Imagine sleepy cockwarming with John Price like UGH HOT.
You’re well and truly asleep in your bedroom when you hear the door creak open. You’d be more worried but you’re so comfy, you can’t find it in yourself to care all that much. Besides, more than likely, it’s just your partner, John.
You don’t even care when the intruder climbs on top of you and starts pulling down your bottoms.
You only start to care a little when you hear the sound of a zipper, but you immediately melt back into the bed at the familiar sound of John’s gravelly voice, mumbling into your ear.
“Shhh. Jus’ me, love.” He presses a kiss below your ear and you feel him slip inside your hole. Once he's fully inside, he drops his entire bodyweight on top of you, pressing deeper into you and nudging that one spot that especially makes you squirm.
"John.." You push your hips back into him and bury your face in the pillow.
He huffs, not moving except to press you further into the mattress, "G'back to sleep."
You wish you could squirm at least a little bit to get some more stimulation going, but you're completely stuck.
What makes it even worse is when he falls asleep and you just know that he won't be awake for another few hours.
How do the members of 141 handle reader with a high sex drive? Reader is insatiable. Can they keep up or do they tap out early? Do they beg for more or beg for rest?
requested by @/unknownbooklady
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x Reader
Content & Warnings (mdni): sexual content, oral sex, rough sex, swearing, established relationship, gn!reader
Word Count: 800
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
“Trying to kill me?” huffs John, chest heaving.
Sweat-slick and naked, John runs his palm over his face, fisting the hair at the top of his head. The man is exhausted, but you said over text that you wanted to breed him, and you’re not finished now that you’re home.
Head bobbing, you bring John back to aching hardness, relentless in your pursuit of having it off. There isn’t nearly enough of John’s cum in you. Fullness is the goal. To leave him empty and you stuffed to the brim.
With a wet pop, the head of his cock bounces from between your lips, pointing toward the ceiling. “John,” you sigh, dream-drenched and heavy. “You don’t need to do anything.”
Hands slide up his hairy chest. Come back down. Fingers running over thick muscles. You take your time, curling those fingers to lightly drag your nails over his skin. He inhales sharply, and you grin.
“Bloody hell,” he groans, hips lifting as you tease him with your tongue. “You’re insatiable.”
With a mischievous smile, you shift, giving John your back. Lifting your ass, you provide him with a clear of you sliding down on him before you start to bounce.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
The room smells of sweat and sex.
“I need a moment,” says Kyle, his breathing deep. “Shit. Give me a moment.”
Kyle holds you in his arms, face nuzzling the top of your head, his eyes closed as he attempts to steady himself. You, on the other hand, are perfectly fine. As Kyle contemplates life and his sanity, you play with his dick.
“If I recall,” you begin.
“Hush, you,” mutters Kyle.
“You said you could keep up with me.”
Kyle grunts, a sliver of annoyed defeat in it. “I did.”
Hand roaming down to cup his balls, you gently squeeze them. “Are you sure now?”
A long pause, and then Kyle finally speaks. “Don’t know if I can come again that fast.”
You shrug, snuggling closer. “Sure about that?” You bring your hand back to his dick. “Feels hard to me.”
Kyle snorts and gently grasps your wrist. You cease stroking him. “I’m serious, love. Might be done.”
Drawing your hand away, you bring it to rest on his chest, placing a soft kiss on Kyle’s cheekbone. “Tomorrow?”
Kyle’s arm tightens, bringing you in until you’re smushed. “Telling Price you’re putting me on the path to an early retirement.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
Fisting the base of Johnny’s cock, you give it a loving squeeze. A dribble of cum emerges from the tip, you suck it up greedily. And yet, you’re not finished. Hardly even started. Already you’re stroking him, teasing up that build until Johnny is rock-hard and throbbing.
“Oh, aye.” Johnny chuckles at your eagerness. “Want another round?”
You arch an eyebrow but don’t cease. “That a problem?”
Johnny shakes his head. Bringing his arms up, he tucks them under his head, a pleased smile forming on his lips. “No. Surprised is all.”
“Surprised?” you question, almost mocking. “Didn’t think I could fuck like this?”
Johnny snorts, clearly amused by the exchange. He’s trying to turn this around, to bring you to heel. Funny how he thinks you’ll take orders from him. A quick swirl of your tongue and the man is chocking.
“Talking about the stamina,” he manages, eyelids fluttering as you take more of him.
You head slowly ascends, lips suctioning until his eyes briefly roll back into his head. When the head of his cock pops out, you speak. “Is my stamina too much for you?”
