grunts lowly, eyes narrowing as he eyes up at you, "i said sit." his voice is harsh, not in a mean way, but firm and unwavering. "if i hav'ta move a fuckin' inch, i'll keep you here until you're beggin' f'mercy. got it?"
he waits for a response, eyes crinkling with the shallow nod you give him, "that's a good girl. now sit, non'f this hoverin' bullshit."
he tugs you down the rest of the way, ripping a high-pitched mewl from your lips, hands firm on your thighs as they imprison either side of his head, the vibrations of his lustful groans stimulate your clit, furthered by his crooked nose and heavy breaths puffing against your sensitive pearl. slick drools over his lips and chin, creating a sticky, squelchy mess as he licks and laps at your cunt like a man starved, eyes fluttering closed as he grows lax.
he lied earlier. he'll keep you here, regardless if you're good for him, slurping and nipping at your folds and little clit until you're incoherent and a sweaty, sticky mess, close to collapse. you stopped begging for mercy about 3 or 4 orgasms ago, but who's counting?
summary: Simon finds out his girlfriend is pregnant. He's determined to be the good father he never had.
notes: Okay so this request could have gone two ways: either Ghost knows or doesn't know about the pregnancy. But I thought it would be kind of strange... like in a maybe-she-cheated-on-me way if she didn't tell him (because why else wouldn't she, realistically). I decided on making him super happy/fluffy/anxious with anticipation instead 🫶🏻
Two months ago, everything had started with a nervous phone call, a teary-eyed confession, stunned silence. She'd been trembling as she clutched the pregnancy test in one hand, phone pressed to her ear in the other.
Simon had been dead silent for several endless moments, and more tears had gathered in her eyes, because god damn, now was probably not the time, why had they ever thought it would be okay not to use condoms-
"Pregnant?" He whispered, oceans apart but his voice as close as though Simon was right beside her.
"Y-yes," she whispered back, staring at the little screen that read 3-4 weeks. "I think so."
"And you took only one, yeah?" He said, voice gentle. Hopeful. Was it because he hoped this one had malfunctioned, or because he wanted it to be true?
"Yes, I only had one at home, for-" emergencies, she almost said, but that felt wrong. Because despite the bad timing, a tiny flutter of excitement jumped around her belly at the prospect of having a child, Simon's baby. "Just in case."
"Alright, sweetheart," he exhaled on the other end of the line. "How about you go to the shop, and buy a couple more from different brands so we can be sure, hm?"
"Will you stay on the phone with me, Si?" She whispered, and he hummed in agreement.
They pointedly didn't talk about the potential baby on the way to the supermarket, with Simon giving her a rundown of what he'd been up to in the last week (probably highly censored for her sake) and her trying not to crash the car with all the nervous energy running through her.
She bought different ones, all the way from cheap to expensive, pink to blue, and chucked in some chocolate bars and crisps for good measure. Either way, she was most likely going to cry on the sofa tonight.
Simon's calm deep voice never left as she took the tests one after another, all lined up on the bathroom counter. They waited together, tense with anticipation.
"They're positive," she said, staring. "All of them."
"Oh, thank God," Simon groaned, and his voice was a little muffled as though he'd pressed his face into the pillow.
Now, two months later, things had drastically changed in every single way one could imagine. For starters, they'd been forced to not only talk about money but also the fact that they didn't have a shared flat, let alone enough space for another tiny human.
Simon wanted to buy a small house for them, but the thought of him spending that kind of money made her uneasy. They'd argued about it several times already, and he'd only given it a rest when she agreed to casually go to a couple listings in their preferred area during the upcoming months.
Not only was their shared Amazon account flooded with parenting and pregnancy-related guidebooks that Simon downloaded to his Kindle religiously, but an avalanche of parcels had started overflowing her living room as well.
XL packs of diapers, a crib, swaddling cloths, pacifiers, toys, a night light. All of it was delivered by increasingly familiar postmen, with her resigning to the fact that Simon was losing his mind.
"Honey," she whined into her phone one evening, pulling out a series of zoo animal-themed bath towels. "It's not even here yet!"
"She isn't here yet," he corrected her with a clearing of the throat. "And once she is, you'll thank me for being prepared."
"You don't even know if it's a girl," she groaned, folding the newest purchase away with an eye roll.
"Of course I do," Simon replied with so much conviction that she almost believed him. "I was the one who-"
"Produced her?" She grinned, and he huffed a breath of amusement.
"Yes," his voice was dark and smooth as silk, suddenly making her mouth run dry.
"I miss you, Si," she whispered, playing with the drawstrings of her pyjama bottoms.
"Not long now, then I'll be home with you. Be a good girl and take care of yourself and my daughter until I'm back, yeah?"
It made her thighs clench a little, and judging by the knowing smile in Simon's voice, he knew exactly what he was doing to her and her hormones. Good lord, if she'd known that he would embrace being a father like this, the baby fever probably would have struck her way sooner.
"I don't want to wait," she pouted, and Simon chuckled.
"I know darlin', I know."
She was standing on tiptoes, trying to see over the crowd of people gathered around the double doors labelled arrivals. Many had come and gone already, but she knew that Simon often got stuck in additional security screenings and customs - so while the long wait sucked, it gave her some more time to gather herself.
When she'd stood in this exact spot three and a half months ago, she never would have guessed that it would be the last few weeks where it was only the two of them.
