Ew

ugh

[beebymoonlight]

you don't think ghost likes you very much. (part 2 of this, but can be read standalone) (18+, semi-dark content ahead, ghoap x fem!reader)

he doesn't like you. no matter what you do, what you wear, what you say, you know he doesn't approve of you, not really.

not like johnny.

johnny adores the ground you walk on. his lips are always on you. in your ear, along your neck, against your collarbone. his tongue is warm, and it slides along your jaw, around your fingers, sucking on your skin.

"what a nice gift, LT," he always says. "got the nicest pussy 'v e'er had." and then he puts those eyes on, those big, soft, blue ones, and he asks, "can i keep 'er, LT? can i have 'er?"

and johnny is so good. johnny does what he's asked of. johnny says yes, he never says no. johnny smiles and nods and does what he is told, and so johnny gets to have you.

johnny gets to keep you.

but you are a pet, and you are nothing more, and ghost never lets you believe otherwise. he doesn't even give you his name; it's ghost, and ghost only, and he never touches you. not the way the johnny does.

he competes with you, but it isn't a competition. johnny doesn't listen to you, not if ghost contradicts you. he will win, and he will win every time, and even though you are aware of this, he reminds you, all the time.

"johnny, please--" you sob, and he laughs, rubbing his stubble against your thigh gently. it's wet, because he's slobbered all over your cunt, and your hole pulses because it wants more. "johnnny...j-johnny, please--"

"oh, relax, my little lamb..." he sucks your clit into his mouth gently, suckling on the puckered bud. you whine at that, reaching down, pulling on the long strands of hair down the middle of his head, and he groans. "makin' a right mess..."

you're crying. tears falling down your face, pleasure like fire at the base of your spine and crawling up your back, and you reach up and squeeze the swell of your breasts, pulling on your nipples gently. johnny always gets you here--right at the top of a glorious fucking hill, and when you come down it, he carries you, keeping you high for as long as he can before he tries again and again and again--

"fuck are y' doing?" a rough voice growls. johnny's ripped off of you, his back arching as a gloved hand yanks on his head. johnny grunts, hissing, and you whine when you see ghost gripping him by his neck, holding the back of his head to his chest. "spoiled. you spoil her, johnny."

"she's so pretty, LT...i--"

"you spoil her." ghost tilts his head to the side, and you see his eyes narrow, a harsh glare at you from under the mask that makes you shake a little. "spoil her fuckin' rotten."

he doesn't let you come. he's a selfish motherfucker.

you don't know why he doesn't like you. for all intents and purposes, he chose you. and he had all but asked you to leave. tortured you, yes, but he hasn't asked you to leave. he still wants you here, doesn't he? if he hated you, if he was jealous, if he really disapproved of you, a man such as he would just kick you out, wouldn't he?

johnny and ghost are gone today. you're alone, and you've decided to occupy your time by cleaning. you put away the clean dishes, fold the laundry that was stuck in the dryer, pick up around the kitchen. ghost keeps the place very clean--but they were pressed for time in the morning, so johnny left you with the softest kisses, and ghost with just a grunt.

you're arranging fresh flowers in the living room when you hear the front door shut. you bounce into the hallway, a big smile on your face ready to greet johnny, but you freeze when you see only one big shadow shrugging off his rain jacket.

ghost is by himself, and he rolls out his neck as he toes off his boots. he hangs up his jacket, still not looking at you.

"wot?" he snaps. "cat got your tongue, little rabbit?"

you swallow, shaking your head.

"sorry...i thought...thought it was johnny."

"yeah? and wot? just 'cause it's not johnny, gonna not greet me like y'should, yeah?" he bites. you stand still for another minute before coming towards him. you lean up on your toes and kiss his cheek, but when you pull away, he reaches down and grips your ass tight, forcing your pelvis against his and rumbling low. he snarls a little, and you tilt your head back as he presses the front of his mask against your lips, kissing you through it. "tha'sit. good girl."

a soft sound comes out of you, a moan, a whimper, you aren't sure, but he smacks your ass gently, nodding his head.

"go on," he mutters. "on the couch."

he eyes you as you walk away.

"'n why the fuck are y'wearin' all those clothes?"

your insides warm at that, and you turn your head to look at him over your shoulder.

"oh. sorry." you slide your sweats off and toss them aside. it's then that ghost realizes you're wearing his shirt. he runs a hand over his taut stomach, adjusting himself shamelessly in his jeans as he watches you bend over to get onto the couch. you wear no panties, and he hums under the mask, tilting his head to the side.

"johnny got held up on base," he murmurs, coming into the living room. you take a seat on the couch, looking up at him, squeezing your thighs together.

"so...we're all alone?" you ask. this is your chance. this is the opportunity you have been waiting for. with no johnny to distract him, all he has is you, and he can't ignore you. not this time.

"all alone, sweetheart."

you swallow hard. "why don't you like me?"

the question is blunt and clear. ghost clicks his tongue under the mask, focusing on you, and he shakes his head.

"tha' isn't wot it is."

"then what is it?"

he just stares, and you shake your head. you need answers. you need to know what you're doing wrong--you want to be good.

"not you, luvie. it's my boy, my poor johnny..." you watch as he grips himself through his jeans again, visibly hard as he squeezes his cock over his zipper. "fuckin' annoying when he isn't the center of attention. my attention. you understand, right?"

you watch him, licking your bottom lip.

"b-but...but--"

"turns into a bloody muppet. pouts like a baby." ghost comes closer, leaning over you, gripping your chin gently. "wot, huh? thought i didn't want y'around?" you whimper when he squeezes your face between his big hand, squishing your cheeks. "'n how could i not, yeah? look at ya..."

he growls under the mask.

"y'wet, sweetheart?" he asks, and you lean back, spreading your knees, and he grunts when he sees between your thighs. the skin is wet, soft and slick, and he hums lowly when he sees how you clench around nothing. "wanna taste, luv. give it t'me."

you reach down gently, sliding two fingers through your folds. you whine a little, scooping a nice handful of slick, and then you pick up your fingers for him. he pushes his mask up, and you shiver when you see the wicked grin on his scarred face. then he takes your fingers into his mouth.

he leans over you. his mouth his hot, and you shake a little when his tongue slips over your fingers, warm muscle swallowing as he tastes you.

"fuckin' hell," he murmurs when he lets your fingers go. "know why johnny spends all his time down there, yeah?"

you giggle, arching your back a little, pulling his shirt up.

"ghost...why dont...why dont you come here?" you reach for the waistband of his pants, tugging gently, and he falls over you on the couch. you meet his eyes as you start to unbutton his jeans. "i want you to spend time here, too, y'know."

"tha' right, sweetheart?"

you smile, "y-yeah." you unzip his pants, your jaw falling open when you pull him out. he's so big, nice and girthy and pretty, and the tip is so pink, dribbling precum and just aching for your tongue to taste him. you rub your thumb over the tip, and he hisses. "and...a-and i love johnny..." you look back up into his eyes. "b-but...i..."

he reaches around and fists your hair, growling against your lips.

"need a right beast to fuck this pretty pussy, yeah? need someone to--" you cry out as he yanks your head back, exposing your neck to him. "--fuckin' ruin ya."

you squeal, arching your back, and he chuckles, but it's mean. you wrap your arms around his neck, and he leans down, resting his forehead against yours.

"yah, luv, y'r mine, just as much as johnny--" you gasp when he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, "y'belong to me. gonna write my name across your fuckin' cunt, sweetheart, fuck that idea right into your pretty head--"

you cry when he fucks you. when he sits up on his knees, gripping you from under your thighs, fucking into you with a reckless rhythm that leaves your thighs shaking and warm tears coming down your face.

"look at you..." ghost hisses, and you cry more, keening as he stares down at where you're connected and the squelch of you dribbles down his thighs. "bloody hell..."

your back bows, your thighs clamping around ghost's hips as he fucks you into the mattress. you can barely think, the only sensation you can really absorb is the way his thighs smack against your ass and the feel of his big, gloved hands spreading you open.

"just needed me right here, yeah?" ghost grunts, slowing his pace as he nestles his pelvis right against yours. you whine; he's so deep, it hurts, but it hurts so good, you don't tell him to stop, you can't. he's so much bigger than johnny, in every way, and you feel suffocated, but if this is how you die, so be it. getting fucked brainless is not the worst way to go, not like this. you gasp when he smooths a big hand over your stomach, pressing the pad of his thumb to where you know the tip of his cock sits. "right there, luv, tha' place is for me, yeah? 's mine, my spot--"

ghost leans down, growling against your neck, a firm grind of his hips punching your cervix again. you claw at ghost's back, and it's painfully obvious how desperate you are--you nearly rip ghost's shirt in pieces.