Johnny’s gaze returns to your face. “Maybe. Won’t know unless we try.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Beneath you, the sofa shifts, imperceptibly moving with each hard thrust.
At your ear, is Simon’s voice, gruff and thick like he’s smoked too many cigarettes. “Think I can’t keep up?”
You know that tone. Simon uses it when you’re in trouble, or you’ve pushed him a bit too far and he drawn up a punishment. You hold your tongue. While you want to brat over this, to continuously poke at him, that’ll only take you further than you can go.
Simon doubles his efforts at your silence, fucking you harder. His fingers are in your mouth, cutting off your words anyway, though you could use your teeth. Simon’s brute strength severs your ability to do anything except take his cock.
“Always think you can out pace me, bird.”
He’s the one poking now, shifting the power to his hands, leaving you helpless. It’s always where you want to be with him, but the thrill is not knowing how much he’ll deal out.
Saliva pools around Simon’s fingers, dripping onto your lips and chin. Deep enough to stifle but not choke.
Simon lands a sharp slap to your ass. “This is mine. Always mine. You’ll be the one who tires.”
not that this man would ever take a vacation but you can't convince me this isn't john price on leave somewhere on the coast. his belly's softer because he's been eating whatever he wants lately. he bought short shorts to wear and invites you to ride out onto the water in the boat he rented. he calls you bunny and rubs sunscreen on you and invites you spend the night in his cottage a few ticks down from yours.
he lets you drink his whiskey and likes the way your nose twitches at the smell of cigar smoke he purposefully blows into your face. helps you ride his thigh after getting tipsy and then fucks you raw until you can't see straight.
the next morning, he wakes you with a tongue in your hole. then pops over to the shop to buy you a shit ton of pastries before hurrying back to feed it to you in the bed. hushing your sleepy whines with a peck on your mouth and nuzzle of your cheek in between each bite of the breakfast.
gotta eat up, bunny. he's got a day full of upcoming activities for the two of you...
Haven’t written for him in ages but was thinking about Price last night
Fully convinced that no matter how furious you may be with him after a fight, no matter how pissed you might be at him, this man will never accept sleeping on the couch
You can roll away from him all you like, try to give him the cold shoulder as you tug the sheets closer to you, ignore his kiss goodnight all you want, but Price isn’t sleeping anywhere but in bed with you
He’s away from home, from you, too often, he knows the risks of his career too well, has been forced to sleep apart from you too many times now
Doesn’t matter how minuscule or major the fight is, none of it matters to him, if he’s home, he’s sleeping in bed with you, no ifs ands or buts about it
By morning you’ll have rolled over anyhow, winding up pressed against his warm chest with morning breath fanning across his shoulder and limbs tangled between the blankets
So no, John Price is not a man who does well with being banished to the couch
But luckily for him, he’s got more than a few ways to earn his way back into your bed
"No, no, no, you have to believe me!!" Soap argues with Gaz. "He has a little fiancée who lives in a cottage with him! She planted flowers in his walkway! And she scolded him for crushing them when he was piss drunk!"
"Ghost doesn't even like flowers," Gaz sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if this is the hundredth time he's heard this. Maybe it is, knowing Soap. "Not unless they're dead, I reckon."
"I swear it on me mum and me sisters!" Soap exclaims, raising his right hand as if swearing on the Bible. "She had a little bookcase under her telly, and embroidered throw pillows on the couches! With blankets softer than anythin' I have ever seen!"
"Enough!" Price grumbles, sitting up from his chair like a father who has heard enough bloody arguing. "Soap, stop making up stories. Gaz, stop instigating shit."
"No, no! Cap, you gotta believe me!" Soap begs. "She answered the door in a pink slip gown! She had paintings of flowers on her walls! With butterflies!"
"Oh, aye, and d'ya suppose she had curlers in her hair?" Price snorts. "I've been to Ghost's house, Soap. It has movie posters, pinup girls, and ashtrays. Nothing like what you're saying."
"How long ago was that?!" Soap exclaims, throwing his hands in the air.
"I'd say about two years ago," hums Price, scratching his beard thoughtfully.
Just then, Ghost walks into Price's office, where the boys had been idly chatting. Price offers him a cigarette, which Ghost refuses. "My lady asked me to stop smokin'," he grunts. "Started chewin' gum instead."
"Oh, right." Gaz tosses a crumpled sticky note at Ghost. "You and Soap are trying to play a prank on us, innit?"
"It's real!" Soap shouts, exasperated.