No matter what happened from here on out, there would always be something that bound Simon to her, that spoke of the love they had for one another: a child.
And while her boyfriend was hellbent on it being a girl, she secretly hoped for a mini version of him. One she could hold and adore whenever his daddy was away, whose dark brown eyes and pale lashes would surely steal everybody's heart in no time at all.
She wondered if it would be a quiet kid, perhaps a bookworm or an animal lover? Would she be the one to teach them how to swim? Was Simon going to take his alleged daughter on the back of his motorcycle to school, just to show off?
Smiling and stroking her stomach absentmindedly, she almost missed the tall frame of her boyfriend as he squeezed himself past a group of elderly men, looking for her. When Simon spotted her, he made a straight line towards her, and people hastily stepped out of his way when it became clear that he was ready to go straight through them if he had to.
Under normal circumstances, she might have been a little embarrassed by all the curious and irritated glances that fell on them, but then Simon was right there, yanking his facemask down.
He was beaming so widely, that the scar bisecting his lower lip and chin disappeared almost entirely from being stretched so far.
Simon scooped her up in his arms, uncaring of the heavy backpack he was still carrying and then twirled her around a few times, face buried in her neck and shoulder. She laughed, trying to hold on, overwhelmed by the completely uncharacteristic display of affection but pleased regardless.
"Look at you," he smiled as he gently lowered her back to her own feet, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You're glowing."
"I think that's just something they tell pregnant women so they feel better about the whole thing," she grinned, accepting the quick kiss he pressed to her mouth and nose.
Simon rolled his eyes, grabbed her hand and steered her towards the airport exit.
"I don't think she's really in there," Simon frowned, examining her stomach from all sides. They were lying on the sofa, with her only in sweatpants and a bra while Simon was draped over her legs, face practically squished into her tummy. "It's so quiet. And you don't look any different!"
The accusation in his voice made her snort, and she gently carded her fingers through his curls. He put his ear back to her stomach, breathing deeply.
"What, do you expect her to say hello daddy, please don't disturb my nap time? The only thing you're going to hear is my stomach growling from being neglected so much."
Simon's head whipped up so fast, she would have scooted back in fright if not for the heavy weight between her legs.
"Are you hungry? Why didn't you say anything? We can have snacks before dinner is ready-"
Grabbing his head between both hands until she could squish his cheeks together and shut him up that way, his girlfriend stared into Simon's eyes with an exasperated smile. She leaned forward and kissed his puckered lips for a moment, then released him.
"Si, while I would never say no to snacks, you need to relax. I'm not starving, and the baby isn't either, because that's what you're really worried about, isn't it?"
The guilty shake of the head and half-hearted denial made her roll her eyes and pull him closer again. Simon rested his head on her chest, arms wrapped tightly under her back. They lay there while listening to the early October rain knock against her living room windows.
"She's the size of a lime now, did you know?" He mumbled. "And we'll be able to hear her heartbeat during the scan tomorrow. At the end of the first trimester babies usually-"
Sighing happily, she wiggled a bit deeper into his embrace and listened to Simon's deep voice as he eventually launched into a detailed list of questions he had prepared for the doctor already.
And it felt amazing to know that the man who possessed her heart in its entirety, who had carved a space for her in his life full of violence and death, could be so tender, could change so much for the sake of their family.
"I love you, Simon," she interrupted him, and he blinked, turning his head so his chin rested on her sternum.
"I love you too, honey," he smiled. "You okay?"
"Never been better."
Not me staring at my positive covid test like... this was not what we just wrote about, body. 😭
But still: Blushing, kicking my feet, giggling. I absolutely adore writing these tough men be super soft for their significant other - and I always headcanon Ghost to be like that in private. How chatty and excited he'd be, now that he'll have a family, I- 😭
I hope the person who requested this liked it, and that everybody else found something to smile about as well! Stay safe, until next time. - A✨
Soap being bitten by a weird looking attack dog on mission and does the usual rabies shots treatment/whatever. All his tests came back fine so he's not really worried about it.
It's just that....
Was he always this hairy? Like yeah sure he's never been sleek exactly, always had a dense bit of hair across his arms, legs, and torso. But recently it feels thicker, coarser.
Did you start wearing a new perfume? Weird he didn't notice until now. It smells amazing on you, he can't help but bury his face in your neck given any chance to do so, nibbles at your neck as you giggle and swat at him.
Everything's louder now. He mentions to Price that he can hear conversations from three offices over, and Price just shrugs and asks why he's complaining- his hearing has been damaged by so many close proximity explosions. Maybe it's just healed on its own somehow.
He keeps having to trim his nails for some reason, and doesn't miss Ghost's weird, observant stare as he sits next to the trash bin for the third time that week trimming his toenails. "Giving yerself a pedicure, Johnny?"
He's so hungry all the time. Gaz jokes he's going through a growth spurt the way he devours his meals, piles on the protein and craves red meat. Soap tells himself he was planning on going on a high-protein diet anyways so he can bulk out a little, so it's not really an issue.
You complain about the love bites he gives you, how he's biting harder than he should, and Soap swears up and down he isn't. The welts on your neck and shoulders tell a different story though, and when you frown at him Soap whines, wanting to tuck a tail he doesn't have under him in apology.
It's weird, but it's mostly explainable.
That is, until the next full moon, when you wake in the darkness of your bedroom to the low, dangerous growl of something wild and feral as he slowly creeps up your body and lets instinct take root.
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