"this place is for me," he murmurs, spreading his fingers. he grips your waist in both hands and gives you a hard thrust, leaning his head back as he feels you clench hard. you like it when he talks, he can tell--the sound of his voice has you that much wetter, and he clicks his tongue as he leans back, rubbing a gloved thumb over your pretty little clit. "wanna live here...want ya to be my little pet..." he smirks under the mask when you cry, so sensitive. "whenever i want, want you bent over, spread nice 'n wide f'me." he hums low, "whenever i want, yeah?"

he talks like you aren't there. like he isn't cock-deep inside of you, molding the soft places of your pussy to the shape of him. ghost, despite being a little breathless, has no tremble in his voice despite how hot he feels, and he knows, suddenly, why johnny fawns over you. there is nothing that compares to this--there is nothing quite like fucking this pretty princess, watching her tits bounce, her thighs shake, feeling how soft and lovely she is when he gets her right where she belongs--stupid and cumming.

"a princess ya are, yeah?" ghost chuckles. "a right spoiled one, innit?"

and maybe you are a little spoiled. you had no idea you would be getting two for one--johnny and his looming shadow.

you grip ghost's shirt from the front tight, balling it up in tight fists and pulling him close.

"please!" you squeal. "please, please, please--" you moan and sob against the front of his mask. "w-wanted you for so long--w-wanted--"

"ya did?" ghost tilts his head to the side, picking up the pace. he cradles your head between his arms, pressing his face to yours. "even though i was a bastard?"

you mewl, nodding, reaching down and gripping his lower back as he grinds mercilessly. the curls at the base of his cock are rubbing against your clit now, and you angle your hips to catch the feeling every time, and you know you're getting close. you're there.

"almost said your name--" you gasp. "w-when...when he..."

"poor thing--" he chuckles. "thought johnny was what you wanted?" he knows you like the way he's fucking you, and he slows down, wanting to see your face and every expression you make. "what you needed?"

you nod. "i need him," you whisper. "but it isn't enough."

"no, you're such a greedy bunny--" he grips your face tight, sitting up, and you cry when he fucks you. he's an animal, he's lost control, and you are helpless under him. all you can do is spread your knees wider and moan. "johnny can't tame you, but i can, yeah?"

you meet his eyes, big and soft and wet, and he hisses. the look in your eyes, he cums instantly, falling over you and barely having enough time to put his hand out and catch himself. you gasp at the feeling, reaching down, and with a few soft circles of your fingers, ghost lets out a strangled sound as he feels you tighten and cum. the front of his thighs are soaked, and he nudges your chin up with his nose as he breathes in the scent of you from your neck.

"don't say of word of this to 'im, yeah? got ourselves a jealous little bastard," he murmurs against your ear. you nod, and when he kisses you, you can't help the way you relax. cupping his scarred face, licking into his mouth--ghost is your keeper, and he's johnny's keeper, and you know suddenly why johnny does whatever he says, whenever he wants.

ghost is in charge. he just is, and even though you're just a little, innocent civilian, ghost has given you orders, and you will follow them. there is a soft, aching place inside of you that wants to please him so badly--wants to impress him, show him how good you can be. and you imagine, wonder, if johnny has that same feeling in him, that same little press on the inside of his ribs that screams, be a good boy, a good girl, do just as he says, he'll give such a nice reward.

and when johnny comes home, there you are, all soft smiles and tender touches and little giggles that make his belly hurt so nice. and when he tells you he's hungry, you spread your legs, using two fingers to show him your pretty, wet cunt. and he dives in, like he always does, because one of his favorite places is feeling the rub of your thighs against his stubble and your fingers tugging his hair.

his tongue spreads your folds, and he hums with delight when you fall onto your back, pliant and soft and warm. and then he tastes you, and he swallows, and his eyes flicker when there is something else there, something that he knows.

johnny's eyes dart up, looking over you, and he can see ghost lingering in the doorway, watching, and then johnny understands what it is he tastes--and why he likes it so fucking much, and why it tastes like something he knows.

he meets ghost's eyes, and they look at each other, and johnny knows what it is that he's done, what it is he's eating out of you. but ghost knows johnny is a good boy, and he won't pull away, he won't make a scene. no. johnny pulls back a little, wiping his face.

he smiles. and then he leans in for more.

[beebymoonlight]

thinking about crushing on johnny and not realizing you needed permission to approach him. (18+, dark content)

you haven't seen him here before. he's new, and he's fucking beautiful, and you wish he would just look over here so you can find out what he looks like when he undresses you with those blue eyes.

he's hunched over a pint in the back, and he laughs with friends of his. when he smiles, you lean over, resting your chin in your hand when you admire his wide smile and nice teeth. he hasn't shaved today, but the five o'clock shadow suits his pretty face. you want to reach over and run your fingers over the curls of his dark hair that fall over his face. his hairstyle is a little grown out, but the sides have been kept short, with the longer pieces falling over the back of his neck and along his forehead effortless.

he probably rolled out of bed to come here, and he still looks good enough that you want to take pictures of him like this. you want to know what it feels like to kiss him. you want to cup those plump cheeks and kiss his soft mouth, and just hearing his laugh even from this far away, you know he's full of life and fun and--fuck.

you need to go over there before he leaves. before you regret it.

you slip off the barstool that you were seated at, brushing off the front of your jeans. you fix the straps of your bra, satisfied with the bounce of your tits on display, and when you look up again, he's looking at you.

those blue eyes are trained right on your figure, and you suck in a breath when you see his gaze drop, moving up, lingering on your hips and the way your cleavage looks in that shirt before settling back on your face.

he grins, right at you, wide and knowing, and you swallow hard when he winks. he picks up his drink and takes a long sip, and you're transfixed on watching him swallow and the bob of his adam's apple when you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straight--someone's behind me.

you jump a little when someone hums behind you. a voice you don't recognize, a stranger, but you can feel the warmth of them at your back, and it unnerves that they remain utterly silent for a few agonizing moments.

you see blue eyes watching, looking over your shoulder, and you think maybe he knows you're uncomfortable, that he'll do the gentlemanly thing and come to your rescue--please come help me--but instead he sees something, and something flashes in his eyes. he looks, suddenly, like a puppy being scolded, and there's a pout on his lips as he averts his gaze to his drink and turns his body just that much away from you.

"y'like johnny, luv?"

you turn sharply, stepping back, and you nearly trip into the chair at your side when you see what's behind you. a hulking, masked man, large and imposing, staring down at you with his eyes narrowed accusingly.

he's wide. broad shouldered and tall, and even though he wears layers that cover what you guess are solid muscle hardened by laborious work, he is not made any smaller. all you can see of him are his dark eyes, but even those are terrifying because there is nothing in them at all.

you wonder, for a moment, if maybe he's not real. you have to be seeing something made up. a phantom. some kind of ghost.

you steel yourself after the initial surprise, and then you frown. your voice is a little shaky, but you say with as much force as you can, "excuse me?"

the narrow of his eyes softens just a bit. he tilts his head to the side as he looks down at you, and even though his eyes only flicker once, you know his gaze dropped. he takes a peek down your shirt, and you want to roll your eyes.

ghost or not, all men are the same.

"johnny." he nods his head behind you, and when you look back, the pretty one is looking at you, soft eyes shining as he stares at the pair at a distance to him. you notice his foot tapping on the floor, his leg shaking a bit. he's fidgety, nervous maybe, but you don't know why. you turn back around and face the big man again.

"do you know each other?" you ask, raising a brow. you don't know this man, either of them, but it strikes something sour in your mouth at the thought of some man trying to keep you from another--fucking strangers, playing hot potato with a woman? gross.

he snorts, and his shoulders shake a little, as if he laughs. "could say tha'," he murmurs, glaring right down at you, taking a step closer. you move your head back, feeling cornered, but you try not to panic. the bar is full of patrons, the music is lively--even someone as terrifying as this one wouldn't try anything with a room of witnesses, would he?

"look, i don't--"

"think he fancies you, too, sweetheart." his voice is so gravelly, deep, he's saying it with the low of his chest. and you can't tell if he sounds jealous or curious or excited, because he keeps his emotions in check, but at the thought of that pretty boy liking you, you keen. you turn your head again to look at him, catching his blue eyes again, and you smile. all glittery, all soft, and he smiles back, and you want to bounce on your feet.

your head turns back quick when you feel warm hands on your face. your giant has put a few of his fingers on your chin, and he turns your head back to face him, clicking his tongue.

"don't look at him, look at me," he mutters. you blink, not sure how to decipher his mood, and he steps even closer, leaning into your space. "johnny's mine."

your heart drops in your chest. you swallow hard, and you blink again, and you know your eyes are glossy from embarrassment and shame. of course this pretty man is taken--of course he is. it isn't fair, and it upsets you, but your lip trembles a little.