"What's real?" Ghost crosses his arms.
"The woman at your house! In the pink nightie with the pretty eyes and the flowers!" Soap points at him with an accusing finger. "Your fiancée."
Ghost just shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise. Price and Gaz are still looking at Soap like he needs to be locked up in an asylum.
"Johnny, I'm going to ask this gently," Gaz begins. "Are you bloody mental?! Makin' up a story like this?"
"It's not!" Soap whines. "She's real! She told me I could check on him the next morning after he got shite-faced at the bar!"
"She give you a kiss on the cheek too?" Gaz mock-pouts at Soap.
"She better not have," Ghost growls.
All three heads turn to look at him in unison, the argument falling silent. "What?" Price and Gaz ask while Soap leaps out of his chair.
"I fucking-! I fucking told you so!" he stammers. "Tell 'em, Ghost!"
Ghost shakes his head. "Keepin' her safe, Johnny. Not that you'd understand that."
being a soldiers wife is cute and all but imagine military!reader, who went through hell and ripped through societal norms to just be in the military. an analyst, a sharpshooter, insanely talented and constantly undermined. reader who always tries to tears through the next layer of bullshit between what she wants because she grew up with the mentality that “a girl can do anything a boy can, maybe even better.”
toxic!price, who looks at you, the almost feral newbie he gets, and instead of seeing a soldier, he sees a sweet thing, all with big eyes and curls. he sees you walk around the room with sweet steps, and smiles every time you come near him because you wear makeup and smell nice because of the perfume. always keeps you on the sidelines and away from the action, has you sitting in the evac helicopter as “backup” rather than being in the field even if he knows you’re as good as any of his other soldiers.
see he doesn’t think a sweet little lady like you should be on the field, better thinks a lady like you would be better off married to a military man like him, keep his house clean and his bed warm. and so you keep getting assigned to tidy his desk and catch his calls, rather than collect information. he’s always got an arm around your waist, a hand on you, patting your head or giving you a sign of affection when you do something simple, like bring flowers to “brighten up” the office.
he thinks a woman has no place in the military, and laughs when he sees you in the shooting range, makes a joke about how your hands are too soft to hold a gun.
and simon, who looks at you with such devotion and admiration when you point the gun and fire cleanly into the target. simon who watches you with an open mouth as you shoot with furrowed brows, simon who’s seen you drag him out of a building, covered in his blood. simon who’s been pinned down with you whilst sparring in the gym, simon who thinks your eyes are as sharp as flint rather than the softness that price sees.
simon who doesn’t think he has a chance with you, since price very clearly has his eyes on you. simon who listens to your rants rather than pushes you away, simon who dreams of the lean muscle under the t-shirts you wear. simon ghost riley, stuck thinking about a woman he wishes would flip him over on the gym mat and make out with him there.
Price never thought children were part of his inventory.
Too old. Too set in his ways. Too much history packed into his bones. He liked things orderly, predictable, quiet when they needed to be. Babies were… none of that.
So when you told him; carefully, gently, already braced, he went very still.
“No,” he said immediately. Practical. Sharp. “That’s not.. we can sort this. Properly.”
You shook your head. Calm. Certain. “I’m keeping it.”
That was the moment John Price learned something unsettling about himself.
He could argue with generals. Governments. God, probably.
But not with you when you looked like that.
So he swallowed. Adjusted. Said, “Alright then,” like he was accepting bad weather instead of a life-altering event.
He did not buy baby books.
He did not talk to the bump.
He did, however, fix everything in the house that had ever been slightly loose.
When the baby arrived, he expected chaos.
What he got was…
The baby was calm. Alarmingly so. Rarely cried. Just blinked at the world like, ah. Yes. This again. Old soul behaviour. Tiny philosopher.
Price held him once. Carefully. Stiff as a plank.
The baby yawned.
Settled.
Fell asleep instantly against his chest.
That was it.
From then on, they were inseparable.
Afternoon naps on the sofa; Price reclined, baby tucked into the crook of his arm, both of them out cold. You’d find them breathing in sync like they’d signed a nonverbal agreement.
“You spoil him,” you’d whisper.
Price would grunt. “He’s got good instincts.”
The baby would blink awake, stare at Price for a long second, then go back to sleep.
Price never says it out loud, but sometimes, mid-nap, he’ll rest his cheek lightly against that tiny head and think
Maybe some things arrive late because they’re meant to be peaceful.
And if anyone asks him now whether kids are for him?
He glances down at the world’s calmest baby snoring on his chest and says,
