like he hates wearing clothes. and he hates seeing you wear clothes. his baby is so pretty why must there be something covering her up?
so he usually sits around the house shirtless with a pair of sweatpants. he would never tell you what to wear because he values you too much BUT you notice when you only wear a big shirt (one of his) and panties theres a look in his eye thats different than at other times.
theres so domestic about him seeing you do dishes with your cute little ass peaking out from under the shirt. or when you lean down to get the food out of the oven and he almost faints.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
repost from my old deleted account tobeholyistobeempty - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
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it’s honestly not even your fault.
you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.
“tha right?”
“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
“you’re drunk,” he breathes.
you grin. “so’re you.”
“not even half as much as you.”
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”
it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.
“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”
he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
“jesus. stop talkin’.”
“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“
he doesn’t let you finish that thought.
“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”
“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”
by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”
he pauses. boot in hand.
“…what?”
he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”
he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.
“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.
“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“
“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”
he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—
“only when i breathe.”
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.
“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”
his eyes snap shut.
“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”
even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.
“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“
his palm tightens over your lips again.
“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”
“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”
Simon Riley who is so exceedingly blunt, not out of an effort to be rude or crass, but because he simply cannot bear the thought of wasting time when it comes to you.
Simon who watches you from your shared bed as you return from your brief shower; your hair dripping down your neck and back, your skin dewy and warm. Simon who can't help but put his phone down in favor of taking you all in, catching your attention with a low whistle. And when you quirk a brow, shoot him a smirk, murmuring a brief and sarcastic yeah, Si? just above the sound of your own quiet laugh, he responds simply:
"Come sit on my face."
Simon who watches you while you idle in the kitchen, leaning your forearms on the countertop while you wait for the kettle to heat up. Simon who is instantly drawn to you, making his presence known behind you by putting his hands on your hips and squeezing, pressing himself against your ass and staring down at the position you're in.
"Turn the stove off, love," he tugs your shorts down while you squirm happily, caged between his arms. "Gonna fuck you like this. Now."
Simon who can barely focus on something as simple as grocery shopping, not while you're wearing that pretty dress and swaying your hips like you know you've got his attention. Simon who takes the opportunity to lean in behind you while you're reaching for something stocked on a high shelf; he grabs it for you easily, but keeps you trapped between his body and the rack so that he can mutter in your ear:
"Dress is comin' off in an hour, whether we're home or not."
Simon who can't help but let his mouth run nonstop when he's got you wrapped around his cock, who maintains his blunt tone but with a shakier delivery even when he's right on the edge.
"Gonna fill you up. Gonna—Christ, sweetheart, m'gonna fill you to the fucking brim. 'Nd I'm gonna watch it drip before I fuck it back into that perfect cunt."
Having an age gap relationship isn’t always questionable and concerning sometimes it’s just you giving your boyfriend shit until he acts like the exhausted, tired old man that he is.
One of your favorite bits that you do constantly is whenever you and John are out at a pub together and you get hit on by some 20 something year-old guy you like to respond to advances with your favorite line first by looking over to your boyfriend, and then by looking back to the man trying to get you in his bed “I’m sorry I only date old men.“ it’s funny mostly because they never know what to do and because John always gives you this exasperated look followed by some version of “m’ not fuckin old.”
John price can be a meanie. The sweetest husband but fuck, he can be so so mean.
You love that he works so hard. Love being able to quietly support him because after he finishes working, he's back to being yours.
But usually, only after he finishes his paperwork.
He had different plans today. Because, well, why wouldn't he want to take advantage of one of the few times he's working from home?
Your John usually wouldn't be this demanding, this fucking mean. But this was Captain Price, a man of absolutes, if you had to describe him.
And he's basically ignoring you! Just reading his documents that your teary, blurry vision can't even begin to digest.
Your back to his chest, legs spread over his own, and most important, his cock being embraced so tightly by your cunt.
It's too much but not enough, his perfect cock filling out the right places, so perfectly pressing against those special spots.
But that's it! You want him to fuck you! Need him to!
Little hiccups as you sniffle, needing more but being a good girl and not complaining. Can't help the little whimpers that spill though.
Ah yes, those little whimpers that make his lips twitch upwards. You don't even know what you look like right now, huh bird?
Panting and gripping him so tight, trying your best not to just fuck yourself onto him. Every little twitch, everytime you re-adjust even slightly—you nearly curl into yourself and he has to wrap his arm around your chest and bring you back up, flush against his chest.