"fuck, i--" you gasp a little. "fuck, i-i'm sorry. i didn't..." you bite your lip. "i-i swear, i-i--"

"johnny's mine," he growls, and you tense when you feel the warmth of his breath through the mask, against your mouth. "and 'm not one to share. but johnny's been such a good boy..." your eyes flutter a little when his hand falls from your chin, smoothing over the soft skin of your neck as he grips you there gently. he clicks his tongue when you lean into him, almost instinctively. "'n you're a pretty prize. just how he likes 'em."

"huh?"

"all soft...such a nice arse," he sucks on his teeth, humming. "can see your tits so nice, luv. wanna see more of 'em."

your eyes widen, and he laughs, and it's insane and cruel, but your legs come together anyways, and you squeeze them there. you're wet. you know you are.

"he likes a sweet pussy, too, luv, got one of those?" he's closer now, growling into your ear, and you close your eyes.

"i-i...i--"

"fuck, haven't even gotten you home, and you're already so dumb," he mutters. he lets go of you, gripping you by the shoulders and turning you around. you stumble in your boots, swallowing, in a daze, and he urges you forward. "go on. sit next to johnny, sweetheart."

your legs move on autopilot, and you shuffle your way over to the table, and as you get closer, the chatter quiets just a little. johnny perks up a little when he sees you, and he moves over in the booth, giving you room, and you greet the table a little shyly before taking a seat. johnny is warm, too, radiating triumph. you smile wide, but just as you get comfortable, big hands grip your waist and lift you. you squeak as you're seated right on your giant's lap, your legs bracketing his big thigh as your back sits flush against his chest.

"got yourself a bird there, ghost?" one of them chuckles. he's stunning, all dark-skinned and wide smiles, and you know he must be their good friend because he doesn't question the way ghost has simply carried you there, sat you down with them, when supposedly he was already with someone else.

ghost hums, and you suck in a sharp breath when his hand wraps around your waist and tugs, forcing your ass right up against his middle. you put your hand over his, your fingers stroking the back of his hand. this isn't right, you know it isn't, but something feels good about it. you're normally worried about being too big to sit on anyone's lap, but he's a fucking bear, and you know he can take it.

you know he can take it.

"you like it, johnny? like what i brought you?" ghost asks, and he asks it like you're not there. you turn your head, and your eyes linger on the way ghost has his arm strewn along the edge of the booth behind him, around his shoulders. his gloved hand reaches up, and you swallow when you notice him playing with the ends of johnny's hair, the curls you know are soft, that would be nice to tug on. johnny smiles, and you see him up close now, and his lips are soft--and by the look on his face, he does like them sweet, and you know he eats pussy like they're last meals.

you know he does.

you hold in a soft sound when you feel a warm hand on your thigh, wrapping around the meat of it and squeezing.

"ohh, i like 'er, LT. like 'er a lot."

next part

[beebymoonlight]

What do we think about price x young!Wife reader who is kept away from the team (for obvious reasons) and when she is on base to bring some important files to his office, world collide

I think it would be really cute if she gets mistaken for a recruit

he's not moving fast enough for you.

you roll your window down even more, sticking your head out, and you slide your sunglasses down your nose so you can meet eyes with the muppet standing guard at the gates.

"repeat that for me?"

"you're not on the list," the man repeats. he narrows his eyes at you. "all guest personnel must be approved before they enter. i don't make the rules, but i do enforce them."

you raise a brow. your manicured finger slides down the steering wheel, tracing the leather of it, and you let out a deep breath before laughing humorlessly.

"okay. i need you to get on your stupid radio and get captain john price on there. then, you're going to tell him who exactly is waiting here, and then after he informs you that you will let me through, i'm going to make sure you spend the next two weeks scrubbing fucking toilets." you sit back in your seat. you don't mean to be rude or mean, you're usually very kind and very considerate, but you are about to blow the roof off of your patience after the day you've had, and you just want to drop john's things off and go.

the guard scoffs, picking up his radio. he rolls his eyes at you before he goes back into his little office. after a few minutes, he comes back out. his eyes are on the floor, and he comes up to your window and gives you back your id. you toss it into your purse, and he clears his throat nervously.

"i-i'm so...i-i'm so sorry, mrs. price, i--"

"save it."

you put your car in drive and step on it. the purr of your pretty german car leaves the guard in the dust, and you park haphazard, taking up two spots, but you just grab your purse and john's papers and turn the car off anyways.

you're mrs. john fucking price. you'll park how you please, and they can get over it.

you're dressed more casually. you're wearing dark green cargo pants, a white t-shirt, sneakers, and one of john's army-green jackets. when you see yourself in the reflection of a window, you realize you kind of dressed appropriately for the setting, without even meaning to.

you open the door to the building john texted you about, and you walk in with your sunglasses still on. there's a lot of desks around, offices, an ugly mess of couches around a tv that a bunch of recruits are playing team fortress 2 at. they're whooping and yelling, but you pay them no mind as you follow a sign towards the office number john gave you.

you bump right into a big chest. you stumble backwards, scoffing, and you pull your sunglasses off as you tip your head back and glare up. there's some big, giant bear-man standing in your way, and he isn't moving.

"excuse me," you say firmly. "do we have a problem?"

the big dude tilts his head to the side, like he's sizing you up (which is stupid, since he's probably bigger than anyone). he's wearing a DIY skull mask, something messily sewed and painted with thick fingers, and you really want this halloween-enthusiast to get the fuck out of your way so you can leave as soon as possible.

"we? i don't got a problem."

his voice is deep. all gravel, very low, and his tone is very condescending. you may be smaller than him, but your teeth are sharper.

you're sure of that.

"but you've got one," he continues, narrowing his eyes. "those nails aren't regulation."

"excuse me?"

"you heard me."

"i did, but you must be fucking out of your mind if you think i answer to you."

"listen 'ere," the man spits. "i'm a fuckin' lieutenant, and y'r gonna talk t'me like i'm one before i have y'r arse--"

"get out of my way!" you snap at him. "as far as i'm concerned, i outrank every single idiot in this entire fucking building. i don't care if you're a sergeant, a lieutenant, i don't care if you're fucking royalty! move, or i'll make you, so help me god."

"simon."

at the sound, the bear turns around, stepping aside. when peek around his arm, you see your husband, arms crossed over his chest casually as he leans against the wall. he's got a relaxed smile on his face, boonie hat tipped back a little.

"well, this isn't how i wanted you two to meet," john chuckles.

"what, you know this meathead?" you scoff, and the lieutenant, simon, snarls like a dog at your response.

"simon, this is my wife."

simon steps back from you as if you'll sting him. he swallows, his face relaxing under the mask, and you glare at him. you don't expect an apology from someone like him, but you guess the way he reverts his eyes from you is the equivalent of it. you don't think a man like him ever feels out of place or threatened.

"love, this is my lieutenant."

"the lieutenant."

"quite right."

you let out a harsh breath through your nose. you don't say anything more to simon, just give him your back as you walk past him towards your husband. he's saved your husband's life before, so he can be let off easy.

this time at least.

when you lift your hand to give john some papers, simon zeroes in on the giant rock on your left hand, the several carat diamond that sits there.

fuck.

"next time you need something from home, i'm gonna need the red carpet rolled out for me, understand me, john?" you tell him. john smiles, crow's feet deepening, and you narrow your eyes. "say you understand me, john."

"mhm. i understand."

"i don't mean just making sure my name is on some list, i mean an escort and a voss water. in the glass bottle."

"of course, sweetheart."

he bends to kiss you, and you let him. you put a hand under his jaw, thumbing at his beard, and the hat covers the way he lets his tongue slip out and into your mouth. if you didn't have an audience, the taste of tobacco on his tongue would be enough for you to kneel and suck his cock, but he's busy, and you have a hair appointment to get to.

you pull away slowly, touching his bottom lip.

"you better be home in time for dinner," you say. "seven. don't be late."

"won't be late."

his baby blues are so bright, even in the awful fluorescent light. you kiss him again, cupping the back of his neck, and when you pull away, you put your mouth to his ear.

"your office? got ten minutes?"

"no, sweetheart," he murmurs. "don't have it."

"john..." you grip the sides of his tact vest, pouting. "please? please?"

john sighs, shaking his head. he kisses your forehead before nodding behind you, to his lieutenant that still won't leave.

"walk her out, simon. make sure she leaves alright."

"olright."

simon opens your car door for you, and when you get in, you shove your seatbelt into place, angrily starting the car up again. you're having a bad day, and you're horny now.

"goodbye, lieutenant," you say smartly. "by the way, there's some smartass at the front that i told would have to scrub toilets. i trust that you can carry that out for me."

"'ow long?"

"told him two weeks, but i think a day will do just fine."

"'n why's tha'?"

"well, i'm not mad at him anymore, but i'm still a price. and price's follow through on their threats, lieutenant."

you put your sunglasses on, and the window goes back up. simon watches with rapt attention as you pull out with a rev of the engine, and when he glares at you, you smile, raising your hand to flip him off.

the big diamond on your hand blinds him as you drive off.

[beebymoonlight]

If you need horny ideas. How would the141 men react to their partner having nipple piercing.

i'm so glad you asked !!!!!! (18+, f!reader)

gaz — oh, baby, gaz is a sucker for pretty things, being one himself. he frequently records both of you. he takes amateur videos most often, recording you in fits of breathlessness and deliriousness. he's definitely an ass-man, but his favorite video he's ever taken is you underneath him, your thighs pressed up around his hips as he pounds into you at an intense angle. your tits are bouncing with every movement, piercings nearly sparkling in the low light, and fuck if that isn't 100/10 wank material.

soap — johnny is into anything. any kink, any piercing, anything new, and if he hasn't tried it, he's a panting dog, eager to discover new, sexual experiences for himself. and when you, very shyly, showed him what was under your bra, johnny's eyes rolled back into his head because holy shite, ye are the woman of my dreams. loves sucking on them and slobbering all over your tits—says the metallic taste is so good, and his favorite place is putting his head between your tits and suckling a nipple into his mouth with a low groan. he'll do it anywhere, too—on the couch as you watch a movie, in bed as you try to sleep, anywhere anytime for any reason.

price — the first time he sees you naked, he immediately thinks "fuck, she's too young for me," but you recognize that timid look in his eyes. as soon as you get that man on his knees and your tits in his mouth, he's immediately slack-jawed and pawing at you like a needy puppy. the thought "mommy?" flashes through his mind. just briefly. just a little.

ghost — you're so shy when you show ghost the only quirky thing about you. this man is covered in scars, burns, tattoos, old wounds. he wears a skull mask on every date, and yet you're a little jumpy to show him your tits? you toss your shirt onto the floor and perk up a little on your knees. your nipples are overly pebbled, with the cold air and his dark eyes right on them, but your mind just whirs when ghost chuckles low in his chest and pulls up the hem of his shirt to show off his chest. you're in a fit of giggles when you he comes closer—there was nothing to be worried about. ghost has a matching set, too. :D

[beebymoonlight]

141 reactions to their pretty bird taking them to a sex shop to pick out a new toy for the bedroom? Pretty please!

hehe (18+, f!reader)

gaz — definitely a little shy, but the more you pick things out and hold them up, the looser he gets. he even picks out the candy bra and panties to try, because he says it'll really "complement your sweetness." the best part, however, is the little bottle of lube you slip into the basket, and when gaz eyes it as you check out, his eyes nearly bug when he realizes what you're silently offering. you wink at him, smiling, and he comes up behind you to cradle one side of your ass, drawing his fingers up between the seam of your jeans. if gaz is really an ass-man, well........feel free to prove it then, baby.

soap — SOOOOO excited. he's grabbing things off the shelves, picking out little plugs and vibrators and holding out weird toys and asking you what they are even for. he's making you laugh, and he's making it fun, but the part that makes you laugh and squeeze your thighs together the most is when johnny starts holding up different dildos against his crotch and asking which one is the most like him. he definitely buys you the dildo that he feels is most like his own dick—for when she misses me the most, bonnie...can't 'ave yer cunt cryin' for too long.

price — huge blush on him the entire time. he tries to look away or look up, but his eyes always land on something else that makes him equally embarrassed. you always hold up something to him and ask him if he likes it, and all he does is nod and push you along, "mhm, get whatever you want, love." just smacks his card down at the counter to buy all your things. he does survey the goods when you get home, and he is particularly fond of the remote-operated vibrator that you have. you knew he'd like that, and what can he say? he likes being in control.

ghost — no reaction. you hold up a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs, and he just stares down at you as you giggle. you hold up silk ties, whips, chains, sparkling plugs, and all ghost does is sniff or grunt at you. you stand on your toes as you fit a collar over his neck, and he's glaring at you as you giggle and fasten it around him. he just keeps his arms crossed over his chest, but you put your fingers on his jaw and angle his face towards yours. "good dog," you purr, kissing him softly over the mask, and ghost just cradles the back of your head and presses his forehead to yours. it's somehow in the basket when you check out. along with the matching leash. :D

[beebymoonlight]

Horny ideas? What about the 141 reaction to their girl wanting to film them having sex? Like it's the first time and she's the one to bring up recording them. "I want something while you're away..." 🥺

ok ok ok (18+, f!reader)

gaz — super into it. he's all smiles, all giddy, and he's warm all over thinking about it. knows the perfect angle, too. he props up a pillow at the end of the bed and lays the phone there. he throws your legs up and presses your thighs down, and gaz is buzzing when he checks the footage after. it's just the perfect shot of his cock ruining you. the smack of your skin is so nasty, and gaz finds himself already cupping under his cock when there's an insane shot of him pulling out, globs of his cum spilling out of you. oh, but no, that's not good enough, we need another angle. he loves the POV shots the most, where all the focus is on you. he loves panning from your swollen pussy to your bouncing tits all the way to your open mouth, and he loves it even more when he moves the camera closer to get a shot of you sucking on his fingers all wet and heavy. pretty, pretty, pretty...

soap — 100% down, but he's so bad at it :( you're always so wet and whiny when you fuck. you can't help it — johnny is so hot, and you can't get enough of him. he makes you downright stupid when he's inside of you, so you relied on him to film everything, but he's so bad. the camera is shaking as he tries to film, and you get motion sickness watching it back. the audio is quite nice—johnny's grunts are hot, but you really wanted more footage of him absolutely splitting you. the best you got was a blurry shot of your tits when johnny spit on them to keep you crying. oh well, maybe next time :(

price — he's old-fashioned, he doesn't get it. he has a couple polaroids of you back in his locker, and that is always good enough to get him off when he's away from you. you're not even fully naked in those pictures, and he's cumming across his stomach just fine, so he finds it really odd that you want to film. he doesn't say no, but you can tell he finds it strange, so you simply point the phone between your thighs and bring his hand between your legs. john stares over your shoulder into the phone as he watches his own fingers slip inside of you. he leans in a little, watching, licking his lips as he finds it mesmerizing to watch you become wetter and wetter and wetter. soon, it's a wet slap of his palm against your pussy, and you're crying with relief as you come, flooding his hand and wrist and crying through the overstimulation. the audio alone is enough for john to forward it to himself for later use.

ghost — absolutely not into it at first. he is anti-photo. he has no photos of himself at all, and he never takes any, and he's always refused to be in pictures, so the idea of being filmed in one of the most vulnerable places makes him uncomfortable. you totally go with it, very supportive, but then ghost offers a compromise at your soft angel face—he can't be the feature. so there you are, reverse cowgirl, slowly lowering yourself onto your boyfriend's cock with relative ease. it still takes a lot to fuck simon, even now, but once you're finally seated, you whine with relief at the stretch. then you go for it. you make a show of fucking big bad lieutenant riley, and simon has one hand on your ass and the other with a fixed hand on your phone. over and over and over again, your hips come down, fucking down onto simon within an inch of your life, and simon can't keep his mouth shut. he keeps saying your name and groaning, and he's so vocal, you're losing your mind. the sight of you leaning forward after you've come, cum dribbling down as his cock glistens in the frame, is one of the most insane videos he's ever seen. my pretty, pretty bird.

[beebymoonlight]

How would the 141 react if you came so hard you cried for the first time 👁️👅👁️ Who would freak tf out and who would be beaming with pride?

hmmmm (18+, f!reader)

gaz — doesn't freak out, immediate soother. he's nuzzling his nose against your cheek, picking you up under your thighs and hugging you close. skin-on-skin contact as he murmurs soft things into your ear and mouths at your wet jaw. "'s alright, love," he'll say, "don't cry, baby, 'm right here." gaz loves giving the princess treatment. "felt so good, huh, love?" he'll coo. when you nod, whine, he just smiles, gripping your jaw tight so he can kiss you straight on. romantic, soothing, babying you in every way as you try to breathe easy and come down from an insane place of euphoria and pleasure. you like when that happens, though. you like when he treats you that way, when he fusses over you and says nice things and takes care of you. it's dizzying, the kind of love you feel.

soap — freak !!!!!! he fucking loves it. the first time it happens, his eyes are sparkling with glee. he laughs, not mockingly but in disbelief. he leans over you to press just that much further into you, forcing your back to arch at a sharp angle as you blubber and cry from overstimulation. johnny reaches a thumb out and wipes your eyes, and you sniffle and whine when he sticks that thumb in his mouth to taste your pretty tears. "fuck...ye look so lovely," he pants. "a wee angel." definitely tucks you under his arm after and babies you, but he's smiling and hot with a nasty sense of satisfaction as he holds you. "y'r so pretty when ye cry, bonnie. give it ta ye good, don't i?"