"Looking a little pathetic there, love, feels that good, hm? So good your brain has all but melted out your ears." He chuckles lowly into your ear.
You let out a choked sob, you two have been like this for over an hour already! Haven't you been good enough? :(
"Quiet down birdie, i'm working" he scolds, barely anything more than a chest rumble.
He snakes his hand down, in between your legs, and oh—his middle finger lands on your clit.
He's not nice about it though, he gets straight to it. Rubbing your clit in tight and fast little circles, no slowing him down.
But fuck, everytime you got too loud, he'd slap your pussy. Making your entire body jerk and you cry out.
"Don't make me tell you again, sweetheart."
Your legs shaking, back arching so slightly, head turned to the side and you sink your teeth into his arm, making him hiss.
Meanwhile! He's still reading his stupid documents! When he should he paying attention to you!
Your entire body tenses, he knew you were close. You expected him to slow down but he didn't. It was so intense, so blinding, he had you scrambling.
Trying to be bad and push his hand away from your clit. He's finally giving you what you need and you decide to be a brat?
Your orgasm was so intense, and for the first time—all over his desk and paperwork—you fucking squirt.
The waves of pleasure just didn't stop, it just felt too good!
As you finally start to come down, feeling trembles, shaking. You can feel him kissing your neck. Brushing your hair off your sweaty forehead.
"Bad bird, you messed up my documents." He almost laughs at your expression. A pout forming on your lips as you sniffle.
God, he just loves having you like this. Like all those quickies in his office when you'd visit, he loves how fucked out you look, loves that he's the one making you so fucking stupid.
He wants to comfort you right now, wants to quietly kiss you and hold you.
But you did make a mess while he's trying to work.
Slowly he stands up, his cock snuggled inside you as he holds you close so he doesn't slip out.
Then he bends you over his desk, moving his hips so only the tip of his cock is inside before slamming back in. You were squealing, hands scrambling to grab onto anything.
Imagining sucking price's dick under his desk while he's working. he's just doing his paperwork, why does he look unaffected? :(
Then you feel it, his hands gliding atop your hair, careful not to pull your precious hair. His large hands cupping the back of your head.
And he shoves you down, forcing you to deepthroat his cock. Tears in your eyes threatening to spill, then you hear your prize. His low groan, practically a growl.
You can't help but moan around his cock, the vibration forcing a uncharacteristic pathetic noise from him. Your nails digging into his pants covered thighs, your eyes rolling back as if it's you being pleasured.
Well aren't you a sight, bird?
He brushes your hair from your sticky forehead, getting a better view of your cockdrunk self.
Just made for sucking his cock. Bet you're made for swallowing his spunk too.
assistant!reader who does OnlyFans on the side. John’s pay (and allowance because Price would unknowingly make himself a sugar daddy to his assistants) go towards utilities and groceries, OF money goes towards whatever you damn well please!
Filming a new video for Halloween, dressed as a pretty angel, smiling sweetly into the camera.
Emailing it to your good friend who edits your content for you
or so you thought you sent it to them.
John Price sitting at his dining room table with his team, playing a game of poker when his phone dings with the tone he set specifically for you, and he raises a brow.
“Think it’s an emergency Cap?” Ghost asks, eyes darting from his higher up to his phone, and John pauses. It’s past midnight, you never message him after 10 unless it’s important.
Breakup sex, manipulation, baby trapping, p in v, southern asshole (my type)
NOT PROOFREAD PLS SPARE ME
“Phil, I can’t, you’re away too much, it’s hard on me.”
That conversation ended with him asking to be with you one last time, he needs it.
Surprisingly it’s not rough and fast paced like it always is. He’s not fucking he’s making love.
He’s whispering sweet nothings to you, his forehead on yours while he softly thrusts into you. His fingers intertwined with yours as he looks down at you with teary eyes, his eyes locked on yours.
“I’ll miss you, darlin’.”
“You’re so perfect for me, I’m so sorry.”
“I love you, I’m sorry buttercup.”
“Prettiest girl I’ve seen, god I was so lucky to have you.”
And of course you melted, of course his love making drew you in, his teary eyes meeting your own.
“I’m sorry for being away, I’m sorry- I never meant to hurt you, sweeth’art.”
His hips stutter before he cums deep in you, muttering too sweet apologies.
“Nobody could ever compare to you, god I was blind.”
A month later he’s back on a mission, and now you’re a month pregnant and alone, waiting for your now fiancée to come home.