price — honestly, john doesn't consider your orgasm worth it unless you do cry. your first blissful orgasm over his fingers, satisfying but not good enough. then against his tongue, on your tummy as you push back against him—fucking lovely, but it isn't what he's looking for. no, here is where he has you. you're on your back, thighs up, ankles by his ears, and he's dropping his entire weight on you to make you see nothing but spots. you beg, you plead, it's too much and not enough, and now he's yanking on your hair and grunting into your mouth, telling you, "give it ta me, fucking give it to me, sweetheart," cause why the fuck would committing war crimes be worth it if not to fuck a pretty pussy afterwards? what's the benefit in keeping england safe if it means he can't feel his girl aching and wet and squirting like a pathetic, eager little girl? the tears are warm against his cheek as he lays his against yours. you wrap your arms around his neck, panting, little sobs as you come down. "atta girl," john murmurs, tucking you into his chest. "that's it."

ghost — he won't admit he has a kink, but oftentimes, your tears are enough to push him over the edge. simon is not a small man, and he's not very gentle with you. that isn't to say that he's not romantic and that he doesn't love you, but simon's moments of intimate connection can be...intense. he kisses like it's the last time he'll taste you, he eats your pussy like it's the only meal he's ever waited for, and he fucks like you're his last chance at redemption. it's always like this—simon always gives it to you so good, and you feel as if you're barely hanging on in the best way. it's natural for you to cry; overwhelmed, buzzing with pleasure, happy and delirious. simon feeds off of it, and there you are, post-orgasm, crying all sweet and soft into his chest as he pants. he sticks his tongue out, pressing his face to yours, and you sigh as he flicks his tongue and licks up the salt of your tears. perfect, perfect girl.

[beebymoonlight]

How would the 141 react to their little bird walking out into the living wearing lingerie for the first time. ( partner is a little self conscious because they have a small tummy)

hmm? (18+, f!midsize!reader)

gaz — well, jesus, talk about intimidating. the hottest guy for sure that you've ever dated; buttery skin, brilliant smile, always smells good, takes care of himself in such a healthy, mature way. when you saw him without a shirt for the first time, you nearly felt sick, and you've only ever had sex in the dark cause you're so self-conscious about what you'll look like next to him, but he's never done anything to make you feel like he cares about what you look like or has thought you were anything but absolutely beautiful. you want to do something special. so on the couch, during the movie, you unbutton your blouse and drop it suddenly, showing off the intricate lace set you've got underneath, and gaz can do nothing but stare. his jaw falls before he can catch it, and you swallow hard. "do you..." you clear your throat. "do you like it?" he wants to see the full fit, of course, and you drop your shorts and give him a spin when he asks. if you had any doubts, they're gone once you tug his sweats down. his cock has never looked better.

soap — fortunately, johnny was very, very upfront about how he felt about your figure. he never said anything outright, but he was always touching you. smoothing his hands down your sides, cupping your breasts, smacking your ass when he passed behind you. he wasn't satisfied unless he had his hands full, and he's got a sick smile on his face when he sees you in bright red lingerie for the first time. man doesn't even takes his time with you—he just rips a hole in the crotch of your lace panties and fucks you right through it.

price — a man of taste and refinement, john has always been adamant about what he wants. he wasn't interested in dating any woman except for you, and he made you understand that as soon as date number three. he was all in, and that meant full access to being price's girl. money, good food, and the best sex of your entire life. john likes a good blast from the past. he still remembers the novelty of a pin-up girl in a military locker, and you give him that when he comes home one day. naked except for heels and fishnets and a garter belt, perched up on his couch just waiting for him to devour. the heels are red-bottomed, the fishnets are handsewn, and the garter belt you wear is french lace. the record playing was just the nail in the coffin—when you count the days back a few weeks later, you definitely think it's the night he got you pregnant.

ghost — he appreciates his girl, 100%. ghost is not someone immune to pillowy thighs and nice tits. he's a man, at his core, but fuck is it so exhilarating that ghost needs nothing except your eyes to chub up and be ready for another round. but you wanted to treat him; he works so hard, and he deserves it. so there she is—perfect, pretty girl, sitting on her knees, in his living room, wearing black lace dotted with rhinestones. he's salivating when he sees you; immediately kicking his door shut and unzipping his trousers, and you're the one drooling now seeing him already swelling at the sight of you. the lingerie does not last—it's in tatters just a few minutes later, torn apart and ruined behind the couch as he fucks you into it. at the end of the day, there's nothing quite as pretty as his girl without anything except for his cum inside of her. that's the real prize. :D

[beebymoonlight]

captain john price x wife!reader

a collection of stories about captain john price and his pretty, young wife.

cw: all contain 18+ content, suggestive language and content, reader is described as plus-sized/curvier, dubcon elements, reader is a spite-fire, reader is a huge bitch (we love her), john price is a huge asshole, military inaccuracies, angst, smut, dark themes, they are super toxic but super in love so no they won't get divorced, john price has an insane breeding kink

introductions

not a meet-cute

forever and ever

maneater

baby mine

breaking points

tear me apart

[beebymoonlight]

I miss John and his wife!!! she has so much personality I'm obsessed with her. is there anything she does that can really fuck with John when she's truly pissed? is there anything she can do that cracks that unflappable exterior?

he's been patient, all day—ever the gentleman. (18+, super dubcon lol)

he didn't bat an eye when you told him you paid an exorbitant amount for new tires on your car. he didn't react when you told him he didn't need to fix the sink anymore since you had hired a plumber while he was deployed. he didn't flinch when you told him that you threw out his favorite socks.

but this? this won't do.

the package of foil crinkles between your fingers. you set your hand down harder against his chest, glaring up at him as he pauses with his fingers wrapped around the waistband of your panties.

"what the fuck is tha'?" john mutters. you arch your back, touching your nose to his.

"need me to teach you how to put it on, baby? is that it?"

"not wearing that," john hisses. his entire face scrunches in anger, and you glare right back at him, your nose twitching as you meet him head-on. two can play at this fucking game—if he wants to be a bitch, you can be an even bigger one.

"yeah? and i'm not having your baby at the chance of you being gone for fucking months, john. so you will put it on—"

you cough when he grabs you around the jaw, puckering your lips as he shuts you up. you spit as much as you can, but he just opens his mouth a little, laughing.

"you're a naughty fuckin' girl," john mutters. "and usually, love...i don't mind. but this? this, i can't forgive."

you growl when john maneuvers you underneath him. he turns you over onto your stomach, pressing down, and you snap your jaws when he grips both of your wrists easily in one hand and holds them crossed behind your back. he uses his weight to keep you down, and you snarl when he rips your panties open.

"don't you dare, john," you tell him. "don't you fucking dare—!"

"yeah, you're beggin' for it, swee'eart, look how fuckin' wet you are."

you gasp when he fills you. you gurgle, immediately going soft underneath him as you press your hips back to meet him and open your mouth in a soft moan.

"there she is..." john hums. "look at 'er...pretty cunt just likes me too much, know tha', honey?" he smacks your ass gently, just enough to make a soft sound echo through the room, and you whimper as he leans over you and yanks on your hair to bring you upright. you cry out, leaning your head back against his shoulder, and he grips you around the throat and holds you there. "i let a lot of things y'do slip by. let you spend my fuckin' money. let you spit on me. let you scream...and bite...and start fights with men that y'know i'll have to finish, but this?" he sucks just under your jaw, using the leverage against your body to drag his hips back, feeling the tip nearly fall before he pushes back inside of you, hot and heavy. you whine, your eyes rolling back, and he laughs again. "we fuck the way god intended, y'understand me?"

when he kisses you, you kiss back. the slow rocks of his hips placate you, and when he pulls away, he nuzzles into the crook of your neck as he quickens his pace. the soft smack of your skin is easy-going with how wet you are, leaking, spilling, so turned on, the only name you're remembering is the one that belongs to him—price.

"i love you so much," he whispers into your ear. when he lets your hands go, you search for his, intertwining your fingers, keeping him holding steady onto you.

"i-i love you, too, john—"

"i know," he groans. "can fuckin' feel it—so tight—"

you like to fight. you like making john angry, because he makes you angry, but when he has you like this, you lose yourself. you do love him. you do want him. you want to be attached to him in all ways, and if growing half of him will give you a chance to keep him tethered here, then fuck it—why not? give him a baby, two, or four, it doesn't matter, maybe then he'll stay in your bed and stop leaving you and tell you more how much he loves you, maybe he'll mean it this time.

you're smiling when you sink back into the mattress. giggly, post-orgasm, his cum milky and heavy as it slips down your thighs. john is sitting up next to you, squinting at his phone as he scrolls through it and purses his lips. something must be upsetting him, because he keeps kissing his teeth and shaking his head.

you roll over onto your back, looking up at him. you reach up and touch along his bearded jaw, running your knuckles down the sharp line there until you can trace your thumb along his bottom lip. he glances over at you finally, narrowing his eyes. suddenly, the post-orgasmic bliss fades, and you're staring at your absent, terrible, no-good, cocksucker of a husband.

"need you to do something for me, baby," you coo.

"what's that?"

"gonna need the morning-after pill. could i use your credit card?"

"fucking brat—"

[beebymoonlight]

i wanna know about john n his pretty wife!! i have questions!!! how does she deal with the times he gets called in too much, their first big spat? gimme all the angsty details that end with him giving her a little shake 🥴

today marks 37 days. (18+)

he said he would be home 23 days ago, but it's still 36 days too long for you. you talked to him about this, you think.

no—that can't be it. you talked. john did not listen.

you're tired. you knew you would be. you knew it the first time john looked in your eyes when he came inside of you—really came inside of you. no condom, hand fixed against the bend of your jaw, blue eyes wide and focused. john was chasing something then, determined to make it to the finish line of a race, but the thing that always strikes you as strange is that he is always the only one running. there is no competition, and yet john treats your relationship that way.

he always has to win. the winner of the argument. the more expensive gift. the more thoughtful response. the heavier hand, the fatter wallet, the softer kiss—

but he can shove all of it up his fucking ass. he's a liar.

john likes the red carpet whenever he comes home. he likes routine. he likes stomping his boots out on the welcome mat, dropping his duffel by the door, and eating a big meal before he puts you on your back on the marble kitchen counter and eats you out with a voracious growl.

the ring placated you for a bit. big, sparkly thing, something you loved showing off to your friends, at the office, dangling it in front of the gossips at your spin class just to get them to shut the fuck up for once. it made you docile—you liked it for a little while. you liked playing dress-up.

frilly apron. dutch oven full of tender meat. big, wet eyes as you knelt between his legs and let him come on your tongue for being so brave, so good, such a hero. you put the rose-tinted glasses on and let a man fuck you so brain-dead, you forgot your own convictions.

and for what? a fucking BMW?

you're smiling to yourself when you pull into the garage. john's car is there, and you shut your car door with your heel as you make your way inside. you shut the door hard behind you, barely glancing at john's duffel bag by the door as you hang up your leather purse and drop your keys in the bowl.

john's in the dining room. he's sitting at the table, manspreading, and there's a bottle of some dark liquor and a glass sitting in front of him. there's also an ashtray there, where a fat cigar sits, and you scowl when you see it.

it's not allowed in the house.

he doesn't move when he hears your heels hit the hardwood. he does clench his jaw, however, when you pick up the bottle of liquor from in front of him and tip it upside down over the tray. you watch with a bored expression as you fill the ashtray with liquor until it overflows, putting out the cigar and flooding the wood table with a sodden cigar and ashy alcohol.

you take a swig from the bottle once you're satisfied, gritting your teeth as it goes down hard. scotch. fucking gross.

"welcome home," you say bitterly, wiping your hand off on his shirt before making your way into the kitchen. you reach into the freezer for a pint of ice cream, closing it with your hip as you fish out a spoon and pop the lid off.

john is standing in the doorway when you sit on the couch. he's angry, that much is clear, but you pretend that it doesn't bother you. you stick a spoonful of ice cream into your mouth before giving him your eyes. you smile.

"yes, john?"

"i don't ask for much," he starts. you laugh, tucking your feet up underneath you. you take another spoonful of ice cream—this is gonna be good. "do i, love?"

you raise a brow. "you're asking me, honey? or telling me?"

john crosses his arms over his chest, rocking on his feet as he walks further into the room.

"don't get smart with me, baby."

"oooo..." you laugh, and it makes him flinch. "i'm terrified, john."

"i'm not tryin' to scare you, i'm trying to make you listen," john snaps. you point the spoon at him and wink, nodding your head.

"mmm..." you smile. "now you have it, john. bingo. it feels good when your wife listens, doesn't it? and it fucking sucks when she doesn't, huh, honey? when she doesn't do what you expect her to? when she fibs...when she goes back on her word—"

"oh, that's what this is about?" john comes forward, bending low, cupping your jaw with a soft hand before he grips it tight between his fingers. his paw dwarfs your throat, and you glare up at him. "cause i'm late?"

"i feel lucky when you're late," you push his hand off of you. his brow furrows. "you could be dead for all i know, but at least when you're late, your sorry ass comes through the door and can just pretend all over again like everything is fine."

"you knew," john murmurs. "you knew what you were signing up for."

"i did!" you snap. you throw the spoon at him, but he just hits it away, letting it clatter onto the floor. your eyes water. "i did know, and i told you to let me go! i told you!"

"you knew that was never going to happen," john spits. you're startled by the way he snarls at you. john is normally so good at keeping his composure. he fights, but he does it with a smart mouth and a smug smile, but this—the idea of losing you, of letting you go—that pushes him over some edge? "you knew i was never going to let you go, so i don't even know why you fuckin' asked me to. if you think for one second that what we have isn't until death, i don't mind giving you a reminder."

"john," you whisper. your lip wobbles. "john, i love you more than anything in the world." you blink away tears, but they spill over anyways, unforgiving. "please...i can't do this anymore with you. i-i can't spend weeks in agony thinking that you're dead. i can't do it, john. i-i can't, i can't spend one more night in that bed without you—"

"oh, love."

you hate that the sex is so good. you hate more than anything that john is anything but a selfish lover. he might be a man with a few years on him, but his stamina endures. he tests your flexibility with the way he spreads your thighs to accommodate the width of himself, but you welcome the stretch. thick cock splitting you open, sweaty chest against yours, a big hand under your head to keep you close as he licks into your mouth and tells you how beautiful his wife looks, just like always.

how good she feels. how wet she is. how tight her pretty pussy is, how nice it'll feel when it's full of him—i'll keep you forever, i'll make it forever, in, in, in, inside you—

john tastes the way fine wine does. bitter, warm, better with time. it takes a bit to get used to him. it takes a bit of breathing and a bit of familiarity to realize what it is that you have in your hands, but you are just as bad.

he cannot let you go, and you cannot let him go. you claw, and you scream, and you beg for a life that's different from this one, but you won't walk away because it's just not possible.

but what is love if not something that mends what is broken? that drips glue into the spaces between the cracks and keeps what will come apart from falling into itself?

your kisses taste like chocolate, of course.

it's john's favorite.

[beebymoonlight]

What if 👀 what if we see when john proposes to the missus (is it too soon 😭) 🤩 they also live in my mind 24/7 you’re 🫵🏻 gonna be drowning in my asks

the key turns in the lock, nice and smooth this time. john oiled it before he left—he wanted this when he came, some sort of reminder that his hand has been here, in this house, so branded into its integrity that even the hinges no longer creak because he's made his nest here. (18+)

when he swings open the door, he doesn't recognize the sight.

you're sitting at the kitchen table with a sour expression on your face. there's a candle lit in the center, only one since the other has melted, so much so the wax is pooled underneath it next to the roast that's long since cold on its serving platter. there's glass of wine in front of you that's nearly empty, and a bottle within reach just as light.

john sucks on teeth a little as he drops his duffel bag by the door. the sound makes you flinch, and when he drops heavily into the seat across from you, he doesn't even react at the velvet box that sits on the table.

instead, he picks up his fork and starts to serve himself.

your eyes flick up to look at him, but he's too busy piling up meat and potatoes onto his plate. he takes off his hat and tosses it onto the table, and you scowl at the sight—you complain over and over again about that filthy fucking hat, and he has the nerve to set it down on the table like he's the one that's been working all day on a roast, molten chocolate lava cake, and tender mashed potatoes.

"you're late," you say. your voice croaks, hitching with your swallowed-down emotion. john takes his gloves off, tossing them beside the hat, and when he starts to undo the latches on his tact vest, you pick up your steak knife and pierce it right through the oak table. "don't you dare put that shit on my table."

"our table."

"oh, now you wanna chime in?"

john runs a few hands over his face. he looks tired. his beard is scruffy, more than usual, and the darkness under his eyes is heavy. his eyes aren't as bright as they normally are around you, and you find the tension in his shoulders to be especially wound. you don't care what he's gone through to get back to this table. maybe he fell out of a helicopter. maybe a bullet whizzed past his head and nearly splattered his brains. you don't fucking care—john price is sitting in front of you and eating the food you made and pretending like everything is just fine.

he laughs. it's humorless, but it angers you anyway. he's condescending; it's in his nature. when you question the way of things, when you try to put your foot down—you would punch him, but he'd ease out of the way, effortless, and it would annoy you greatly. then he'd probably take your wrists and pin them behind your back with one hand, and he'd smile doing it, because he's so much bigger than you, so much stronger. he kills people for less, it takes no effort to stifle the woman that shares his bed. everything is funny to him—everything is cute.

asshole.

"where'd you find tha'?" john asks. he doesn't look at it, but you know what he's talking about. you pick up the velvet box and pop it open. the ring blinds you. it must be at least three carats, a gorgeous thing, surrounded by a halo of smaller diamonds around the band. it glitters, stunning, and if you were a stupider woman, you would've been wearing it already, but you're not.

"i found it when i was going through your shit," you spit at him. you tip your glass back and swallow down the rest of your wine. it goes down hot. "packing it for you."

"we goin' on a trip?"

"you certainly are."

john clicks his tongue and tilts his head to the side. he finally brings his eyes up to meet yours, and he brings a hand up to scratch at his beard.

"not leaving."

you laugh, too, smiling, bitter.

"i wasn't asking, john. but if you don't want your stuff, whatever. i'm sure it'll burn just fine."

john shoves his plate away from him, scooting his chair back. you expect him to get up, to come towards you. you expect him to grip you by the throat and bend you over the table so he can fuck you next to the extravagant meal you've made, but instead he huffs as you hear his belt buckle clink.

"what the fuck are you doing?" you scoff. john hums, grunting low, and then you watch with parted lips as he spits into the palm of his hand and lowers it. it's only a moment before he sighs deeply, a wet slick, slick, slick following the movement of his arm. "are you fucking serious?"

"mmm..." john clenches his jaw. "'s been awhile, love." he cracks his neck as he moves it from side to side, fixing his eyes on you as he moves his arm a little quicker. your lips tremble angrily, but you can't help the way you shift in your seat. your free hand plays with the hem of your skirt, and he rolls his shoulders back, licking his lips. "show me."

"fuck you."

"in a minute, love. show me."

you're shaking with anger. it's hot in your chest, making you buzz, but it doesn't stop your hands. it doesn't stop them from feeling over the collar of your blouse before you carefully undo the top buttons. john relaxes as he watches the fabric fall loose, and he hums knowingly when you drop the blouse and unclasp your bra.

your tits fall with a bounce. you're ashamed at how easy it is, to fall right back into the place you swore you would never go again. john groans, moving his chair back further, and you squeeze your thighs together as you watch his thick hand tug at his rigid cock with more and more of a chaotic rhythm.

"come 'ere."

"no."

"come here," john mutters. he says it in that way—that way you know that he won't ask again. he won't have to.

you stand on doe legs. they wobble, and you use the table as leverage, and when you make it in front of him, john pushes you until you're sitting on the edge of the table, right next to his half-eaten plate and his dirty gear. you flinch as he stands, stepping between your thighs, and you kiss as the tip of him presses against your drooling cunt. your legs rise, knees hooking around his hips, and john licks over his teeth as he keeps stroking himself.

"we've been over this," john growls. "haven't we, sweetheart?"

"i hate you."

"this is mine," john says into your ear. "your cunt. this house. this food—it's mine, and you know tha'. you love puttin' up a bloody brawl, i know tha', love, so i take it, but you won't be rid of me until i'm dead, y'hear tha'?"

"fuck you—"

"ugh—" john hisses. "gonna make me fuckin' come, love—"

john laughs through breathy moans when he feels you're wearing no knickers. sopping, pretty pussy just waiting for him—in his house, with his girl, the one that's about to have his name.

"john—"

his grip on your thighs is bruising as he pushes into you. just the tip, just enough to drive you insane, just in time for him to spill inside of you and fill you with a dizzying amount of cum. hot, sticky, messy—john's never been very good at cleaning up his messes. he seems to like it that way. he seems to like it ruined and overstimulated and begging.

he presses his forehead to yours, grunting as he pushes further inside of you. you'll ruin the wood underneath you being so wet, but john will fix it.

"when are y'gonna learn?" john murmurs. "hmm?"

"john..."

there is no john without you. you could run, but he'd find you. you could change the locks, but it wouldn't stop him from coming home. you could throw all of his things out, burn them, shred them, bury them, but he has no real ties to anything as trivial as things. john is a fixture in the air here. he lives in the wood that makes up the house. he's in your breaths that taste like cigar smoke. he's inside of you, hot, in the bruises that line your collarbone and your thighs and your hips. john is a rigid, immutable hook that is dug so far into your fleshy insides that it would be suicide to remove him from yourself.

he's a weed you cannot rid yourself of. you pick him out by the root, but he always comes back.

he kisses you like that—tits out, cunt drooling, engagement ring tossed aside just out of reach. you think he meant for you to find it. either as a result of your morbid curiosity or your temper tantrums—john probably figured whichever came first would be good enough.

he would never propose to you. you know this.

why the fuck would he ask you about something that's already a given?

in the morning, you're alone with your thoughts, watching the ring sparkle in the early sunlight. your hand is rested on his chest, moving with the gentle rise and fall of his breaths. you turn your hand over and stare at the thing—you aren't someone who's into material things so much. you appreciate them, but something about this new reality of yours makes you stare a little harder at the diamond, question the clarity just a little. you hope it made a huge dent in that wallet of his; you hope he gritted his teeth a little when he handed over his card.

you'll make his bank account weep. you're mrs. john fucking price.

[beebymoonlight]

oh i just knoooow price’s wife shuts him up with her pussy like thrice a day

john price married a man-eater.

the first time he met her, she was punching one of his recruits for calling her a cunt, but he learned quick that that was normal behavior for you.

there is no man safe from you; not the guy standing across from you at the body shop trying to up charge you, not the idiot that let the door slam shut in your face at the office, and definitely not the war-stained military captain that lives inside of your house.

john spends more time on his knees than on his feet. it's your favorite place to put him. if he comes home late? he's on his knees. if he wakes you up with his snoring? that's where he's going, baby. need to get your shoes on? there he is, knelt down in the foyer, slipping your heel on as he scrapes his beard against your thighs.

that's where men look their best. peering up at you, head tilted back, mouth a little open. john especially looks good here. you're seated, perched on the couch, and he's fixing the buckle of your heel around your ankle. you hitch your foot up on his shoulder after, pointed heel against the side of his neck. john's baby blues flick up and meet your gaze, and you smile down at him.

"we'll be late for our reservation," john murmurs. he lifts up his hand, and your lips part as he slides his fingers down your calf to wrap around your ankle delicately. he turns his head to kiss the bone there, and you bite your lip as he stays there, warm breath tickling your skin.

"and?" you purr. he chuckles low, shaking his head, and you take your foot off his shoulder to lean forward. you cup his face, his beard rough in the palms of your hands, and you use your thumb to trace over his lips before hinging his jaw open and sticking it into his mouth. he smiles around your thumb before closing his lips around it to suck, and you tilt your head to the side as you watch him. the lines around his face are softer when he turns his brain off like this--you like him stupid and open-mouthed and hungry.

"open up, captain," you whisper, and when he lets your thumb go, you grip his jaw tight as you let a drop of your saliva fall onto his tongue. the kiss afterwards is wet and hot, tongues sliding over each other as you wrap your arms around his neck and breathe in nothing but john price.

at dinner, you hook your leg over his in the booth, holding onto his tie as he talks to you. there's a woman looking at him from across the restaurant, dark eyes sweeping over the man that your husband is. you let her watch as you tug on john's tie to get him closer, and you let her watch as you press your lips to john's cheek. feigning a kiss there, you lick your own wetness off of him, and when he leans in to kiss you on the mouth, you use your left hand to hold his face and keep him there. your ring always seems to blind bitches into submission.

but when you pull away, there's no one there. in fact, the whole world seems to just be you and john.

imagine that.

[beebymoonlight]

ok wait pause i have a question. first date, but like, real, you are my girlfriend date ? or like how'd they define their relationship (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

he's...fun.

it's just sex. mind-blowing, back-numbing, pussy-destroying sex. this man is pushing 40, and you swear you've never felt so out of breath. you convince yourself it's the military thing--he's used to pushing himself, exerting energy, testing the limits of his stamina. but holy shit, you'd think after round four, this man would take a quick nap or something, but no.

he's still balls-deep, hitting it from the back since you can't even keep yourself upright any longer. your skirt lays haphazardly thrown onto the floor, and oh--there's your panties, too, ripped to lacy shreds.

holy shit, this man is more than ten years older than you, and you've never been so out of your fucking mind--

"tha' the spot, love?" his voice is so condescending. he knows he's got you brainless. there's drool staining your lips, and you paw at the sheets for a better grip, but it's useless.

"y-yes, captain."

the low groan that leaves him makes you smile. he might have the upper hand, but if you really wanted to, you could make him come right now, too fast, too much.

you're in bliss. everything is bliss. you're still recovering from what must be the fifth or sixth orgasm--not as good as the second or third one, but still enough to make you cry fat, pleasured tears. you're shaking, in a good way, sinking to your stomach on the bed and pressing your face into his pillow.

"hmm..." your voice is soft and gooey, and when you take a deep breath, you get a long whiff of him. he smells good. clean. earthy. you tasted cigar smoke in his mouth earlier, and you can smell it here, too. just as you relax, you feel the weight of him on your back, and then his lips. he's kissing along your shoulder to your neck and then up your jaw. you tilt your head to give him room, your eyes shutting as his beard scruffs against your skin and his mouth laps at your chin. "i gotta go, john."

you giggle when he lays his entire body on top of yours, trapping you there. you reach up and grip the back of his neck, whining as he flattens his tongue against your jaw and swirls it there.

"john...i gotta go."

"why?"

"mmm..." you thumb at the hair along his scalp, shaking your head. "don't do this."

"not doing anythin'."

"we don't sleep over."

"what, is tha' some kind of rule? sounds mad."

you turn over a little, looking up at him. you cup his beard in both hands, giving him a chaste kiss.

"don't ruin it," you say softly. "this is supposed to be fun."

he tilts his head to the side. he looks so funny without a hat. you've seen him in a beanie, a boonie hat, a cap, you love them all on him. he looks nice like this, too, though--ass naked with his dog tags dangling against his sweaty pecs.

john's eyes twitch a little at your indifference. he settles on his side, leaning over you, and just as you move to get up, he reaches and grips at your face with a big paw of a hand. you clutch at his forearm, big and solid, and your lips pucker as he pulls you closer to him.

"y'r a bad liar, love," he mutters, shaking his head. "fear doesn't suit you."

"i'm not fucking scared."

"who was it?"

you glare up at him, struggling a bit under him. it's a stupid thing to think that you could get away from him. john is not moveable. he's a big fucking tree trunk of a man, with roots that burrow, and you are truly naïve if you think he'll let you up without an answer.

"shut the fuck up, john," you spit at him, but all he does is raise a brow. he's immune to your bite. he's not phased by your sour attempt at insulting him. in fact, it's what drew him to your bed in the first place--certified brat-tamer, captain john price. "you think you're so fucking smart. think you know everything, just because you've got a few years on me, well let me tell you, john--not everything is a fucking lesson learned. you're a military muppet with a decent cock, and that's all you'll ever be to me."

"tha' right?"

"you'll never put me first. you've got one woman, and that's the job, and that's fucking fine, john, but don't make this something it's not. you're lonely, and old, and your failed relationships don't make you wiser, they make you delusional for thinking that doing this again could ever--"

your breath falters when he kisses you. he squeezes your jaw a little harder, forcing your mouth to open, and you moan, squeezing your thighs together when he licks into your mouth and holds you there for him to play with.

"i do have other obligations. my men, the job..." he brushes the hair out of your eyes, and he presses his forehead to yours when he sees the tremble of your bottom lip and the wet look in your eyes. "but i don't do casual, sweetheart. it's all or nothing f'me."

your hand grips his wrist, squeezing tight, and you blink up at him. he's so close. he's right here. blue eyes, greying beard, a sad expression. he's not afraid of dying alone, but he is afraid of wasting time.

"please don't do this to me, john." your voice cracks, and he shrugs. he's sorry, but he's not sorry enough. not enough to let you go--and you're not strong enough to tell him no. it has to be him, but it won't be.

"it's alright," john whispers, but he knows it won't be. he's known you not but a few weeks, but he's made up his mind. he doesn't understand casual. even from the moment he saw you in that bar, it wasn't fleeting, it was definitive. it would be his. you would be his.

even if you were actually someone else's. even if you were bound to someone else. even if you weren't alone, it was already decided.

john's teeth are stuck here, right here, in the hollow of your throat. his fingers are twisted between the chords of your heart and in the spaces between your ribs. if he lets go, he'll break you apart.

so he's never going to let go.

[beebymoonlight]

I’m sooo curious, how did John and his young wife meet if you have an idea?

I read a young price fic where she was his son’s nanny and now I’m curious if you have lore for them too!!!

-anasdump

they are the most obnoxious group of oxygen-stealers you've ever seen, and they're in fucking uniform.

taking up all the bar counter space. hogging the pool tables. throwing the darts so hard, they nearly took out some poor man's eyes. if they laugh and holler and spill one more fucking speck of beer on your leather purse, you're going to wind it up and smack them up the throats with it.

you approach the bar for a refill. you crane your neck as you look for a spot to grab the bartender's attention, but they're all shoving each other and slamming their hands on the wood and getting in the way. you huff, stepping up to a couple of them.

"hey, you need to move. no one can order if you're just gonna take up the whole counter."

the biggest one turns to look at you head-on. you glare a little, motioning with your hand for them to move, but he just leans back against his elbows. he's got the ugliest army haircut, and he wears his dog tags out in front like it's some kind of medal. you doubt he's ever seen anything outside of whatever stupid base he came off of.

"sure, we'll move. but it'll cost ya."

he looks you up and down, and you purse your lips when you meet his eyes.

"no. move over. i'm asking nicely right now."

"oooo," he laughs a little, nudging his friends with his elbows. they laugh, too. "i'm terrified, love."

you decide to just move them yourself. you shove your way between them, but when someone grabs your arm and tugs you backwards, you don't think. you just swing.

your knuckles connect with that asshole's face, and he cries out as he steps backward into his friends.

"don't fucking touch me!"

"you cunt--"

"oh, you did not just fucking call me that, you stupid, brainless piece of shit--!"

"easy," a low voice says behind you. you're almost glad for the interruption. your fist would falter with another punch you think, already bruising around the knuckles.

he's weathered, this new man. you would smell the military on him from a mile away, but he's older in a way that speaks volumes to you. he has the hands of someone that only knows hard labor, and the lines in his face have been warped not by time, but by decisions. he wears a beanie and a scruffy beard, and by the way the other men shuffle in his presence, he must be someone important.

when he steps in front of you, he blocks the view of wandering eyes. you peek around his arm, and every single one of those idiots has their gaze on the floor, and they stand at attention.

"you're an embarrassment to the crown, you lot," he mutters. "supposed to be examples. supposed to enact...some sense of duty in others, and yet all i see are a line of fucking boys that never learned their manners in primary." he laughs, "i mean...to call a lady a cunt?"

you rub your knuckles gently, looking down.

"i expect all of you to report to lieutenant riley at 0600 tomorrow. and your weekend passes are hereby revoked."

the whole pub is a little more relaxed once they're gone. you take a seat at the bar, and the bartender gives you a solemn smile before going to make you another drink.

"i uh..." you stiffen when you hear him behind you. "i want to apologize on behalf of them. tha's no way to treat someone, especially a woman."

"especially a woman," you laugh a little, shaking your head as you pick up the drink set down in front of you. you take a long sip of it, turning to face him. "i can handle myself, thank you very much."

"i can see tha'." he nods to your hand, which looks a little raw. you hide it under the counter, taking another sip of your drink.

"you know, i think you have a lot of other things to worry about," you snap. "like the band of assholes you apparently are in charge of."

"i'm sorry about them," he says again. "you won't see them here or anywhere close to you ever again. tha' i can promise you."

"you listen here--" you turn in your seat to face him, poking his chest with your finger. you try not to think about how your finger doesn't even budge, hitting a thick, pelted chest that has no give. you glare up into those baby blues. they're so bright--gorgeous. your breaths shake, but you steel yourself. he looks anything but afraid of you, no, he looks amused. "you all bring nothing but shit tracking in those boots of yours."

he sniffs, tilting his head to the side. "not a fan of servicemen, are you?"

you laugh, shaking your head.

"i'd spit on you, but even that's too good for you."

he grins. a full-blown smile, and when he leans into your space, you don't move. your finger on his chest flattens, your entire hand pressing there in the middle of his chest.

"i'm john."

you look him up and down. his pretty eyes, the dated but kept beard, the smile lines, the warm and solidness that sits under your hand. he's a teddy bear under that, but you're not fooled. this man isn't like the others--he's wise. experienced. it means he's trigger-happy, and it means he has blood on his hands.

you give him your name anyway, and he repeats it, low enough and close enough that you feel his breath on your face.

"i need another drink," you say, putting a finger on his lips and pushing him backwards. "and you're gonna buy it for me. buy me a few, actually."

john chuckles, taking his jacket off. he drapes it over the back of your chair, and you try to avert your gaze when you see big, burly biceps and coarse hair. his arm stays there, behind you.

"you understand me, john?" you coo, and he smiles big. he nods.

"yes, ma'am."

[beebymoonlight]

baby mine — ghost x f!reader

when your stupid ex boyfriend kicks you out of the flat, he forgets to give you your cat back. you find the meanest looking guy in the bar to help you get her back.

type: one-shot (3.4k), ao3

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.

"Yeah," Simon takes another sip of his tea. "This'll do."

[peachesofteal]

KEEPSAKE / MASTERLIST

ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au Each part to have their own individual tags and warnings.

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven