John Price X Reader - Blog Posts

Thoughts about Price getting a crush on Laswell's work partner, feeling wrong about it because Laswell is one of his closest friends.

(Gn reader, no Y/N, SFW)

At first, Price seems like a nice guy - overworked military captain trying his best to keep his men and self in line and get their job done. You joined the taskforce with Laswell, her new work partner and friend. A couple times you would meet in the hall, talking a bit, and keep on your way. You were purely professional and it made him feel even worse about his growing crush on you.

He'd try his best to ignore it, tyr to keep himself professional when talking to you. One mission, you were overwatch because Laswell wasn't available in time. You were good at it, gave them the information and called out threats with ease. You had their backs.

That's when Price knew he was in too deep.

He would still try to deny it obviously - he would never betray his friend like that.

For months he harbored this secret, this crush.

One time, you went into the field, and it ended in a fire fight. No one was expecting it to go down, but you all made it out with limited damages.

You had a small wound, a graze from a bullet. Nothing serious.

But Price never left your side, made sure you were on light duty and kept a strict eye on you. He made sure to check the wound himself every day or so. You get to see another side of him, a soft caring side.

And one day, you were reading in his office, and look up at him.

Price was just sitting there, looking at you with this look in his eyes.

"I'm falling in love with you," he blurted, blinking at you.

You smile, soft and sweet. "I'm falling in love with you too."

He nods, goes back to his reports and you go back to you book.

Maybe later, he'll take you to dinner, and you'll talk it though and he'll kiss you goodnight like a proper gentleman.

But at work, you'd just be perfect professionals.

I read all 3 parts and it’s delicious (^‿^✿)

I love your writing, it's so fucking good. you write abt plusize ppl so well I'm jealous- ANYWAYS

can you please write chubby puppygirl who's desperate for simons approval? she already knows price likes her. she's got the man tamed as if he was the pup. but simon??? he's so nonchalant about her that she can't help but go insane trying to get praise from him. whining and yappin at his feet, giving him big puppy eyes, doing whatever he tells her to???

(if you wanna get real nasty, you could write him taking advantage of her. pushing past her limits/making her do embarrassing things)

also congrats again on 500!!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

WAAAA THANK YOU!!!! my biggest inspo for plus size puppygirl reader fr ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ohhhh this is soooo delicioussss bc its so true 0-0

priceghost/plus size puppygirl reader, emphasis on ghost/reader. mdni, simon is a meanie, a little angsty but i'm a cheesy sucker for happy endings and cuddles. there's sex in there, i swear, you just have to be patient WEHGFVWKFHB wordcount: 2.8k 💀

price dotes on you like you're royalty, pouring all his money, time, and affection into you. he loves to pull you onto his lap and let you shower him with kisses. he'll have you rest your head on his thigh while he works so he can pet your hair. he buys you a pretty collar with your name on the front and his name and number on the back, as if you'd ever wander far away enough to get lost—but one name is noticeably absent.

simon is completely nonplussed by you. your pretty whines are met with scoffs, your head nuzzling against his knee earns you a pinch on your poor, sensitive puppy ears. the only time simon really pays you any attention is when price brings the two of you together, too tired to do anything but stroke his own cock and watch ghost ram into you, calling out harsh commands when his boy gets a little too rough with you. even then, when he's bullying you with his cock, tugging your tail to make you whine in pain or smacking any inch of skin he can see to watch it ripple and bounce, you're on you absolute best behavior for him.

you crave his praise more than all the pets and treats in the world, likely because it's been withheld from you for so long. puppies have a constant desire for things they can't have like, and the same is true for puppy hybrids. while real dogs beg for chocolate when it's being eaten, all you can think about around ghost is earning his approval.

ghost, of course, barely notices at first. once he's brought you to price, he considers his mission complete--all he planned to do was bring his captain a special present, and maybe fuck it from time to time. it wasn't until he observed your behavior with the other members of the 141 that he recognized your behavior. you were friendly and playful with gaz and soap, but you never fought for their attention., and with price you never had to fight for anything. no, it was only with him that you begged and pleaded for attention. only then did he become interested.

he starts small with little grunts of approval when you followed an instruction particularly well. he sees how your eyes shone when he didn't push you away as you nuzzled up to his calf, amused that just the barest touch was enough to make you dizzy. what a fun little game it could be, he thought, to see how far you would go to gain his love.

the game began when price flew out for a week for a training seminar, giving lectures to recruits and overseeing their exercises. obviously he couldn't bring you, he'd cooed as he'd wiped the tears from your round face. he would need to focus all his time on the recruits, and he simply couldn't do that with his soft, precious girl around; but don't worry, simon would take good care of you. this is where simon finds his opportunity, with no captain holding his proverbial leash. he insists you stay in his quarters for the time being--there's no use letting you lay in price's bed for the whole week, snuffling at his pillows and crying until he returns. what kind of owner would simon be if he let you do that?

instead, you stay in ghost's quarters, and this is where his fun begins. needy puppies don't sleep on human beds, he condescends on the first night. your look of confusion is met with amusement as ghost produces a big, fluffy dog bed for you to sleep on. you don't want to be ungrateful, do you? and of course you don't! so you curl up in the dog bed, the roundness of your belly and thighs making it difficult to properly tuck you body in to fit, but the words good girl that follow make you beam with delight. you're a little squirmy the next morning when he makes you eat your breakfast on the floor, but all discomfort disappears when ghost strokes your ears while he eats.

when price puts you on your knees, he puts a fluffy pillow under you to stop the pain. simon purposfully chooses a hard surface and spreads his legs wide, slapping his thighs to invite you to worm between them and mouth at his cock. he gets mean about it, forcing it too far too fast and making you gag and tear up, but you keep going like a champ the whole time, desperate to hear his praises.

its only that evening when ghost begins to feel guilty. the way you stumbled and crawled after he forced you to stay on the ground all day made the pain you were in very obvious. his cold heart cracks just a little when he hears you muffle sobs of pain and loneliness into your pillow on the dog bed. it’s worse the next morning when you're sluggish and achey, eyes puffy from tears and lack of sleep. still, you settled on the ground like a good girl, anticipating his command and biting back the little sounds of distress caused by your throbbing muscles. fuck, he did't want to do this anymore.

"up," he commands shortly. you tilt your head, confused, and ghost grunts. "i said up."

you stand slowly, half from your protesting joints and half out of concern that this is some kind of trap. simon sighs, rubbing his hand over his face and feeling the fabric of his balaclava catch on the callouses.

"go on, back to bed. my bed," he clarifies when your lip begins to quiver. he brings in a bowl of cereal for you, exasperated to find you perched gingerly on the very edge of the bed, ready to slide onto the floor at a moments notice. "stay up there, lovie, get comfortable. there you go."

he hands you the bowl and watches your tentative movements as you wriggle your fat thighs around to sit more securely on the bed. your sleep shirt clings to your round belly, making it even more apparent as you begin to eat your cereal. god damn, you really were the prettiest little thing. with your thick thighs and arms, ghost thought you would be a sturdy girl, able to take his cruelty, but looking into your sweet face he knows he had been wrong. you poor little thing, so obedient and fragile. he resolved to be at least a little gentler with you, his new favorite toy. he really ought to make it up to you, coax you back in to him, but ghost doesn't do apologies.

he's always thought actions speak louder than words.

his hand is slow when it creeps to your hair as you eat, his eyes drawn to the way your ears twitch when he scratches at the base of them with dirty fingernails. you drink the milk from the bowl, sweetened by the tooth-rotteningly sugar cereal price indulges you with, and ghost wipes the milk mustache from your upper lip with the rough pad of his thumb. your pink tongue pokes out to lick it obediently off of his fingers, just like you would do with price. god, he wanted to make you cry, those big eyes would look so pretty glassy with tears, but he'd already hurt you enough in the past day.

simon considers your face for a moment. he doesn't really do kisses either, unless price makes him, and even then his favorite place to kiss is the sole of the captain's boot. instead, simon scratches your ears absentmindedly until you nuzzle into his palm. you seem content to lie in his bed all day with his hand in your hair, but frankly, he finds that a boring solution to his self-made problem. instead, he trails his hand down your face and thick neck to where your collarbones are barely bumps under soft fat and skin. he draws circles there for a moment, watching your reactions to his touch with feigned disinterest. he'd never bothered to learn you before, leaving that up to price, but now... well, getting to know his favorite chew toy a little better couldn't hurt.

his hand moves down, cupping one of your tits in his hand. even his big palm didnt cover the whole thing, so big and soft, and that interested him more than the thought of your pretty tears.

"take this off, yeah?" he phrases it as a question, but the way you jump to do as he says makes it seem like gospel. you're even prettier underneath, rolls on your sides and your tummy hanging over the waistband of your sleep shorts, littered with stretch marks that remind simon of his own. your nipples are already pebbling, fuck you're so pretty. he pinches at them more gently than he usually would, trying to mimic what he's seen price do to you. the satisfying little whine you let out tells him he'd probably doing something right, eyes flitting back up to yours. oh, sensitive thing, you're already eager for more, he can see it in your eyes.

he's seen price lavish your tits with his mouth and he's seen how you squirm and preen from it, so he rolls up his mask over his nose and dips down to seal his lips around your swollen nipple. he rubs his tongue against it and when that doesn't elicit the response he wants, he sucks on it with a little more force than necessary. now you let out that lovely little noise, and he feels his cock twitch to life. his mouth waters at the taste of you, sucking and licking your nipple with an almost clinical focus, trying to figure out what you like. his fingers tweak your other nipple and, there, there it is again, that precious little moan. he salivates over the taste of you, his spit dripping down when he bites at your skin, enjoying how you squirm.

"simon, simon" your breathy voice breaks through his focus and his eyes turn up to meet yours. he huffs when all you do is stare at him and squirm, and he pinches your nipple meanly.

"you want something, lovie?" he snips, "you ask."

"please, touch me?" he rolls his eyes. you're so vocal with price. are you really so scared of him?

"words, pet, or i'll leave you like this," he warns. "be specific."

"please, please touch my pussy," you whimper. what a lovely sound. "or let me touch you?"

ghost considers having you suck him off. he's seen you wrap your lips around price's cock and hump his leg until you cum, rutting against his boots like the desperate little pup you are, and he has to admit it’s tempting. he's already hard in his boxers, fuck is he hard, but he reminds himself this is supposed to be for you. instead of responding, he pushes his hand on your plush belly and forces you down on your back, shuffling his way down the bed. he yanks your panties and shorts down and off your legs with little ceremony, forcing your thick thighs wide enough for him to get a look at your pussy. he spreads the folds apart, watching how you glisten.

"please, simon," you whine, rolling your hips forward to try and get his thick fingers inside of you.

"isn't this what you wanted?" he tuts, but relents. he's forced his fingers into you many times, but after a moment more he realizes that he's never put his mouth on you, never licked into your cunt or sucked on your clit. has he ever eaten cunt? not to his memory. shit, maybe he should stick to what he knows--but you look so sweet weeping for him. there's a first time for everything.

he leans down, unsure of where to begin, and licks a long stripe up your cunt. your hips buck into his face and he does it again. you taste good, he decides. he wants more.

ghost buries his tongue in your pussy and you make a delicious noise. he licks in and out, getting more of that tangy sweetness in his mouth and dripping down his chin and fuck he loves it, no wonder price spends so long with your thighs pressed tight around his head. you clench around his tongue and he groans. soft and wet and sweet, he could stay here forever. only the dissatisfied whines from your lips tear him away for a moment realizing he's been neglecting your poor, throbbing clit. how mean of him. he scrapes his teeth across it just to hear you cry out before pulling it into his mouth, forcing his tongue under the hood to rub the nerves hard enough to make you weak. he grinds his own hips into the bed, his cock so hard in his pants that he considers pulling away entirely to shove it inside you--but all thoughts of forcing his cock in your pussy fly away when he feels you gush out more of that sweetness he wants.

simon sinks back down, slurping pornographically against the folds of your cunt. the fabric of the balaclava, still rucked up over his nose, grinds against your clit.

"simon, simon, si," you babble his name and he finds that he enjoys sound of that too.

"i know, lovie, i know," he grunts, muffled into your cunt. he could go on like this for a while for his own pleasure, and maybe one time he will, but right now this is for you, so he pulls his tongue reluctantly out of your cunt and goes back to licking your throbbing clit, hard and swollen under his touch. his thick fingers find their way to your weeping entrance, working in slow enough to make your head fall back in a noise of anguish. he pumps them in and out faster, luxuriating in the wet sound. in and out, in and out, and soon you're chanting for him. his name, his callsign, babbled sounds that barely sound like words at all, and he devours each noise with the same enthusiasm that he eats you out with. your thighs tighten around his head, squishing tight over his ears and he begrudges the slight loss of those precious noises. oh well, he'll just have to make you scream.

his fingers move faster, so long and thick that he manages to find that spot inside you that makes you sob above him, panting and squirming like you're unsure if you want to get away or drive yourself closer. ghost doesn't care--if you tried to pull back right now he'd just drag you back. you're close, he can tell, so close he imagines he can taste the change on his tongue. he wants to pull back and encourage you to come with his words, but he just can't seem to pull away from your clit, sucking and sucking and sucking and--

you do scream for him, loud and trembling and gushing over his fingers oh-so-sweetly, and simon feels his boxers fill with warmth. christ, he came in his fucking boxers from eating your pretty cunt, he'd have to make this a habit--maybe with price fucking into him from behind, wouldn't that be something? he sits up, panting and licking the wetness off of his mouth, finally seeing the limpness of your body and that deliciously fucked-out look on your face. he pats your thigh.

"need a nap, hm?" he suggests, though you seem like you're not quite back to coherence yet. what would price do right now, he considers. food and water and a warm washcloth come to his mind, though price usually has those prepped and on hand. still, he's pretty sure he could scrounge up a water bottle and some fruit for you. he slides off of the bed, surprised to hear a distressed whimper when he does.

you're holding out your weak arms to him, lip trembling. he stares at you, confused. the fuck are you asking for? cuddles?

oh. right.

ghost considers for a moment. cuddles are on the list of things he doesn't do, right up there with kisses and apologies, but you look vulnerable and warm and so, so soft. naked in his bed, eyes wide, begging to be held, he can't deny you, can he?

he sighs and slides back in with you, grunting when you press your face to his chest in delight.

"gonna be fuckin' gross when you wake up," he grumbles, thinking about the stickiness between your thighs and in his boxers, but wraps his arms around you nonetheless. your ears twitch and under the blankets he can hear your tail thump, eyes closing right away. you're just as soft and warm as you looked.

he's fucked.

My man love him some cuddles ✧｡٩(ˊᗜˋ )و✧*｡

Price that instead of settling into your open arms as you lay on the sofa expectantly, waiting for him to join you for a cuddle session, he lowers himself, spreads your legs wider and just falls face down in between them. He hums to himself, groans as he settles, knowing damn well this position is bad for his back, stomach down and all, but his face burried in your clothed cunt, just resting, brought him a peace that was worth the back pain.

The first few times he did so, you were absolutely baffled to say the least, and so incredibly embarrassed. He'd shush you, grabbing your protesting hand that tried to swat him away and lead it to his hair. You're on scratching duty or something, followed by a Be a good girl and let me rest.

With his arms under your thighs and ass cheeks, curling to hug your legs, at times to play with your tummy, he'd lower one of your legs so he could properly watch the television, thumb caressing your stretch marks absent-mindedly.

His beard would scratch against your inner thighs, he'd rub his cheek on your cunt with no issue. He's just getting comfortable, angel, now less squirming, hmm?

Don't get me started with the amount of times he just fell asleep almost smoldering himself into your thighs, arms hugging you tight, face burried deep onto your essence. He'd snore, sigh happily, stretch, subconsciously bury his nose deeper to take a good breath in, a deep hum of appreciation, then go right back to snoring. Sometimes he'd grumble something too, a barked order, a frown, a shiver, telling you it was a full power-nap too, not just his usual "resting his eyes". In those moments, a light scratch on his scalp and he's back to being a snoring log again.

And when he wakes up and he's hungry? He has his favorite meal right there.

\(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/ stuck with me forever XD

Hi! I absolutely love your writing and I've been stalking your page for a while now and I'm really surprised no one requested that one old tik tok trends of S/Os grabbing thier partners feet from under the bed.

PLEASE I NEED TO KNOW THE COD MEN REACTION 😭😭😭😭😭

The way I cackled over this. I love a good prank, especially when there is nothing malicious or nasty behind it. Thank you so much for sending this in!! I had a freaking blast with this. Also, genuinely startled/surprised 141 is just a hilarious concept to me. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, hijinks & shenanigans, pranks, established relationship

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

It’s unfair to do this to John, but he makes it so easy. He falls for every one of your pranks. Speedwalks right into them.

And this one is no exception.

You’ve smushed yourself underneath the bed. It’s possible you won’t be able to get out. But that’s a problem for later. Right now, you’re about to scare John.

“I’m home,” he calls out.

You remain quiet. Distantly, you hear the front door shut, and John’s heavy footfalls.

“Dove. I’m home.”

Still, you remain silent.

John calls your name this time. You do not respond.

“Cabbage?”

This time, you almost snort. John doesn’t call you cabbage unless he’s being sincere.

John appears in the doorway, pausing just outside. He takes one step, and then another. He’s just out of reach, booted feet near but not close enough.

“Car’s out front.”

Another step.

You grin, and grab at his ankles.

“What in the bloody—”

John stumbles back, nearly trips, and then rights himself. You cackle, and John sighs. Wiggling closer to the edge of the bed, you bring your face into the light.

“Welcome home,” you grin.

John shakes his head. “I’m not helping you get out from under there.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

You silently chuckle to yourself, rubbing your hands together like some comic book villain. Johnny is just off the game with Simon, walking around the house looking for you.

“Darling,” he calls out, that Scottish lilt making the pet name even sweeter.

You stay hidden, watching him pass the bedroom not once but twice.

Even from your hiding spot, you can hear him muttering to himself as he searches room to room.

His feet and ankles appear, pausing just inside the doorway before heading straight to the bathroom. He checks there, and then the closet.

As Johnny passes by the bed to leave, you take a swipe at his feet.

“Oi!” he shouts, spinning around.

You wait a beat. He takes a step. Pauses. When he attempts to leave again, you make another pass.

This time Johnny yells, rushing for the door, returning seconds later. Moving to his hands and knees, Johnny looks under the bed—but only at a safe distance.

“You,” he says, smirking. He starts crawling toward you.

“Johnny,” you warn, but it’s too late. He’s reaching under the bed, wrestling you out from under it, peppering you with sloppy kisses that leave smears of salvia behind.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon is fresh up from a nap. He has no idea you’re currently hiding under the bed. But you’ve taken his phone, placed it on the bed as bait, making calls on it to herd him toward your hiding spot.

Simon appears, stopping directly beside the side of the bed. Slowly, you reach out, and then manically flail about, grabbing at his sock-covered feet.

You expect that your actions might surprise him. He might even make a sound, or even swear. What you didn’t expect is to hear your unshakably dreary husband let out a shriek like that of a startled old woman. Pulling your hand back, you cover your mouth, stifling a snort.

“Bloody hell!” he shouts, taking a few steps back.

He pauses a moment, and then gets down onto his knees before flattening himself across the floor.

“Come here,” says Simon, voice eerily calm.

Oh. Oh no.

“I’d rather not,” you reply, knowing that Simon is already brewing up a punishment.

“Come out, love.”

You scoot further away. “Your tone is too neutral, Simon.”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Is it?”

“I’m calm.”

You’re nearly out the other end.

“I’ll chase you,” he smirks.

You make a run for it.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“I’m in here, Kyle,” you call out as you slide yourself beneath the bed.

You wiggle around until you’re hidden, waiting for him to follow your voice. You hear his footfalls before he appears.

“I thought we—” He comes to a stop just inside the door. “Babe?” A pause, and then he says your name. Then, softly, “where are you hiding?”

As he steps into the room, and heads for the bathroom, his feet pass by your hiding spot. This is your only opportunity before he figures out that you’re beneath the bed.

You reach out, just brushing your fingertips against him, then retreat.

“Fucking hell!” he shouts, stumbling backward.

You do it again, and this time he growls your name. Taking a step back, Kyle drops onto his stomach, gaze narrowed as it focuses on you.

“Really?” he asks, deadpan.

“I found it hilarious,” you reply.

Kyle sighs and shakes his head. “Move over.”

“What?”

Shoving himself underneath, Kyle drags himself across the floor until you’re shoulder to shoulder under the bed.

“Bloody filthy down here,” observes Kyle. “Needs a good dusting.” He winks. “Got a spider in your hair, love.”

“I regret this so much,” you whisper.

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We should move in together (≧◡≦)

CW: 18+ MDNI, neighbour!price x reader - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

You find out John Price doesn’t play around when it comes to catching up on sleep while he’s on leave.

Struggling to bring in a heavy package one morning, you’re startled by your neighbour emerging from his unit huffing and puffing tiredly about noise in nothing but a simple pair of low hanging pyjama bottoms.

You’re concerned you’re going to get an earful when he wordlessly hoists the box up, uncaring about the way it tugs at his waistband to expose a dusting of hair and noticeable veins. Leaving your delivery just inside your door, he turns to look at you through squinted eyes, and your cheeks heat up when you realize you’ve been caught watching it bob under the loose fabric.

In your defence, he cuts quite the hypnotic figure from the side.

“Thank you, John-“ you try- only to be interrupted by a thick arm hooking around your neck; the other reaching behind him to close your door with just a tad too much force. His free hand lowers to scratch at his belly, prompting a loud yawn as a thick palm dips lower, giving himself a little squeeze. With a content hum rolling around in his chest, he pulls you into his apartment.

“Too early.” He grumbles as he flops onto his well-worn couch, half asleep and tugging you with him. Like a strangler fig, he rolls onto his side and cages you against the cushions, his legs tangling around yours and his cock unmistakably fattening against your belly.

Feels nice to be chubby today (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ(๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ(๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ(๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

(you and john price, your bear of a man, spend a winter day together. Chubby!reader)

The snow piled high against the cabin windows, muting the world outside into soft, endless white. It was the kind of winter storm that promised days of quiet seclusion- a chance to disappear from the world and pretend it was just the two of you.

Wrapped in a thick quilt, you lay curled against John’s furry chest, your body pressed so close to his that you could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. He was impossibly warm, his body heat wrapping around you like a living furnace, and his scent- smoke, pine, and something uniquely him- made you feel so safe and content.

His large hand rested on your hip, fingers splayed wide as if to remind himself of just how much of you there was to hold. He traced idle circles through the soft fabric of your sleepwear, but the barrier did little to dull the sensation of his rough fingertips against you.

“You’re so soft.” He murmured, voice low and honeyed with sleep. He shifted slightly, pressing his nose into your hair to breathe you in. His beard scraped lightly against your skin, and you shivered despite the warmth.

“Too soft, some would say.” You mumbled, though your voice was half-hearted.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes catching the firelight as they roamed over your features- lazy and reverent, like he had all the time in the world to admire you, admire every inch of soft, supple flesh.

“There’s no such thing,” he said firmly, his voice like gravel but softened by the affection in his tone. “Not for me.”

His hand moved again, trailing from your hip to your waist, then higher, brushing over the curve of your belly. He lingered there, his palm flattening against the plushness as his thumb stroked gently.

“Love this,” he murmured, grumbling, almost to himself. “Every inch of you- soft, warm. Like you were made just for me.”

Your breath caught, and you squirmed slightly under his touch, but his grip tightened- not enough to hold you still, just enough to let you know he wasn’t letting go.

“John-”

“Let me look at you,” he interrupted gently, pulling back more so he could take you in. The blanket shifted as he guided you onto your back, his body following so that he loomed over you, one arm propping himself up while the other continued its slow exploration of your curves.

His gaze dragged over you, lingering at the soft swell of your stomach and the plushness of your thighs. He made no attempt to hide his admiration- his eyes darkened, his lips parting slightly like he couldn’t quite find the words to describe how much he loved what he saw.

“You’re perfect,” he said finally, thick with conviction. He leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the curve of your collarbone before nuzzling into your neck, the soft skin of your chin. “So damn perfect, love.”

Your heart fluttered, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from him. It wasn’t just lust in his eyes- though there was plenty of that, too. It was adoration, raw and unfiltered, as if he couldn’t believe you were real and with him.

He trailed kisses down your shoulder, his beard scratching lightly against your skin, but his hand never stopped moving- palming your waist, gripping your hip, sliding down to cup the curve of your thigh. Every touch felt reverent, like he was memorizing you all over again.

“Always thought I’d end up alone,” he murmured, his voice low and rough as his lips brushed your ear. “Never thought I’d be this lucky, having such a sweet, soft lady waiting for me at home.”

“John-”

“Shh,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your lips to quiet you. “Let me show you.”

And he did. He pressed gentle kisses to your cheeks, your chin, your jaw. He worshiped you with his hands, tracing every soft curve and plush line like he was afraid you might slip away if he stopped.

Eventually, he settled back against the pillows, pulling you with him so you could curl into his side once more. He tucked you close, burying his face in your hair, and the rumble in his chest was unmistakable this time- a low, contented sound that almost made you laugh.

“I knew it,” you teased, your voice muffled against his chest. “You can purr.”

His chest vibrated again, but this time with laughter. “Only for you.” He admitted, tightening his arms around you.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, but inside, the world was warm and quiet. Wrapped in John’s arms, with his steady heartbeat in your ear and his hands never straying far from your soft, warm body, you couldn’t imagine anywhere else you’d rather be.

Make him my husband and baby daddy ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡

This is part two of ex - boyfriend´s dad John Price x reader

TW: age gap (John is in his late 40s and reader is in her early 20s), reader is in relationship with her ex-boyfriend´s dad, breeding, unprotected sex, reader is a female

Part one

John made it very clear from the biggening that he will not hide the fact that you were sleeping together. After the night you spend together at the party, he drove you home, and asked for your number. You didn’t think that he will actually call or text you. But when you walked the stairs to your apartment, you already had a message from him, that said text me when you get to your flat, so I know you’re okay.  You texted for a while and when he promised you, that he is looking for more than just some random one-night stand, you knew what you had to do.

The next morning when you woke up, you immediately texted your boyfriend telling him that you need to speak with him. After he told you that his schedule for this week was full (it was Tuesday) you knew you were making the right decision. You wanted to finish the relationship face to face, you were not a coward, and you were not afraid to break that boy’s heart. But he left you no choice. So, you just replied that he doesn’t have to bother, that you’re breaking up with him. He didn’t respond.

John’s situation was a little bit more complicated, he couldn’t just divorce his wife, yes, they signed a prenup when they got married (John was already rich), but the process of the whole divorce was time consuming and exhausting. He knew that his wife would not cooperate. But he was not a young foolish boy, who would hide his girlfriend. If he wanted to have a relationship with you, he would. John knew that his wife also had affairs, and he didn’t feel obligated to let her know about you.

So, when after some time of you hooking up, he invited you to his house for a weekend you agreed. You expected to be just with him, and you were quite excited. What you didn’t expect was when your now ex-boyfriend opened the door, asking if you came to see him. Of course, he ignored your messages, and he thought that you were still dating.

That’s how John finds you. Talking with his son, panic in your eyes realising that his whole family is home. But John doesn’t mind. He comes to you, with one hand he squeezes your ass and with the other one he holds your neck, and he kisses you, deeply and passionately. He needs to show his son, that you are his know, that he had his shot, and he fucked it up. When your ex starts to shout at you, for being a whore and sleeping with his dad, John just calmly says to him that this is his house, and if he doesn’t like what he sees, he can leave.

John’s wife reaction is pretty much the same. She tells you that John had many women over the time of their marriage, and none of them lasted longer than a few weeks. She tells you that John is maybe fucking you right now but she is still his wife. When John tells her that he is actively working with his lawyer on changing that she has a full meltdown and leaves.

When you are finally alone with John he apologizes to you. He says how sorry he is that you had to hear these things, but he wants you here now and he can’t wait any longer. He tells you sweet nothing and he kisses your neck repeating how good you are for him and how he is so grateful that he met you. When he starts to slowly touch you, creasing your breasts through your bra and gently biting your neck, you tell him that you can’t have sex with him when you know that his son, your ex, is here.

But that doesn’t stop him, he tells you that he wants to show him how good he can make you feel. In some twisted way you start to think about this as your revenge against your ex. John is right, if he doesn’t want to hear you fucking, he can leave. So, you tell John that he can continue. John bends you against the kitchen table, not waiting any longer and he starts to pull down your panties.

He tells you how long he’s been imagining fucking you here, rough and dirty and how hard it makes him. John wants to come inside you again and again. He pushes his dick into you fast, in one swift motion and you can feel him stretching you. Even though you slept with John more times that you can actually count, it is still a stretch for you. He starts to fuck you hard, and you can fell his dick bruising your cervix. When he pulls up your shirt and starts to play with your nipples you’re moans get louder. You tried to be quieter, but John knows how to make you sing for him. When you hear sounds on the upper floor you just hope that John’s son won’t come down. It is one thing to let him hear you and the other to let him actually see how his dad fucks you.

One of Johns hands slip between your tights, and he starts to rub your clit telling you to come on his cock now. You cum at the same time as John, his load spilling inside of you and your pussy milking him. After he pulls his cock out, he pulls up your panties, he gives you a smack on your ass, and he asks you if you want a tour of his home.

Then he fucks you in the shower you take together. He presses you against the glass, pounding into you like a horny teenager who can´t stop thinking about sex. Your next round is in his bed, late at night when he makes you ride him until your legs hurt. When you wake up the next morning John is already between your legs sucking and licking your clit, telling you how pretty your moans sound when you are asleep. Then, when you’re making breakfast, he asks you to return the favour, so you end up on your knees sucking his cock until he cums in your mouth.

By the end of the weekend John’s son is gone, he moves in with his friend and you’re in the house alone. Now John can fuck you whenever and wherever he wants. You do it the hot tub, in the garden and on the balcony. Every night you go to sleep with Johns cum in your pussy and you start to get worried. You take your birth control pills every day, but you’re not sure if they will work with this amount of fucking. You just hope and pray that you will not end up pregnant with John’s child, even though that is exactly what he wants. After all he needs to find a new wife and you’re the perfect candidate.

Masterlist

I someone to put me in my place ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡

How would the boys react to you having bratty attitude sorry if u have done this before

Technically, I did have someone send in something similar (which y'all can read HERE) but there is a distinct difference between the asks. But also, whenever any of y'all leave the prompt a bit open-ended, I will always allow myself to ignore my self-control and just go for unhinged spice. So, yes. Attitudes are dealt with...enjoy!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: bratting, forced orgasm, orgasm denial, dom/sub dynamics, swearing, punishment, sex toys, overstimulation, collaring

Word Count: 1.3k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Please, John. No more. I can’t.”

Your body trembles, wanting release but not receiving it. John moves the vibrator up and down your pussy, purposefully avoiding your clit or penetrating you with it. Somehow, you are overstimulated and yet entirely unsatisfied.

It was just a bit of bratting—a bit of fun. Goddamn him for making you regret it.

“Told you what the punishment would be. I was very clear, love,” murmurs John. He teasingly brings the vibrator up to your clit, allowing it to stimulate those nerves for a few seconds of perfect bliss before turning it off.

You whimper, hips bucking, wanting more. John tuts and taps the vibrator against your lips. It’s sticky with your slickness, and you obediently open your mouth. He slides it inside just enough to not choke you, but enough for you to clean some of yourself off of it.

Dipping his head, John lightly grazes your nipple with his teeth. It sends a sharp pang through you, only adding to the unfulfilled desire. Removing the vibrator from your mouth, he clicks it back on, running it up and down your body.

“I listed every possible punishment. We agreed that I would choose. And this is what I’ve chosen,” he says calmly, bringing it down to your pussy again.

“I hate it,” you moan, trying to angle your hips enough so that the device might make contact.

“Use your safe word if you have to, love.”

You keep your mouth shut.

John smiles against your skin. “Thought so.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Feel good?” You nod. “Not too tight?” asks Kyle.

“It’s fine.”

He tilts his head, lips slightly pursed. “Let’s try it out.”

“Try it out?”

The collar buzzes, vibrating against your skin. “Jesus fucking Christ. What was that?”

“Did it hurt?”

“No,” you reply, confused. “Just—weird.”

Kyle grins. “Perfect.”

“Perfect? What is this?”

“Your punishment,” responds Kyle.

“My—oh.”

Oh, yes. The bratting from yesterday. The attitude and pushback you flaunted around all day because it felt good and you thought you could get away with.

Kyle drops onto the sofa and lightly taps the cushion next to him. You obediently sit, the fabric scratching against your bare ass. Now you understand why you’re naked.

“For the rest of the day, you have to get my permission to do anything.”

“Do I have permission to talk?”

“Only if it’s to ask me for something.”

You roll your eyes. “What about breathing?”

“This is what I’m talking about,” says Kyle. “That attitude.”

He’s right. This is the exact thing that has you in trouble with him in the first place. But if you’re going to be stuck like this on the sofa, you need something to drink.

Swallowing down your pride, you glance at Kyle. “May I please go to the kitchen?”

Kyle nods. “You may.”

You stand, and the buzzer in the collar goes off. Instinct as you turning to tell him off but Kyle is already talking. “Didn’t give you permission to stand.”

This fucking asshole.

“May I please—”

Buzz.

“Kyle—”

Buzz.

“What the fuck!”

“You’re still standing,” he says calmly.

You throw yourself back down onto the couch and, with a hint of a growl, say, “May I please stand?”

Kyle licks his lips. “Course you can, love.”

“Thank you,” you mutter, standing.

You make it three steps before the buzzer goes off again. Halting, you turn, and Kyle makes a gesture with his arms like he’s walking. You’re going to murder him after this.

“Do I have your permission to walk to the kitchen?”

Kyle grins, and nods.

Two minutes in and you’re already losing your mind.

You don’t walk to the kitchen. You stomp.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny taps his phone screen with his thumb. The clitoral suction stimulator toy starts up again immediately. Every muscle within you viscerally reacts. The sharp clench causes your body to jerk in Johnny’s arms, but there is nowhere to go.

His thick, muscled arms keep you pinned against him and the bed. Your legs are spread wide, open to the bedroom, his knees forcing them apart. Between your legs is the suction toy, vibrating away, pulsing little bursts of air outward that feel like Johnny has his mouth on your clit and not a device. Johnny’s cock sits inside you to the hilt. He does not fuck you. His hips remain still as yours flex and rock, wanting to escape from the overstimulation but hardly moving at all.

“Thought I’d reward you for being a brat?” he murmurs against your ear.

Johnny taps the phone screen again and the toy’s suction shifts to a different rhythm. Your pussy clenches down on his cock and Johnny grunts.

You have no idea how many orgasms you’ve had. Johnny keeps forcing them out of you, one after the other. Sweat drenches your brow and the back of your neck.

“Please,” you whimper.

“Please, what?” prompts Johnny, adjusting the toy slightly.

The orgasm is ripped from you. It’s almost violent the way you cry out, fingers digging into his thigh and the bedsheets.

Another tap and the toy clicks off.

“Love,” he whispers, lightly rocking his hips, cock sliding in and out of you languidly. “You didn’t answer me.”

Just as you open your mouth to answer, Johnny taps the screen again. The stimulator turns on and your mind bends backwards, falling into a whirlwind of lust.

All you did was give him a bit of attitude—a bit of bratty banter. You expected Johnny to spank you or even bend you over the nearest surface and fuck your brains out. But this?

This is punishment.

“Guess I’ll keep going, love,” muses Johnny, clearly enjoying this. “Until you find your words.” He lowers his voice. “You had plenty to say earlier.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

A punishment is brewing. You feel it like an innate instinct. Simon’s been simmering all day, bubbling like a witch’s cauldron. Whenever he gets like this, you know when you walk through the door, he’ll be on you, deliciously torturing you until you’re completely spent.

Sometimes it’s good to be bratty—to push back against the things he tells you to do even if they are good for you.

Did you eat breakfast this morning?

Drink some water.

Do the chores you’re supposed to do.

Complete those errands.

You’re independent. You’re an adult. But having Simon tell you what needs done just to do the opposite is a euphoric rush. Bratting is just a game. A bit of fun. There are really no stakes here, just an outlet for your attitude and a need to be playful.

“You’re late,” says Simon, checking his watch as you walk through the door. “You were supposed to be home an hour ago.”

“The time got away from me,” you shrug, depositing your purse and keys on the sofa and not in the designated spot near the front door.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest, observing you quietly for a few seconds before speaking. “Have something for you.” You eagerly follow him into the kitchen. “Sit,” he says, pointing to the kitchen table.

You drop into it, knowing that you’re about to get exactly what you want. Simon disappears for a full minute before returning. He sets a piece of lined paper down in front of you. You glance up at him, confused.

“What’s this?”

Instead of answering your question verbally, he places a pencil on top of it.

“Simon,” you probe.

“I want you to write ‘I will do as my dom says’ over and over until you fill up every line.”

You balk, as Simon takes a step back. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s perfectly fair,” shrugs Simon. “Think I was going to spank you? This is punishment. Do as your told and maybe I’ll give you a treat.”

“Simon,” you protest, watching him go. “Simon!”

He simply waves. “Don’t make me get the handcuffs.”

“Fucker,” you mutter, picking up the pencil.

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Delicious right here \(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡

Just wanted to say I LOVE your work! Especially with the inclusion of a black reader/character 😭🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

This is a personal lil thought of mine, BUT

John Price wouldn’t say he was dating a black woman, but there would be signs. Even though his style would be fine beforehand, He’d be dressing nicer, his hair and beard would always be well groomed and overall put together.

I think Gaz would be the first to peep something different from his Captain cuz he recognizes the work of his own people lol

And you're right because suddenly this man's beard is lined up too nicely and that damn hat is gone. Check it below the cut love.

Rating: gen audience

It all started a few months ago with a simple, "Hey Captain?" Johnny says, "Nice cologne, the hens in the media bay can't stop talking about it."

Price only shrugged, not really paying attention, "Just trying something new."

Kyle agrees, it's new, and he thinks it fits his Captain nicely.

Then, things escalate from that one-off comment.

Kyle is perplexed. Confused. Genuinely thrown for a loop because why is his Captain sporting a tapered fade that connects tastefully to his beard? With the side burns fading into the connect?

Kyle just shruggs it off as someone at his boss' super cuts trying and talking him into something new.

Only the new hair style stays and there are plenty of women and men staring at him with lust filled eyes.

The next thing Kyle noticed was the glittering shine of a simple gold chain around John's neck. It's thin, and within regulations, the clasps are too small for his co's large hands to actually put on. Kyle peeps the little gold cross that's just dangling there when he leans over the desk to point out things in their mission dockets. Hm when did he find religion? It's not really his business.

Okay what the actual fuck? Kyle is wondering where John heard the phrase "Do I look like Boo Boo the fool" to be able to understand that he needs to not answer that question with anything other than "no ma'am". They are working with another task force that's headed by an older black woman who's a force to be reckoned with. But that's beside the point because, since when did he learn that and whom did he learn it from?

John Price isn't one to actually keep up with eating lunch at work. Kyle remembers having to drag and threaten and get Simon and Soap to help him get their leader to at least try and eat lunch and not work through it. Nowadays? This man brings in lunch, and it's not what you expect. What Kyle is expecting, well...he's not really sure what he is expecting, but seeing this man eat a fried plantain sends him.

It all comes to a head when the four of them are leaving a debrief. They are shipping out at the start of next week. Set to be gone for like maybe a few months. Johnny is begging asking for them all to go out for lunch and Price only raises an eyebrow.

"Can't today Soap." Price says as they exit the office building. His eyes scan the parking lot, and a smile breaks onto his face at the sight of a shiny black car. "I've got plans."

Now Kyle knows how to put two and two together to get four. He's had his suspicions, but the reality of John Price even dating never crosses his mind. He really thought it was just the effects of him and Soap teasing him for being an out of touch old man. But no...he crosses the parking lot and opens the car door to help out a gorgeous brown beauty. There's no telling how old she could be because Kyle knows black doesn't crack (he's often called baby face...its why he refuses to shave off the little facial hair he has). Johnny is shocked and Simon just grunts out a small "huh?" as they watch their captain help his girl into the passenger side of the car.

"In hindsight." Kyle smiles and says as they watch the car pull off, "That new cologne he started wearing months ago should have let us know far before the tapered fade."

This right here delicious and best believe I’m coming back for more ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡

🤍𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐞𝐬🤍

info: john price x female reader | inspired by 🎧daddy issues / the neighborhood🎧

category: angst, fluff

warnings: negative self talk, dd/lg themes, petnames (sweetheart & doll), lmk if i missed any.

a/n: excited to finally post something of substance on here, i have a million ideas i'm gonna try to write over holiday break.

You let your head fall to the steering wheel, huge, ugly sobs wracking your body. Your chest coiled in pain, constricting around the giant, empty hole of nothing, where something should be. Where you needed something to be. Or someone. 

You felt disgusting as you blew your nose once more, adding the rough napkin to a pile of its snot-covered brethren littering the passenger floorboard. You’d been trying not to cry for an hour, all to no avail. 

Rolling down the window, gasping for fresh air, something, anything…

The sky, dark and cold, offered no comfort, the moon and stars, no light, and the breeze gave only a bitter chill. You needed to not be alone tonight. You couldn’t be alone tonight. Dear god, I’m so tired of being alone…

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Three ti-

“Evenin’.”

“John-” you choked out, tears streaming at the sound of his voice. “John, it hurts.”

“Darlin’, what-”

“Can I come see you?” A pause. “Please.”

“Come on,” he said quietly. “I’ll leave a light on for ya’.”

You threw the car into park, yanked your keys out, and slammed the door. You weren’t gonna make it. He lived on the ground floor, no stairs, that was good. Your head felt like it would float away if it weren’t for the pounding ache. You slumped against his door and knocked as loudly as you could.

A moment passed, and you wondered if the light had already been on for someone else. You ruin everything.

Footsteps. Bolt sliding out of place. Move. You gathered your weight and stood, lip trembling, in front of John Price. 

He wore a simple tee, worn with age, and faded track pants. Nothing fancy. You couldn’t look him in the eyes.

He made a soft vocalization and beckoned you inside. You stepped in quickly, skirting past him, afraid to get him contaminated. He closed the door behind you, locking it with surety, and turned to you with a tilt of his head. “What happened, doll?”

That did it. You crashed into his chest, crying nigh uncontrollably, hands gripping his shirt, hair a mess. 

John let out a small uff and it took him a moment before his arms very gently crossed behind your back. You didn’t care. 

“It fucking hurts, and I hate it, I hate this shit, I just want it to go the fuck AWAY!” you wept into him, tugging at the fabric he wore, hoping the clench of your palm would take away the clench of your heart. 

He sighed. In an instant, his arms had slipped down and around, scooping you off the floor and letting you curl into his torso as he walked to his room. 

“No, John, no, I’ll fuck up the bed, I can’t stop cr-”

“Hush,” he grumbled. His voice sounded thick but you didn’t have the capacity to wonder why. “Y’can’t stand right now. I’ll worry about the bed.”

He nudged the door open with his foot and you did your best to bury your entire head into his shoulder. Something, anything to take it away, to go to sleep, and feel nothing for a while…

John set you down and the mattress cradled your body. His bed smelled like him. Everything smelled like John. He lifted you up by the back and slid a few pillows underneath you, handing you a box of tissues from the nightstand. “Easy, now.” John stepped to the door, but you audibly cried. 

“Please don’t…please don’t leave.”

His eyes rested on you for a long beat, softening by the second. He stepped back to the bed and cupped your tear-damp face in his hand. “Okay,” John said, tucking your head into his stomach. “I won’t leave.” 

Those words set you off again, and your body shook from the weight of the heaviness on your shoulders. “I can’t keep living like this, John, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-”

“I know,” he murmured as he began to stroke the back of your head, “I know.” Still keeping you tucked into him, John moved over your body and sat next to you, his back against the headboard. “Come here, doll.”

Sniffling, you scooted closer to him and pressed your head into his chest. His arms wrapped you once more, and he touched his rough lips gently to your skin. “I’m here. ‘M not goin’ anywhere.”

Your head pounded again, in cadence with your heart, your breathing, your chest, your pain, your everything, and it was all too much-

“Please make it stop, I can’t do it anymore, John, please, please!” you begged, nails carving moons into your palms. 

“Gotta breathe, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Gotta breathe.” John took your wrists in his hands and lifted them above your head, brows creasing at the way your torso still tried to cave on itself, like the implosion of a star. “In…all the way…atta girl, out…easy, now…in…out…there y’go, in…out….” You gradually came down from the high, hiccuping less and seeing more clearly. John sighed again. “Come on, you.”

“Where?” you said, voice cracking. 

“Shower. Warm water’ll do y’good.”

You nodded numbly and held onto his index finger as he stepped around the bed to the bathroom, afraid that he would vanish into the dark. He clicked the lightswitch, and a soft, warm glow illuminated the cool tile room. “Up y’get,” he grumbled, taking you by the waist and planting you straight onto the counter. John leaned into the shower and turned the water on, letting it run over his hands. You let your foot dangle on his leg. You didn’t want to stop touching him. Ever. 

“John?” 

He stood, flicking the water from his fingertips, and motioned for you to lift your arms up. He began to peel your shirt off your body with heartbreaking gentleness. 

“Yes, doll.”

“I’m sorry,” you said through tee-shirt cotton, pulling your arms out of the entanglement.

“Don’t be.” John lifted you from the counter and crouched, unbuttoning your jeans. 

“I am.” You stepped out of the awful denim as he pulled it down your legs. “I feel disgusting and I made a fucking mess of you.”

He stood once more, stepping around you, pulling the fastens of your bra apart. “‘Boutta clean it off.” He moved to face you once more, pulling the straps down your shoulders and away from your skin. John’s eyes found the angry red line underneath your breasts from the combined too-small band and heaving sobs. He thumbed them softly. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely audible over the shhhhh of the water. 

John knelt again, tapping the inside of your thigh. “Gotta get these off.”

You obliged, stepping out so he could hook his fingers around the elastic of your panties and take those off you as well. 

You stood in the pile of your clothing and reached out, tugging at his own. “Can I?”

John nodded, his eyes never once leaving your face as you worked his body out of his shirt and track pants, hovering over his boxers before he stroked the shell of your ear. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice thick again. “Won’t hurt ya’.” You mimicked him, crouching to the floor and tugging the waistband down to reveal his naked body. He was soft, not an ounce of arousal present. Something in your stomach twisted, and tears prickled at the edge of your eyes again. You moved the boxers over his foot and put it on the growing pile of clothes. 

John’s knuckle traced your cheek. “Come on, doll. Into the water with ya’.”

You stood and shivered when his hand came to rest at the small of your back, guiding you slowly into the warm water haven. Stepping over the rim of the tub and into the shower stream, you let the water engulf you, flowing over hair and neck and face and chest. 

John stepped in after you. He didn’t move for a moment, and you opened your eyes to meet his gaze. “What?”

“‘M sorry you’re in s’much pain.”

“...thanks.”

“Let me make it better.” You stiffened. His eyebrows knitted together in alarm. “No, not like that. Easy. Just….” John picked up a dark bottle of shampoo. “Just let me help.”

“Okay,” you whispered, turning to face the water, trying desperately to keep from crying, if only to stave off another headache. 

John’s fingers laced through your hair then, working down to your scalp, through your roots all the way back to your ends. “I know it’s not what you normally use…”

“It’s okay. Thank you.”

John put his palms on your shoulders and turned you gently, gathering you into his still-dry chest and rinsing the soap from your hair. “Not a problem, doll.” 

As the shampoo ran down your back, you lifted your arms ever so tentatively, and put them around his neck. John went still for a moment, but only just a moment, and soon his fingers were back to scrubbing your head. 

You opened your mouth to the smell of his shampoo on your hair and the bare skin of his chest in front of you. His heart, thumping steadily, beat right below your cheek, and you instinctively pressed into him. 

John’s hands slowed and he began stroking your back, gathering any hair fallout, smoothing over your skin, and breathing in your scent the same as you inhaled his. “I got ya’. ‘M not goin’ anywhere.” 

The tears came again, unbidden, but not fighting their way out as they had earlier - now they simply flowed. As you cried, John turned you back around, applying conditioner, body wash, scrubbing your body for you, tapping gently when he needed you to lift an arm or move a leg. He never stopped touching you, never lost contact with your skin. And he didn’t take advantage.

When John tapped your thigh, you wondered vaguely if he would attempt to rile you up, making the excuse of “just cleaning”. But he didn’t. A soft wash cloth lay between his fingers and your folds, and he worked the soap over your mound just the same as he had the rest of you. He lathered your breasts gently, without an ounce of boyishness, simply soaping and rinsing. John’s own body got wet in the process of cleaning you, but you found yourself too exhausted to care. 

As the last of the conditioner was washed out of your hair, John let the water run over your back, holding you between the heat of his body and that of the shower. 

“Thank you, John.”

He nodded, muscles squeezing almost imperceptibly tighter around you. “Let me know when you want to get out,” he murmured.

“Okay.”

Minutes passed and you simply stood in his arms, letting every emotion that once filled your ribcage to the point of breaking flow down the drain with the water. And John stood with you, stroking your hair when the sniffles and hiccups returned, pulling you to him when they subsided. 

You spoke up, quietly telling him you were ready to get out. He shut off the water, reaching out to grab a towel for you and helping you step out of the slick tub.

“Atta girl, doll. Slow. Good.”

John wrapped you in the plush cotton, using another towel to dry off your legs, crouched before you once again. You managed to get to your arms, but it wasn’t long before he made his way up your body and met you there, his eyes soft as he took over. “I got ya’, darlin’. I got ya’.” You looked up at him with still-teary eyes as words failed you. The ghost of a smile passed over John’s features. “I know. You want a shirt?” You looked at your own tee, covered in snot, and nodded profusely. John took your hand and led you back into his darkened room. Switching a lamp on, he opened a dresser drawer and produced an almost-identical faded, age-worn tee, indiscernible from the one on the bathroom floor. “Here you go, doll.” John turned to see you right on his heels, feeling small in the unfamiliar territory. He really did crack a smile then. “Come on. Arms up.” You obeyed, your chin sinking to your chest. His eyes never strayed from their task, even as the towel covering your body fell to the ground and fluffled around your ankles. “I got shorts or pants,” he said, “You got a preference?”

Your skin prickled in the post-shower chill. “Pants, please.”

He nodded and did the same as before, dressing you with quiet comfortability, slipping soft material up over your calves and thighs. Without asking, John also produced a pair of black, thick socks, pulling them onto your feet with ease. 

“Do…do you want me to…?” You gestured to his bare skin. “I…can. If you want.”

He met your gaze, gentle eyes making you feel a bit less hollow. “Just stay next to me.”

“Okay.” I can do that. You settled onto the bed’s edge, feet not quite touching the floor, and watched him pull a shirt over his huge back and another pair of pants over his massive legs. “John?”

“Yes, doll,” he replied as he shook the water from his hair into a towel. 

“Can we…can I, I mean, you don’t have to, can I, um…take a nap?” When he didn’t answer immediately, you tripped over yourself to explain. “Just-just for a bit, I’ll drive home tonight, I won’t stay, I just thought maybe-”

“Sweetheart.”

You sat stock still. John’s hand came up to your shoulder. “Breathe, kid. ‘M not gonna kick y’out. Stay as long as y’need.”

You stuffed your hands in your lap. “Thanks.”

He tilted his chin to the headboard. “Get under the covers, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Your body moved before your brain caught up, and you were snug as a bug in a rug before you processed the full extent of his words. He’ll be here in…does he think we’re…what the fuck- 

As the confusion set in, John returned, leaning on the doorframe, phone in hand. “Y’like pizza?”

You blinked. “Yes.”

He padded toward the bed, clambering onto the mattress - the added weight made your body fall towards him as an uff escaped your lips. You smiled, the first one tonight, and curled under his arm. 

“Y’wanna order it?” John asked, showing you the screen. It’s cracked, but you can still easily make out the Domino’s online ordering menu. 

“Yessss.” You kicked your feet out in his soft sheets. Making your selections, you handed it back to him and watched his face for any sign of displeasure. He showed none. 

“Looks good, doll. You can sleep while we wait for it.”

You sat with that for a moment. “No.” You twisted your head up to look into his eyes. “Thank you, John. I would have driven off the road if not for you.”

He cleared his throat. “‘M glad y’came to me. Thank y’for lettin’ me take care of you.”

“I…like you taking care of me.” Your heart pounded and you became acutely aware of his hand on your shoulder, large palm and splayed fingers. 

“Yeah?” John’s voice rumbled in your ear, low and full and delicious-

“Yes,” you said earnestly, propping yourself up to look at him properly. “John, I…I…” He had the nerve to look amused. “...I…”

John chuckled. “Just stay. Stay and I’ll take care of you.” 

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”  

“I…don’t know what to say.”

His features softened even more, if that was possible. “Don’t have to say anythin’. Just tell me what you wanna watch.” John nodded toward the tv atop his dresser. 

“John…” you sniffled, squeezing his shirt in your hand once more. “Can I just…lay here for a while?”

“Course.” And without a further word, he plucked a pair of reading glasses from the nightstand, opened the faded western they laid on, and began to read. 

A few moments of silence pass, and they are un-fucking-bearable. Your thoughts begin to race again - He doesn’t want you here. You’re a burden. You take up more space than you deserve. What happened to looking out for yourself? You can’t, can you? Fucking pathetic, you are. What happens when he gets tired of you? What happens wh- “John?”

He looked at you over his glasses, brows raised. “Yes, sweetheart?”

You felt small again, but safer. Safer than you had in a while. “Would you mind…reading to me? I don’t think I can sleep otherwise.”

“I’m that tedious, eh?” John grinned when you flicked him on the arm. 

“No! No, I…I want you to.”

“Yes,” he chuckled, “I’ll read to you.” He turned the page back (“Can’t start right in the action, can we?”) and began, his voice flowing in its same gravelly cadence, filling your brain with soft warmth. The story was of a merchant’s daughter and the cowboy she fell in love with, and John had just gotten to the part where her father finds out. “‘-and they came to blows, fists flying through the dusty air, the world fallen silent save for the sound of knuckles on bone, and-’ Are you asleep?”

You blinked, still very much on the verge of unconsciousness. “Nuh-uhhhh…” You stretched out under his comforter, nestling your face back onto his warm thigh. 

“S’okay,” he said. John laced his fingers through your hair once more. “Y’need the rest. Take it. I’ll wake y’up when pizza’s here.”

You needed no further encouragement. As sleep overtook you once more, you managed to mumble out, “Thanks, Daddy.”

John was very still for a very long time.

Then, “...You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

a/n: if you liked this, please let me know with a like, reblog, or comment 🤍

all dividers courtesy of @saradika

I need him so bad (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ(๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ(„ಡωಡ„)

Can't stop thinking about Price gaining some winter weight, having you warm your cold hands on his soft hairy stomach while you're sat on your knees between his big thighs, looking at the soft fat pad that's starting to settle around the base of his cock as he feeds it to you, your nose tickled by the hair on his stomach as he guides you down towards the base. It all makes his cock seem thicker, makes it feel like he's really stretching out your throat until tears are brimming on your lash line and he's wiping the wetness from your cheeks with a big gentle thumb. He'll make you hold onto his love handles while he fucks your face, just you wait.

I be they wife in heartbeat if they cause who gonna fat them up when they come home (✿ ♥‿♥)(✿ ♥‿♥)( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡\(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/

(more of poly 141 x roommate reader bc i got enabled: surprising them when they return home)

The aroma of roasted garlic and thyme filled the apartment, and along with it your voice as you fluttered about the kitchen while music played from your phone. You placed plates of perfectly golden roast chicken, mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables on the dining table beside bowls of creamy mushroom soup and a fresh salad and freshly baked bread.

You would never regret that cooking course you picked up. Everything just looked so… perfect. And that was without mentioning the apple pie and chocolate cake you’d also made, set aside on cute little cake pedestals you’d recently bought.

You smoothed the fabric of your skirt, picking up your phone to check on the time; they’d arrive home any moment now and you couldn’t wait to see their reactions. You’d been planning this dinner since yesterday, when Kate Laswell had called to let you know your roommates would be home today after months of being away on a mission so you could prepare this surprise for them.

You’d promised to send her and her lovely wife a big, big portion just for helping you like that. You always get worried when they take this long, but Kate tried her best to keep you up to date about them whenever they had to be no-contact with you.

The sound of the front door unlocking made your pulse quicken, and you hurried to the entryway, a bright smile on your face. You’d made sure even the candles you and Gaz like to collect were lit up, bathing the apartment in a soft golden light.

“Surprise!” you called, spreading your arms as they stepped inside, grin wide and proud.

For a moment, they stood frozen, tired eyes sweeping over the sight of you and the glowing apartment and the lovely smell of a big, warm dinner. Price was the first to move, dropping his bag and crossing the room in several long strides. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a firm embrace, and you melted against him right away, breathing in the familiar scent of him- smoke, leather, and something uniquely John.

“Hi!” You chirped again, patting his back.

“You’ve outdone yourself, love.” he murmured instead of a proper greeting, voice thick with gratitude.

Soap was next, scooping you into a hug so enthusiastic it lifted you off your feet right after John let you go. “Missed ya, lass,” he said, his grin bright despite the weariness in his eyes. “Look at ya, a sight fo’ sore eyes!”

“Put me down, MacTavish!”

Gaz kissed your cheek the second Johnny obeyed, his hand lingering on your shoulder. “You didn’t have to do all this, darling.” he said softly, though the way he looked at you made it clear he appreciated every bit of it.

Ghost, towering behind them, stood silently for a moment. His eyes roamed over you, taking in the nervous smile tugging at your lips. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled you into his chest, one large hand cradling the back of your head.

“Perfect girl, thank you.” he muttered, so low you barely heard it. But you did feel it rumble through his body.

You laughed, stepping back and gesturing toward the table. You had to know what they thought of it. “Go wash up. Dinner’s ready.”.

Johnny piled his plate high, moaning exaggeratedly at every bite and making you laugh until your sides hurt. Gaz teased him about his lack of table manners while sneaking extra bread rolls for himself. Price, ever the gentleman, made sure your plate was full before his own, and Simon quietly made his way through two full helpings even, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest smile when you nudged him to try the mushroom sauce.

Oh yes, you cooked. In more ways than one. You were so very proud of yourself, felt like you’d blow up like a balloon if they complimented you any more.

“This is the best meal I’ve had in months,” Johnny declared at last, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh and patting his stomach. He turned to you, gently caressing his knuckles across your full cheeks. “Thank ya, lass. Truly an angel.”

“You’ve ruined me for army food forever,” Kyle added, humming as he bit into another spoonful, smiling at your giggles. “Whatever next mission we’ll have is so going to suck, by the way. I mean it.”

Price reached over, covering your hand with his. “You didn’t have to do all this, love, but I’m damn glad you did,” he said, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. His mustache twitched, and he smiled at you. “Kyle’s right, though.”

Simon didn’t speak much, but the way his gaze lingered on you, warm and heavy, spoke volumes. You’d already learned how to decipher his little looks, anyways.

As the evening wound down and they cleaned the kicthen, then went to rest in the living room, you brought out the second surprises: the chocolate cake and apple pie, earning a round of groans and cheers. They insisted on helping with the second round of dishes, but you waved them off, laughing.

“Go relax,” you said, shooing them toward the living room. “This is my treat for you. You were supposed to be relaxing today!”

Though you didn’t notice the way they watched you as you moved about the kitchen.

When you finally joined them, changing into something more comfortable, you curl up on the couch tucked against Simon’s warm side and his arm drape around your shoulders almost instinctively. Soap stretched out across the floor, his head resting on a pillow near your feet, while Kyle sat on the other side of you, casually brushing his hand against yours.

It didn’t take much before you were dozing off, their quiet congestion washing over you as a soothing ambiance. You relaxed even further when you were shifted to lay fully against Simon while Kyle put your feet on his lap and began massaging your calves.

John stood by the balcony, his cigar glowing faintly in the dim light. He looked at you, surrounded by them, and something in his chest loosened.

You were too good for them, truly. Such a lovely, perfect sweetheart. But he also just- couldn’t stand the idea of you being with anyone else. Never.

So he wouldn’t entertain that thought. You were perfect as you were now; just a bit more time, and they’d tell you right out how much they want you in every possible way.

Though he didn’t imagine it’d be that hard, anyways. You already acted like their perfect little wife.

AAAAHHHHH This is fantastic like it’s so beautiful chefs kiss ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡\(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/

imagine the task force 141 falsely accusing you of being a traitor to the team. knowing your biggest fear, they use it against you. water. water, where your feet can't touch the ground. water you can't see through. at first it started with waterboarding. then slowly but surely they threatened to drop you into the pool. into the dark, deep pool. even john, who was like a father to you before, didn't help you. no. not at all. actually, he was the one who stepped into the water fully clothed, dragging your crying and squirming form with him into the bloodcurling liquid. your tears blended in with it while you we're screaming, practically begging that you were the wrong one. that you'd never do something like that. but they just stood at the edge of the pool, watching their captain almost drowning your terrified self. how would they react, when they get the information that you really weren't the one...?

This is a must have \(^ヮ^)/\(^ヮ^)/(✿ ♥‿♥)(✿ ♥‿♥)

lovingly dominant

capt. john price

tags: smut/pwp, age gap (20s/30s), size difference/kink, dom/sub dynamic, bdsm au, virgin!reader, light bdsm, praise (kink)

a/n: in a surprising twist, bunny has written call of duty again!! expect more cod stuff into december when the f1 season is over and it stops eating my brain <3

john price considered himself a little old fashioned. he thought it was better to have his birdie of the week on her back and rut into her until they both finished. he had no need for whips, chains, collars, and whatever else the world of bdsm had to offer.

but after so many missions and so many years, the pollution of combat bled into his sexual desires. he craved for control, near domination of his birdie. yes, they looked cute on their backs and their soft noises. but it looked far more appealing to keep her blindfolded, second guessing what was being done to her while price's filthy words spilled across her brain like wine on a white carpet. tainting her. tainting you.

most dominants loved a trained submissive. loved that they knew the ins and outs of the dynamic, tinkering to their liking. price on the other hand had a thing for over eager virgins. ones who got all their bdsm know-how from horribly written fan fiction. he liked to teach and guide, he liked to shape his submissive into the perfect image of what could be.

and when he met you, oh, well something else came up. an unwavering possessive need. price tried to not get possessive, this was all just a little game for sexual pleasure. but when he found out his little trainee worked at a flower shop, it was all over for him. it was only doubled down when you had your first meeting at a coffee shop and you got the most delicious looking slice of strawberry shortcake.

the cream on the corner of your mouth almost made john price lose resolve. instead he covered up with a cough before you asked, "do you want some, mister price." and who was john price to deny such a lovely girl her offer. you even fed it to him, a glimmer in your eye and gentle smile.

"it's lovely, baby girl." he said before he wiped a bit of the cream off his beard which made you giggle. that giggle seared into his brain and he knew that you weren't getting with any other man.

you met at his flat a few weeks later, and you were eager. price liked that. sex was only half as fun when the person he was fucking was almost having a good time. you came over in a big sweatshirt and jeans that were a little baggy, something that covered up. it made price curious as to what was hiding underneath.

"look beautiful, birdie." he said as he guided you inside and you got your sneakers off. you looked over at him to help you through the flat. you held onto him a little nervous, the only familiar thing in the place. price held you by the middle and let you press your face up against his strong chest.

he was in a flannel with a white undershirt and jeans. you could see the gold chain around his throat and the heavy chest hair. you had seen him naked from photos shared and he had seen you naked, but to feel it up close left a shiver of excitement through you. he leaned down and kissed you on the top of your head as he led you to the bedroom.

he said, "afterwards, i'll make ya some dinner. not the best chef, but, i can cook ya somethin' to replenish the energy you spent fucking me." he then ruffled your hair, which made your heart leap and he got you onto the bed.

you nodded meekly, you looked so small. so innocent. a girl like you should be on dated with finance guys or even the artsy kind. not a weathered, older military man like him. but even things in smaller packages can be surprising, just like when you took off your clothes and revealed a matching set of bra and panties. a soft grey colour with pastel yellow accents. it made price have to adjust himself in his jeans.

"ah, pretty girl got a surprise for me. how sweet?"

you nodded, "i wanted to make tonight special. good luck for a long... dynamic between us. so, you don't get rid of me if i suck." and soon you were in price's embrace while you still sat on the bed. your cheek pressed hard against his soft but firm middle.

he petted your head a little and said, "ah, don't worry, petal. even if you do bad tonight, i got every intention of trainin' ya. make you the perfect girl." the words spoken hit right to your core and when he pulled away long enough to strip down, you felt your eyes go wide for a moment.

a photo couldn't capture every inch of john price's skin. the scars, the tattoos, the hair, the muscle, the fat. he was like a big brown bear and it made you soaked. you shifted a little in your spot on the bed and rubbed your thighs together in anticipation. it was surprising that you were still a virgin, but you always chickened out. now as an adult, you wanted to just get it over with. but, you wanted to have fun. and why not have fun with a well experienced dom who wouldn't half-ass your first time. it didn't hurt that he had the kind of looks that would make any man with half a brain jealous.

"i hope i meet expectations." he chuckled as he put his hands on his hips. his cock stood at full attention and you swallowed. there was something so masculine about him, but not in a toxic way. he played with your hair once more before he patted your cheek, "no need to gawk, petal. i'm not goin' anywhere." and you swallowed. he chuckled before he got into bed with you and slowly unwrapped you of your lingerie like delicate christmas paper.

he hadn't been this excited to upwrap something since he got the toy firetruck as a kid. but in total fairness, you were hotter than any fire red truck. his hands grazed across your body with total tenderness and his hungry blue eyes gazed the skin.

the stretch marks, the moles, your own scarring. you were beautiful in ways that price couldn't describe. to compare you to something would be unfair to the thing being compared to your beauty. he took you by the wrist and kissed the center of it.

"this is a promise, petal. for as long as you keep me as your dominant and you my submissive, i with cherish you, adore you, and most of all. make sure that you cum over and over again." before he kissed you on the lips and got you onto your back. he admired you, "usually i like to take pretty things on their hands and knees. but, tonight's gotta be special, right, doll?"

you nodded.

he tapped your nose and said, "ah, ah, ah. that won't cut it. the words are 'yes, sir', got it? would hate to bruise that little behind during our first time."

you found your voice and said, "yes, sir." and was met with a rough pat on the cheek before price pulled away to rest on his knees to fuck you with just right. you felt heat course through your body as you took in the sight of him. burly, large from top to bottom.

course dark hair on his body, a little heft in his middle (but who didn't love that), a sparkle in his blue eyes, and hands large enough to break things between the digits. he admired you in return and said softly, "pretty little petal, yeah? ah, who let ya be so beautiful?" he chuckled as he rubbed his cock up against your slick sex, "i got so much to teach ya. how to tie ya up, how to gag ya properly. mmm, we'll have so much fun." he then pulled away to grab a condom from the nightstand. he held up the silver foil to you and said, "rule one, play safe or don't play at all."

you nodded and remembered to reply, "yes, sir."

price gave you a smile that lit you up and said, "good girl." then quickly got the condom on. he admired your soaked sex for a moment longer, "she achin' for me, huh? cute." then slowly, almost agonizingly, he inched into you and felt the spread of warmth through his body.

heaven was created with your pussy in mind. price was never a quick finisher, but he almost finished inside of you when he managed to get all of himself inside of you. he kept eyes and ears open, the type of examining done in his line of work, to make sure that you weren't in too much pain.

"ya alright?"

you nodded and swallowed.

price added, "baby girl. words." and then nodded his head when you replied that everything was okay, he nodded and said, "roger that." which made you pussy clench. a smile spread across price's face as he leaned forward. he captured your hands in his and pressed them to the bed under you. he chuckled lowly, "ah, someone likes a military man? a man in uniform gets ya goin'?" he kissed your pulse point, "ah, too cute, petal. i guess seeing that on my description didn't scare ya off." he rocked against you, "know it's a crime to mess up a man's uniform."

you swallowed, "sir. fuck." and felt the strike of heat through your body. you had to admit, you had seen a few photos of him in uniform. the beret, boots and all. and it made something turn in your stomach. only added an appeal to him that made you hot.

price replied, "i guess it worked out. because i like cute little civilians who are more than eager to make me feel good. doin' your civic duty makin' me cum, baby girl." these was a tension in his voice that made you heart hammer and your throat feel tight. the bed squeaked a little under the both of you as he continued his movements. he knew he was going to have an amazing time with you.

you whined, "please, sir."

"tell me. tell me what ya like about it? what gets my baby girl goin'? i gotta know, because maybe i can get somethin' together that'll rock your world." his words were hot and your cunt fluttered around his achy, hard cock. for a moment he was uncertain if you were actually a virgin, you took him so well.

you moaned when you felt a spark of pleasure in your core, your entire life had just been your hands and an assortment of toys. but to have price work your body beautifully was something else. you replied sweetly, "i... i want to thigh ride you in uniform." you felt a flush of embarrassment.

he chuckled, "oh that would be quite the sight, huh?" he continued to move against you beautifully, "i bet that i could make ya cum just from my thighs. rub your cunt all over it, messin' up the fabric. higher-ups will be wonderin' about the pussy stains all over the fabric. maybe if i'm lucky i'll get some of your wetness in my beard. let 'em smell you on me." and well, that excited you deeply.

you arched your back a little bit, but price kept you pinned perfectly under him. you tightened your thighs around him and he continued to work your body. it wasn't rough sex, but it also wasn't boringly soft either. he worked you at a steady pace, like a man with immense stamina. he eyed the bounce of your breasts and he moved against you.

he licked his lips at the sight of you, "baby girl." he purred, "you're a dirty girl. but don't worry." he soon held onto your wrists instead of your hands, a further act of domination, "i like 'em dirty. i like girls i can sink my teeth into. soon enough you won't be able to cum unless it's my fingers, tongue or cock in you. ya got the kind of soft skin that would bruise perfectly. but be careful, petal, i can be quite mean with a paddle." and it was met with a heavy moan. music to his ears.

you had never been spoken to like this before, but it excited you. you wanted to be price's dirty girl any day of the week. you felt excitement cross over you as he picked up the pace. the two of you fucked heavily and it left a taste of want in your mouth. this was better than anything you hoped for. it wasn't just that price checked boxes on a superficial level, he knew exactly how to make you squirm and moan. heavy noises came from your mouth as he worked your achy cunt, you felt amazing.

"ya like knowin' that i'm your first. big, scary captain makin' a mess of the sweetest cunt in the world. knowin' in a way, i got ya for life." he licked his lips. he liked that you were pure in that way, call him old fashioned. but knowing that he got to have you first was sort of like getting the first slice of cake at a party. something he wished to sweetly devour. and with you it was with heavy thrusts and filthy words. taint you to his liking.

you whined as you clenched your fists, you tensed up and he loved the feeling. he could almost read your mind with how sweet you felt. he could nearly feel your heartbeat as he fucked you. he loved the sight of you, you looked damn near perfect under him. you said between heavy pants, "please, sir. fuck, please!"

"feel good, petal? like how i take you." he moved against you further and it left him feeling the anticipation for climax. he continued to fuck your sweet body, working every last centimeter of warm skin, "remember, ya gotta ask me to cum."

his movements were overwhelming, his pace left you feeling breathless. and in your first lesson of intimacy, you croaked out, "can i cum, sir? please, i need to cum."

and price could be a giving man. he looked down at you, haze in those blue eyes as he said, "of course, baby girl. cum for me, cum for your captain." and swore under his breath as you beautifully came apart for him. he held onto your wrists tighter and groaned. it paired nicely with your sweet little moans.

"sir! fuck!" you gasped as you clenched around him. you finished and it only prompted him to move faster while you laid in such a blissed out state. no one had made you finish like that, not even your own nimble digits.

but price was just that good.

the bed creaked further and the headboard hit against the beige wall of the bedroom. he fucked you faster and made sure to cram every inch inside of you. with a few more heavy strokes, he finished into of you with a heavy groan. he fucked you through his climax before he slowed to a stop.

he wiped the sweat from his forehead and exhaled deeply, "beauty, beauty. where has the world been hidin' ya from me." he chuckled as he kissed you on the lips. you melted against him and moaned.

when he pulled out, he got up with a creak in his hip to throw out the condom before he was back in bed with you. you were both naked under the covers as price traced your form with his calloused fingers. the roughness on your soft skin made you shiver.

"how about it, lovie." he said in that low, gruff tone of his. his hand grazed across your side and behind, "how about i invite the boys over and their little birdies and we can have a little playdate. introduce you to the group."

you swallowed, "play... date?"

price pulled you closer. he held onto you the way someone would hold a stuffed animal. he smiled at you, "don't worry, petal. no one's gettin' their hands on ya. not while i'm still breathin'." his voice was tinged with a possessiveness. you nodded in response and he added, "besides, i know i'll make the boys nice and jealous with you." he chuckled, "my beautiful baby girl." then kissed you on the lips.

you could only imagine what would happen at a playdate with price's friends and their submissives. it also didn't help that it made you a little excited as well. <3

They can do more than that if they want (≧◡≦)

i gotta go and think about golfer! john price and his buddies who frequent the country club you work at and they tip extra nice, and sometimes they like to slip it in the waistband of your skirt!!

(✿ ♥‿♥)(✿ ♥‿♥)

I feel like john price is the kind of old-fashioned guy who surprises you with a trail of roses leading up the bed where you find him naked, sprawled on his side with a bottle of expensive champagne covering his crotch

a cheeky grin on his face as you eye up his thick thighs, burly chest and pudgy tummy

sigh do you see the vision?

AMERICA (￣^￣)ゞ(￣^￣)ゞ🦅🦅🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸 but this is so funny XD like Kyle crashing out is so funny XD

you lock the 141 outside your house (I know my rights tiktok)

pairing: task force 141 (ghost, gaz, price, soap) x american!female reader 

synopsis: you lock them out of your (their?) house, claiming you "know your rights." based on a tiktok trend with soldiers.

warnings: none just fluff and humor :)))

a/n: I wrote this in like an hour and I think it's the funniest thing EVER thanks

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requests open for tf141!

SEE TIKTOK HERE

—

Ghost: 

You watch as your boyfriend gets out of his truck in the driveway. He grabs his bag from the passenger seat and makes his way to the front door, a smile twitching under his mask at the sight of you waiting for him. 

Just as he steps to the porch, you close the door and lock it. “I know my third amendment rights!”

Ghost stops at the door, dropping his bag. Rights? What were you talking about? “Your what?” 

“No Soldier shall, in time of peace, be quartered in any house without the consent of the owner,” You reply, reading off your phone. 

Ghost sighs. Third amendment? Of course, the one American he dates is the one that has them all memorized. You could probably recite them in your sleep. Patriotism, or whatever. Which makes zero sense. You were living with him in Manchester. If all went well and you got married, he was making sure he changed your status to British. 

“You fucking Americans.” He grabs the key from his bag, going to unlock the door only to find you locking it. “Are you serious?”

You show your phone at him through the glass, the third amendment displayed on a Google search. He stares back at you from his mask, unamused. “Bloody hell, woman,” he mutters. 

You giggle from behind the door and give him a few more minutes before going to unlock it. You knew Simon’s limits. You only needed a few seconds of fun anyway, but by the time you unlock it, he’s gone. 

“Simon?” You call out, poking your head out the door and checking around the house. His truck was still there, so he didn’t turn back around. You don’t see any movements or even hear anything. Was he picked up by aliens? 

A thud sounds from behind you, and you yelp, shutting the door and turning around. 

Simon stands in front of you, arms crossed and his duffel bag on the floor.

“What the hell?” You said, looking him up and down. 

“I should be asking you that,” He retorts. “You should really lock your windows, love.” 

“Are you… did you climb through one?” 

“You locked me out.” 

“I went to unlock it!” 

“Third amendment rights, my arse.” He grabs your waist, pulling you towards him. “We’re in England.” 

You shrug, tracing up his arm. “Thought it was funny.” 

Simon just sighs. “Americans.” 

Gaz: 

“Oh, hell no!” You exclaim as Gaz approaches the door. “I know my third amendment rights.” The lock clicks. 

“No fucking way,” Gaz said, strolling up to the glass storm door. 

“No soldiers in this home.” 

He stares at you, his hands on his hips and that signature scowl on his face. There was no way he was coming home to this bullshit right now. “Open the door.” 

“No quartering soldiers without my permission,” You replied. 

Gaz rolls his eyes. Your home? He was pretty sure his name was on the mortgage, even if you were living in it 90% of the time. “I own the fucking property! I live here. You’re the guest.” 

You shrug, grinning. “Not anymore.” 

He runs a hand down his face. Sometimes just sometimes he regrets finding your stubbornness so damn attractive.  “I’m going to crash out, actually.” 

“Crash outside? Yeah.”

“Let me in!” He shouts, grabbing the door handle and jiggling it. 

“No!” You shout back, holding onto it and preventing him from entering without your permission. 

Gaz leans against the glass. “Remind me why I chose to date an American?” 

You smile at him. “Because we’re funny, and we have better Chinese food.” 

He glares at you, trying to unlock the door again. He groans when there’s no avail. “Babe!” 

You say nothing, finding his annoyance quite amusing and a change of pace for once. 

And then he actually crashes out, grabbing the handle and pulling, twisting, pounding at it. He yells a string of curse words and then starts banging on the doorframe. He gives up, frowning, and leans his forehead on the glass. “Please?” 

You unlock it. “Thought you’d never ask.” 

He storms inside, throwing you over his shoulder. “You are so in for it.” 

“I like where this is going,” You giggle as he throws you on the couch. 

He raises a brow, hands coming to your waist. “Yeah?” He starts tickling you. You yelp, laughing under him and trying to push away. 

Gaz doesn’t relent and continues tickling you even after you’ve pleaded with him to stop. “You lock me out of my fucking claim it’s your right,” He mutters. “Consider this my very reasonable punishment.” 

Soap: 

“I know my rights!” You shout, watching Soap approach the door. 

He stops in his tracks, tilting his head. He had no idea what you said. The poor guy could barely hear from all the bombs going on around him, and you shout through a door? Good plan.  “What are you on about?” He asked. 

“There will be no soldiers in my home!” You close the glass door and lock it. 

He approaches the front door, staring at you through the glass. His expression is clueless, brows furrowed. “You mean our home?” He knocks on the glass. “Can I come in?” 

“Nope!” 

He frowns. “Why?” 

“Third amendment.” 

“Amendment?” He scoffs. What the hell are you talking about? Is this what he gets for dating an American? You start proclaiming your rights? What’s next, the pledge of allegiance? “Are you taking the piss? Does this look like the land of the free?” 

You giggle at him, his accent thickening with his frustration. “I’m still an American!” 

“Trust me, I know! Can I please come inside?” 

“No soldiers allowed.” You tape up a piece of paper displaying those words. 

Soap continues frowning at you and realizes he isn’t going to be let in anytime soon. It’s a good thing he knew how to easily change that. Americans and their rights. More like Americans and their feelings. He sits down on the porch steps, facing away from you, rests his chin in his hand, and sighs loudly. 

You don’t budge. 

He sighs again, kicking his boots on the porch, turning back at you with sad eyes. Still nothing. He concludes there was one last option to get you to let him in. He grabs his phone, and you watch with furrowed brows as he types something in. Suddenly, music is blasting from his phone as he looks at you with the biggest puppy dog eyes ever. Not just any music, but the sad hamster violin music. 

“Oh my god.” You unlock the door, opening it up to him. “You’re such a baby.” 

He practically skips inside, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Your baby.”

Price: 

Your husband stands on the porch, rolling his eyes at you.

“I know my rights!” You shout at him through the window. 

“Do you, now?” He asked, playing along with your prank or whatever this was. If it brought you this much amusement to lock him out, he might as well indulge in it. That was the kind of man he was. Until he started freezing of course, then he would demand you let him in. 

You nod your head. “As an American, amendment 3 of the Bill of Rights says that I don’t have to house you if I don’t want to.” 

Price hums. At least they taught you something in American schools. “Does that extend when you’re in another country?” 

“It does to me.” 

He huffs, grabbing something from his pocket and displaying it to you. “You know I have a house key, yes?”

“I’ll just lock it again.” 

He tilts his head at you. You were really trying to sell whatever rights you thought you had. “Really?” 

“I’m taking this very seriously.” 

Price strokes his beard. “I can see that.” An idea pops into his head, and he steps away from the glass and in front of the door. You didn’t want to let him in? That’s fine. You wanted to lock the door? No problem. He’s got methods of entering from being in the military, after all. “Guess I’ll just have to kick down the door.” He raises his foot, fully intent on doing it. You were going to repaint the door anyway, might as well get a new one. 

You swing open the door. “Are you crazy?” 

He strolls past you. “Did I lock you outside our home? Besides, crazy would’ve been bombing the house.” 

Your lips parted, unsure if he was joking. You assume he is, but his expression says otherwise. “Are you being serious?” 

He laughs at your face, grabbing your hand. “Only if you start proclaiming your rights again.”

You put your hands up. “What rights? Suddenly, I’m feeling like this soldier can stay as long as he likes.” 

Price presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “Thought so.” 

I wish this was me(>ᴗ•)

something about price slapping your pussy after fucking it all bruised and sensitive makes me dizzy. thinking about the heavy and consistent slaps on your cunt; the way he’s bullying it with a quiet tut.

“what a desperate cunt y’have,” he murmurs after a wet gush, your squirt and slick spreading to your pelvis and thighs with each smacks. “need to keep ‘er entertained, don’t i? always needy — it doesn’t even need t’be my cock.”

he sighs in faux disappointment. “such a greedy girl.”

you gurgle your replies, unable to properly speak with the searing pain and blistering pleasure blending into something so cathartic, your toes are curled at your peaking euphoria.

bloating.

the orgasm is close. closecloseclose—

john’s hands still, roughened palm gently falling to the meat of your thigh instead. he leans close, eyes crinkled as he smiles down at you.

“no cummin’ yet, kid,” he croons, breathless.

fuck. him.

Scrumptious. Drinking this like fine wine

my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around. 

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry. 

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long. 

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare. 

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for. 

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried. 

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could. 

Domineering. Grossly possessive. 

He has you already, but that's not enough. 

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be. 

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse. 

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out. 

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life. 

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous. 

Dismissive. 

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe. 

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only. 

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm. 

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time. 

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy. 

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time. 

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away. 

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content. 

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him. 

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile. 

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce. 

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut. 

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable. 

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct. 

Good girl. 

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye. 

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

Regency? Royal? Fancy au? Idk, time periods are unimportant. Big bear men are what's important here

Mentions of mild feederism + breeding kink. Perhaps implied dubious consent? Implied age gap too

i developed brainworms at work

Duke who has been hardened with war. Lost good men in a noble fight for his king. Gifted a title grander than his status as a commoner born for his fight. For his leadership. A payment for the blood staining his calloused palms and bruised knuckles.

Perhaps he's widowed. Maybe he's got daddy issues. His possiblity for flavour is endless

Gifted a bride too. 'What an honor it would be!' they cried, insisting to marry off their unsociable child. The youngest. Getting to an age where they are deemed undesirable and whispers rise as still no ring sits on their finger.

Was it an honor when he now has a bride who squeaks when their eyes meet? Swallowing hard like cornered prey but then, oh then he finds it. The fight. The way your words spit out, high pitched and pinned in your throat. Words of protest. Refusal to do something. Accusing him of purposefully trying to frighten you.

When he moves too forward, acting as a commoner not as a Duke, to his new bride. Scandalized when he undresses so dully Infront of you as you bathe. He asked no permission to enter. It was his home after all.

A bunny with sharp teeth. A precious doe with sharpened horns. How precious. He'd find a way to file down those pointy edges of yours to get to the soft tender flesh beneath.

He wanted to provide. To give. He was a husband and man, after all. He grew restless without battle and no amount of labour around his own manor soothed that ache to be useful. How could he honour such a darling thing like his little bride without anything to claim, to conquer? To show how good of a life he can give.

I think what really gets him is when a maid comes to his office. Requesting a fund to get his bride new clothes - he, of course, asks why and he has to bite back a groan as the maid explains his little bride has gained weight. Explained it's obvious. Your clothes sit too flush to your belly now. Things must be adjusted or completely changed.

He chubs immediately under his desk. Almost delirious as he imagined the extra pudge now on your form. How good he's looked after you - so good that you've gained weight? He can only imagine just how plump you'd get once he successfully breeds his bride.

….’Give your son a little brother’

…and if I give twin girls? My family has a propensity for twins and *girls*. My mom came from a family of 7 girls, 1 boy. 4 of those girls being twins. (The realization as an adult woman struck fear into my heart- 1 baby is scary enough but 2??? 2 girls with the potential for attitude? Good lord.)

Double the baby? Price would be thrilled. He doesn't need a son and he's secretly a total girl dad. He just doesn't know it but he's so use to be surrounded by men he never anticipated a daughter - let alone two. But this just proves why you're the perfect little wife. Giving him twice as much as he asked for in two beautiful children he can love and spoil.

Fic link🔗

Rundown

Warning: dubcon/noncon themes in part one, dirty talk, scummy Price, implied age gap, babysitter! Reader, Wife is named, cheating, Price has a chronic need for a wife that makes him happy, nsft, brief breeding kink, one usage of daddy, p in v, no protection

Original prompt by ceilidho

Reblogs, likes and comments are much appreciated!

Part 1 | part 2

"Mr Price- I tried to-" You were stammering, a whole new tremor running through you. As you started with big watery eyes. "I tried to tell you..."

But you gasped as you felt another roll of his hips stutter forward. John guided your frozen body to twist around, pressing your back to the mattress as you hiccuped. Apologizing over and over as your eyes recoiled from his unwavering gaze. Pressing his cock back into your tight heat with a deep groan from his chest. His eyes glazed over as he stared down at your meak form.

Another rut made you preen. Blinking through thick tears as your lips parted. Hands reaching up and tugging on his shirt. "Please- I can't-"

"ssh." He silenced, squeezing your cheeks so your lips smooshed together. Forced to pucker as you sniffed. "Quite pet."

He was thinking with his dick. He knew. Months upon months of nothing but his hand and itchy pillows. Not even twenty men could pry him from the clench of your sobbing pussy. He wasn't lying; you felt like heaven. John leaned down as he pressed his nose to your cheek. "Feel good?" He whispered, adjusting his grip on your face.

You hesitantly nod. Because it did. If felt amazing. Felt wicked. It was. This whole thing was wrong yet nothing has felt more right.

With that, Price let out a huff as he nodded your head for you. "Yeah?"

"ah huh.." was all you could breath out as you laid there. Hands grasping at his arms, nails scratching along the hair that covered them.

And your eyes rolled back as his hips picked up pace once again. His fingers threaded between yours as the press of his wedding band burned against you. Missing the way way his fingers pinched at your ring finger.

-- -- --

Neither of you talked about it. It was like it never happened at all. As it should have been. It should have never happened. You knew that and you were sure John knew that. It felt wrong to look at Colleen knowing that you left their house with John's cum drenching your underwear and threatening to roll down your legs. The peddle back home was agonizing as you felt the the squelch of your combined juices with each shift against the bike seat.

You considered quitting. It would be the right thing to do. It should be what you're doing instead of entering their house with a smile on your face and baby James gifted back into your arms. Accepting paychecks from manicured fingers as if the scent of her husband's sweaty cock hasn't stained your palm. How he's come home early, spotting you and asking in a hushed voice if the 'other misses' was home.

You should be sick with yourself. Disturbed how easily you fell down this rabbit hole. So willingly. Yet some part of you felt justified. They were miserable together and clearly only stayed for the baby. But even then, with how often Colleen left the house and called you up to do her duty as a mother you were beginning to doubt James was going to be their glue for much longer.

Did she know? Was she able to smell her perfume on your neck. The scent of her husband's cock on your breath. Did she see the missed specs of cum still in your hair? Did she care?

So many questions that gnawed at you more than any guilt did.

-- -- --

John's stubbornness was a double-edged sword. Once fixated on finally repairing his failing marriage now became an unbreakable wall to rip it to shreds. Not telling you about obvious signs of what remained of your debauchery, cooing to James late at night how his new mommy was going to be just so sweet for them both. Grinning at his son's small hands grabbing at you whenever you came over. The kid knew what he wanted just like his father.

It was a pride thing. He knew deep down. He's stopped enjoying the touch of his wife years ago. But he was a man of his word; he was committed to her happiness. Through sickness and in health. It's why he let her speak so coldly to him when her mood soured like a ripe lime. Why he kept his ring on her finger despite her tantrums and wails. He wouldn't stand for the mockery his men would snide at him being unable to keep his bird in check. Unable to keep her tucked under his arm.

But now, with you in the picture, that stubbornness could be shifted to a new track. He knew he was in trouble the minute he saw you. You weren't the most overly qualified, and your face had a glow that could have melted even hardened men such as him. He wouldn't doubt even Simon would relent to that shine in your pretty eyes.

James loved you. He seemed to crave your nurturing more than his own birth mother. And who was he to deny his son? His world.

So when Colleen was having another one of her fits; the only way you could tell James was even hers. So similar to the two, John had to cover his mouth as a smirk threatened to quirk on his lips. She slammed down the divorce papers and dared him with that glare of hers to finally give her up.

He just uncrossed his arms, nodding as he leaned forward, elbows perched on the table as he held out his hand. "Got a pen?"

"what-?!" She barked. Colleens eyes wide with shock.

"pen, love, do you have one?"

His wife knew when he wasn't joking. She's been with him long enough to see the signs. He wasn't calling her bluff this time. Her lips trembled for a moment before forcing themselves into a firm line as she slapped a pen down into his hand. Watching as how easily he wrote his signature and checked through each page.

As soon it was done she snatched the papers from him, thrusting her ring down up on the table with a noisy clatter. "I hope you enjoy that little skank of yours." Was all she could hiss before turning on her heel and storming out. Grabbing her purse and jacket and fumbling for her phone.

-- -- --

You got a call to return for another day on the job sooner than you expected. When you knocked on the door you were greeted with John's build looming over you. Expectant of your arrival. Grinning beneath his bushy mustache as he guided you into the home.

"where's Jammy?" You coo out, awaiting to be greeted by the baby but John just shook his head.

"just us, hon, she's taken him out today."

"then why-"

But he didn't let you question, cupping your jaw as he tilted your head up. And you knew instantly what you were here for. Swallowing as he led you to the couch, taking you right there. Pinning your soft body beneath his as your ankles dangled at his ears. His cock plunged ruthlessly into your needy core, heavy balls smacking against your ass as he grunted.

"gimme your hand, sweetheart." He coaxed, prying your hand from gripping his forearm as he pulled the ring from his pocket, his trousers hanging around his meaty thighs, slipping his ring around your finger and immediately letting out an almost pained coo. "Don't worry, we'll get it fitted. Looks so pretty on you."

But you were barely even able to moan from the air being punched out of your lungs with the way his cock was barging straight into your womb. Too fucked out to fully process what he was saying as your brain was replaced with cotton.

"my pretty little wife, gonna give me another one, ain't ya? Give your son a little brother, hm?"

You could only dumbly nod, probably agree to anything he said like this. Something he was going to keep a note of. Your pussy twitching at just the thought. The coil grew tighter and tighter. Your walls choking his cock making him groan.

"that's it, mama. Come for daddy-"

Rundown

Babysitter reader accidentally falling asleep in Price’s bed only to wake up to a big man crawling up behind her and shoving her legs apart while murmuring his wife’s name :\\ too bad she can’t correct him because the pillow keeps muffling her screams. - prompt by ceilidho

Warning: dubcon/noncon themes (reader doesn't verbally agree to sex but has wanted to fuck John secretly), somno kink, dirty talk, drunk! Price, implied age gap, babysitter! Reader, Wife is named, cheating, p in v sex, no protection, John's a nasty dog, Price is sloshed and can barely hold off his orgasm

Did i write this instead of sleeping? Yes. Do I have regrets? Many. I just couldn't stop thinking about this and knew I had to atleast try my hand.

Reblogs, likes and comments are much appreciated! Part two is available!

Part 1 | part 2

You've been babysitting for the price family for almost a month now. A small bundle of joy surprisingly docile in your arms after the wailinig for the baby boy would have cradled in her embrace. You hated the glare Colleen would snap your way as soon as her son shushed. You weren't sure why, at first you chalked it up to coincidence. Just the baby being well- a baby. But then you let yourself linger in her presence and found yourself curling away from the sting in your nostrils from the strength of her perfume. A lovely brand you had no way to afford, truely she was a woman to envy. Even in her years she's aged like wine; Rosé to be exact. She was primped and refined. A polished diamond with every sharp edge pointed in your direction. The many necklaces she adorned on her neck were chunky and sparkled with real gems that surely John has gifted to her over their marriage. Though, it made an uncomfortable resting spot for the babe.

But little James had much to protest about the way his mother's nails were too long and dug into his soft skin. To cry and scream when her perfume was just too much. When her makeup smeared against his chubby cheek and the new texture roused him into another fit. Only soothed once back in the arms clad in soft cardigans and sweaters, the smell of gentle floral soap and smooth skin against his own.

You've heard Colleen before bark at John to find a new sitter making small comments about how her baby clearly hates her. How neither of the men in her life seem to want her presence always resulting in a heavy sigh from John, firm words of curt comfort but she'd just bare her teeth and curl her painted lips. Not taking his words as anything more than another spew of thoughtless support. Not stopping her cries of woe until John has enough and grit words of defence through his grinding teeth.

You tried not to listen in; it wasn't your business after all but you couldn't help but feel pity. Some days it was for Colleen, clearly stressed and trying to latch onto something she can't quite grasp. But other days you felt a deep pity for John; peering in with little James bouncing in your hold as he sat at the dining room table with his head in his hands. Shoulders sagging down with the weight of the world digging into them.

Poor little James having to hear all this. Often, you tried to keep him distracted with the jingle of your keys or read out of a storybook to drown out their thunderous voices.

There's been a time Johns found you like that, huddled up by the crib shushing and slowly rocking the baby to sleep. A storybook in your lap and a relieved slumped as you stare at James' sleeping face. And so, to avoid waking up his son, he'd get close to your ear, ruffling your hair and giving your shoulder a firm squeeze as he muttered, 'Good girl. Such a sweet girl for keeping him happy' and 'sorry you had to hear all that, love' as he insisted on slipping you another small stack of pound notes for the extra stress. No matter how many times you've tried to decline.

Just as many times you've tried to convince yourself you didn't touch yourself that night because of his words. You definitely didn't imagine him mumbling sweet nothing's of how good you are, so perfect and sweet for him. He was a married man, for God's sake!

A soon-to-be divorced one if things continued to persist the way they were.

You didn't dare let these feelings show; for fear of losing your job and the possible disdain that would cloud over his aged features that you'd have the audacity to think of him that way. Unable to bring yourself to even consider baring the thought of his disapproval. It was too much. It made your stomach twist in ways stressful university exams never did.

-- -- --

RIIIIING

You rose from your afternoon nap, a startled sound ripped from your throat. textbook and laptop discarded clumsily at the table. The sofa creaking as you pulled yourself up, eyes squinting as you tried to find your phone in the darkness. Eyes already aching from staring at your laptop screen for hours even when it grew dark. Took engrossed in finishing your assignment to care that you were in pitch black. Only napping to soothe the sting.

You plucked your phone from the floor and saw it was Colleen calling you. Your eyes widened as you hastily answered. "Mrs Price! Is everything okay?"

"I need you to come over as soon as possible, Im already running late to meet with the girls and I need someone to watch James."

Your brows pinched in confusion. Checking the time and saw it was 10 o'clock. Surely there had to be someone more local.

"where's John-?"

"being useless as always, drinking and leaving me to do all his shit for him."

Your eyes practically bulged out of your skull; sure you've heard her be nasty but this was the first time you've ever heard her be so brazen with her dislike for her husband. Her voice oozing with venomous spit as each word punched out from her throat.

You thought it would be for the best not to say anything. Swallowing what words of defence you had for John, you slid off your couch. "I'll- uh- I'll be on my way."

You slipped on your shoes and your warmest coat, thankful your keys already sat in its pocket. You rushed out of your door, having to cycle your way over. Usually you'd catch the bus and then cycle the rest of the way but night buses weren't running where you needed to go.

Never have you peddled so quickly. Your legs were on fire by the time you arrived and Colleen was hissing at you as she scurried out the door for how late you were making her. Muttering the whole time she got in her car and was driving off into the night. You stumbled into the house and immediately went upstairs to check on James and thankfully he was still sleeping.

Hours you spent waiting for John to return home or even Collen. Anyone to bid you off so you could go back home and sink into the plush of your bed. Sleeping on the sofa and then all that peddling has strung your body until you were nothing but knots. Sitting down almost the entire time as your legs protested to any further usage.

You only went into the bedroom to grab the spare baby monitor to check if it was still working, but you got nosey. Peeking around and finding colleens vanity, staring at the unflattering reflection. Your hair was a mess, and your clothes were screwed on your body. You could smell your sweat and it wasn't even hot. With great hesitance, you picked and sniffed at the collection of perfume that sat there. All were much too strong for your tastes until you found a bottle tucked into the very corner. It looked like it hadn't been touched for a while, not even half empty, but it wasn't old. The brand's logo was chipped at the edges, and the bottle was sealed the wrong way. You couldn't resist giving it a small sniff and were pleasantly surprised to find such a kind smell. It was vanilla and rose water; with a small bit to your lip and against all your better judgment. You sprayed a shy spritz on your neck and dabbed it into either side. Already feeling like a grander woman.

But your curiosity died as the king-sized bed seemed to be calling your name. Sheets are neatly folded, and pillows are fluffed. With James back asleep after some fuss and a diaper change you slinked into the covers with mumbled apologies.

Sleep claiming you faster than you ever expected, slumped heavily against the mattress as your nose was filled with John's scent. A heady mix of both his natural order and the shampoo he used. Your nose sinking into the pillow even in your dreams as you inhaled deeply. Happy hums filling the empty room before soft snores took their place.

-- -- --

John on the other hand was not so lovingly dozed off. He wasn't partying with friends and running his mouth about all his stresses. No he was haggard as he just barely pulled himself away from the sticky counter. The bartender muttering something along the lines of him getting back to the misses.

His misses.

He was nothing but a stubborn bastard. That was his ring on her finger and he couldn't swallow the uncomfortable bitter pill that was his reality. He's been finding his ring 'mistakenly' left on the bathroom counter. She was already bringing up divorce whenever he glared at her a second too long.

He couldn't have it. What kind of man would he be if he stood by and let her go prancing off. That was his wife. His.

His fist hit the counter with a determined sneer and he shoved himself away. Wobbling for a moment before he was able to muster his legs into a familiar march. His footsteps were unsteady but persistent in their journey. The bar was within walking distance and what was a little fresh air to help sober him up so he can face his woman how he should. Steel in his composure and fire burning in his eyes as he was going to-

To-

Fuck. There are so many things he's been wanting to do. It's been too long. Much too long without being in between her legs. The heat of a welcoming cunt was now foreign as he had to rub himself with the rough callouses of his hand. No amount of spit could replace the heavenly slick of a woman's arousal. Didn't sound the same when he fucked his fist. Didn't smell the same. Didn't feel the same.

She was truly a cruel woman. He could withstand her sneers and moaning, but to deprive him of the luxury of a husband was the devil's work. His own personal torment after so many years of bloodshed and muddled honors.

Perhaps if that walk was as sobering as he told himself it was, he would have noticed the car that was missing. The bike parked in its place. The tranquil quite of his home shattered, 2 am in the morning, as he heaved himself through the door and winced at the thud of the door. Pausing to hear any cries of his son or the pissed off yell of disappointment but he was met with nothing.

He lumbered through his house after kicking off his boots. His coat was thrown somewhere in the darkness as he crept up the stairs and shuffled into his bedroom. There, he saw the lump of a figure in his bed, and his brain clicked into gear. Licking his dry lips, he dusted his hands off his jeans, already undoing his belt as he stepped out of the fabric as soon as it pooled down to his ankles. Crawling onto the bed as he stared at the sleeping miss in his bed, eyes beyond blurred and too blinded by his determination, maybe he would have noticed the obvious differences between you and his wife.

He presses sloppy open mouth kisses to your shoulder. "Col- Colly, He slurred out as each kiss grew higher and higher. The untrimmed scruff of his mutton chops scratching against your cheek ear as he babbled in gruff murmurs. "Wake up, honey."

But he had no patience for his 'wife' to rise from her slumber. Your stirring only egged him on as he caged your slumbering body in with hands on either side of your shoulders. Moving the blanket down to reveal your covered form. He huffed in disapproval. "Tuckered out? Didn't even undress." He scolded but there was no heat to his words as he began to undo the buttons of your jeans and eased them down your legs. Shifting your shirt as high as he could before grunting as your unconscious form was no help.

"this why..you need me." His chest pressed heavily down onto your back as his large hands wandered along your curves. Pinching at the chub he didn't remember Colleen having but it's been so long he just dismissed it. "Keep ya nice and warm."

John couldn't wait any longer. Pushing your underwear to the side and his fingers curled against the fabric as he rutted against your silky folds through the fabric of his briefs. Like a dog in heat his hips grinded hard against your sex. His nose burying in your neck as he huffed the smell of perfume - he got her that for their anniversary. He knew she was still missing him. All that bullshit of insisting she'd never wear one of his gifts again. Throwing out jewelry that was now deemed tacky, all because he bought it, and clothes she just shunned as old news.

With a growl he yanked his boxers down as he grabbed his already half hard cock. Rubbing it through your glistening sex, already so wet for him. Perfect little wife. He didn't take long for him to chub to full mass as he huffed at the floral scent on your neck. "Gonna fix it- gonna fix everything-"

As soon as his cock pressed into your entrance you were startled awake. The sudden sting making your eyes pry open. Your breathing hitched as you heard John's voice mumbling something into your skin as you opened your mouth but he just shushed you. "None of that. Don't start, just need you tonight." He presses his hips frimer to your ass as the fat head of his cock speared your cunt. He groaned deeply with a curse knocked out of him. "So fucking tight-"

Your cheeks burned as you tried to squirm away from the blistering heat of your poor fluttering walls being pried apart by his sheer girth. Gasping into the pillow. With a huff John yanked you further down with a sharp tug on your underwear, his free hand pressing down on the back of your neck to keep you nice and arched. Any words you tried to squeak out immediately muffled.

"that's it, just open up for me, Coll." He cooed, the stretch of alcohol thick on his breath as he squeezed your neck. Feeling the way your pussy betrayed you, crying all over his big dick as you heard each grunt and groan rattle in your ears. Just able to hear it over the sound of your own heart thumping so loudly you thought for a moment it lodged itself into your skull. "Atta girl."

As soon as your ass was flush to his pelvis you let out a whimper. Clutching at the bedding your eyes squeezed shut. The pain faded into a dull numbness before the tug of a vein rubbing against your walls had you softly moaning. So full. You could barely breathe with how far it was pressed to your stomach. Surely shoving your organs up and lodging them into your throat. A knot tight in it as your eyes fluttered open.

Unable a moment to breathe as he guided you back onto his cock with every thrust that sent you jolting forward. The stitches of your underwear screamed as he set his pace. sloppy but reaching deep within. Kissing your cervix with each thrust as you trembled. Blinking you didn't even notice the tears that poured down your heated cheeks as you kept shaking your head. Any attempt of protest cut off by your own traitorous moan.

Fuck it feels good. Why must if feel so good. You've imagined what his cock would feel like but you never imagined this. Never thought you'd actually be feel it drill into your poor cunt as you sniffled and sobbed.

John could barely restrain himself. When did her pussy ever feel this good? So tight and clamping down on his cock as if it were the first time. Has it really been so long that her body became as foreign to him as it he was to her. That made his teeth grit as he panted. "Shit- gonna- fuuck-"

He didn't need to say if for you to know. Your stomach clenched as your thighs tried to squeeze tight together like that would stop anything. Not with his thick thighs spreading your legs wide and welcoming for him. "J-John-" you hiccuped.

Voice so strained it became high pitched. Needy. It made his head spin or maybe that was just the alcohol catching up to him. Groaning deep from within his chest as he flooded your tight hole with hot ropes of cum. Rolling his hips lazily with each squirt. "Sorry...been too long-" he kissed your shoulder and your cheek. "You feel like heaven, love."

But John was never a selfish lover. He let go of your underwear as he remained snugly slotted into your warmth. Relishing in its slick heat. Thick fingers finding your clit with startling ease as he rubbed in circles. Fast and his rhythm broken but with how your clit was already throbbing needily it didn't deter your body from singing out. Hands clawing at the pillow your face was buried against as you bucked into the friction. Shaking your head as you tried to fight off how good it felt.

Whines spilling out of you as you chanted pleas and curses but it all fell on deaf ears. "Ohh- oh!" You pulsed around him as your own orgasm tightened in your lower belly. No matter how much you tried to deter it, John was insistent of your pleasure.

"c'mon on, Coll, make a mess on my cock." He cooed as he pressed more of his weight down into your back to keep you from squirming too much. "Know you miss it."

You cried out as it crashed over you. Stars filling your already blurry vision as stray droplets of tears fell down. The cover of the pillow damp with your tears and specks of drool you desperately tried to swallow down.

Both of you just laying there for awhile. You were stiff as a rock and he was slowly rolling his hips. Fucking his cum deeper into you with more kisses to your sticky skin. His hand weaving up to your hair as he tugged your head from the pillow. Blinking sluggishly as he expected to be greeted with the face of his wife but instead he was met with his babysitter. Cheeks streaked with tears and your lips parted with a small gloss of drool. Sniffling as your eyes latched to his dumb stare. Just looking down at you with an unreadable expression.

"you're not my wife."

Sugar sweet

Pairing: John price x assistant! Reader

Warning: unspecified age gap, 'bratty' reader, brief description of past, implied emotional neglect, mild/tame bits of angst, reader is kinda pathetic but we salute her, AFAB/female! Reader, suggestive content at the end, Mild NSFW at end, brief sexual fantasies (oral - male receiving) , John is pining in his own way

Tag: msil

Apologies. I've never written for Price so please bare with me if he's ooc. This is my firt time posting writing on here 🙏 but I got a spark of courage from some encouragement!I absolutely love this idea and couldn't help but be inspired. Full credit to Dante for the prompt. I just got writing fuel from it.

Was it so wrong to want some praise for your hard work? To want to hear “good job” for once in your life? You did a good job, and you know that. Your salary reflects it, along with a few appreciative pats from others. You often hear murmurs from colleagues who say, “You just work too hard; take a break,” along with their well-meaning concerns. But you liked being busy—helping those who sacrificed so much for everyone else, often with little reward, just paperwork, bruises, and bleeding wounds. Your hands were rough from the grit on your gun grinding against your palms and fingertips.

You were just being grateful. Helpful.

And a helpful little bird you were—always fluttering around Price’s office. This time, you brought him a fresh cup of coffee and a bagel: egg, sausage, and spinach. You left it at his desk to the side so his arm wouldn’t knock it over. Taking a silent breath, you stood there, lingering, hands clasped behind you, as your eyes flitted over the man currently hunched over his desk and the food you had brought.

Another beat passed. Nothing.

He let out a small grunt as he shifted in his seat, giving a small sniff as he continued to drag his eyes along each word, scratching a few out with a thick black Sharpie. His thick brows were pinched tight, creasing his forehead—a look you were all too familiar with when it came to Price. It always made him look older, though the air he gave off already did that just fine, making the wrinkles forming around his eyes and on his forehead more prominent. He squinted at the words as if each one were an offense.

“I thought you’d like something to eat; I haven’t seen you have anything for a few hours, so—” you gestured to the bagel, a smile curled on your lips. The tinted lip balm gave them a pleasant shine and a healthy hue, and a faint taste of strawberries lingered on your tongue from when you had licked your lips, nerves tight in your core before entering his office.

And once again—nothing.

He only vaguely acknowledged it, barely glancing before he reached for the coffee and took a sip. A small gruff sound escaped him as the warmth pooled down his throat.

You faltered, but your smile remained brave in the face of his stoic behavior. “Well, I’ll leave you be,” you said, the words coming out cheery in your desperate attempt to not sound as awkward as you felt.

You shuffled toward the door after a few more seconds of waiting. Maybe, just maybe-

“Love?”

Instantly, you whipped around, chest puffing out as your heels squeaked against the floor. “Yes, sir?”

“Blue suits you.”

Your face twisted as you paused, about to ask what he meant. Looking down at yourself, you saw a crisp white blouse snugly tucked into a black pencil skirt—one that was smaller than you had anticipated. You had noticed it seemed to draw his attention more often than not, so the purchase didn’t seem to be all for nothing. There was only a single hint of blue on you, except for your—

Blood rushed to your cheeks as you let out a sharp gasp. Immediately, you twisted around to see that the skirt had ridden up, revealing the edge of your baby blue panties stretched across your backside. The lace trim was exposed for all to see. Hastily, you pushed down the fabric of your skirt, adjusting it to sit better on your hips. Smoothing it down was when you saw it: his eyes finally lifted from the paper, a steaming mug pressed to his lips. A pleased crinkle appeared in his eye as he took in everything.

You had never left his office faster. Your face was too warm—much too warm. Before you knew it, you were stumbling into the bathroom, splashing water onto your face to cool down. Lifting your head to stare at your reflection, you cursed. Your mascara had smudged, streaking down your cheeks as if you had cried. The light, natural shade of your eyeshadow was now splotchy and smeared around your eyes. You pressed your lips together in a tight purse, scolding yourself for your forgetfulness.

Yanking rough tissues from the dispenser, you dabbed at your face, trying to salvage what makeup remained.

Standing amid the dim lighting of the bathroom, you couldn’t help but stare. What were you doing? A woman your age prancing around in short skirts and makeup? Sure, you had always been inclined to doll yourself up, but it had usually been a treat—something to anticipate after a rough week. Now, it felt like a routine, ensuring you had a pretty glow and your best features enhanced. When did you become so desperate for such minimal attention?

Perhaps it was when your father always hummed in stiff, dry tones whenever you spoke. Or when your mother would glance up from her phone, scrolling while you tried to show her something you were proud of, only for her to finally respond to something you had said five sentences ago.

Maybe it was when you did your best at everything—school work, getting a job as soon as possible, and even landing an office position mere months after finishing your education. Always made sure the house is clean and never ask your parents for help, despite feeling sickly and overwhelmed. Always doing your very best to remain as pleasant as possible and chase any spontaneous kiss to your head and word of approval from either of them. But the majority of the time, it was nothing. After all, you were expected to do well. So independent and mature at such a young age. How well they must have raised you to be so self-sufficient. They would praise so highly to their friends. Expected to have a good job and a happy air to you.

After all, you were so lucky. They were people having it worse than you. Why would you ever feel so low you wanted to quit everything and grovel in your bed?

Or it could have started when friends would always have an excuse to decline your plans or something last minute came up. Dates always having you carry the conversation after having to endure hours of dry texting and inconsistent messages.

A nagging need to just hear one satisfied hum. To feel a ruffle to your hair or a firm pat on your shoulder. The sweet euphoria of hearing a pleased “Good girl”. You craved it like how a chef always twitched to snag a cigarette between their lips. An itch you could never scratch no matter how many times you self-affirmed with loving post-stick notes on your bedroom mirror and muttered endless approval to yourself for the most simple of things.

You huffed as you shook your head. Why bother with such a man like Price? The only time he seemed to even bat an eye in your direction was when you flashed your legs or your shirt hugged your breasts too tight. You were mere meat and he was a hungry dog. A frown grew on your lips as you patted your cheeks. Glaring at your reflection as you fixed yourself up and pushed out of the bathroom.

It started with your wardrobe; wearing trousers that looked smart enough for your job but gave your shape no compliments. Its rigid seams even making your hips look boxier and your legs shorter as you trade your polished heels for simple flats. Your blouses no longer hugged the curve of your chest. And if you wanted the relief skirts gave then it was unshapely skirts – pleated or plain and sleek – that ended half way down to your calf.

And then it was the coffee. It tasted the same? Then why bother with saving an extra palmful of cash for the fancy brand. You served it in John’s signature mug with the same beaming smile and didn’t waste your time to linger. To wait for any response. Bustling down the halls with files tucked to your chest. With the extra cash now staying in your pockets you treated yourself to paying for a nice cake or an overpriced coffee of your own that gave you that needed rush for the busy day.

Head held high as you gave up your pursuit. You were always such a independent girl.

And Price? Well, as soon as he tasted the bland blend of coffee he frowned. Lips smacking as the familiar graininess of the bases blend hit his tongue. His head lifting but you were already gone. Huffing like a bull every time he drank from it. In the end, it went cold half drunk and staining the white mug.

And your clothes; what happened to his pretty bird? Sure, your beauty wasn’t easy to conceal and the lack of powder to your face didn’t change the natural charm of your features. But he had to hide his scowl of disapproval as he saw you were in another long skirt. It was flowy and dull. Those pretty legs hidden from his view. His hand digging against the scratch of his facial hair as he glared at the skirt. Half tempted to make a house call and strip every offending cloth out of your wardrobe. His jaw twitching as it clenched tight.

That smile. That sickly sweet smile you always flashed his way. He wondered if you’d smile like that to him after he’s lodged his cock from your bruised throat, cum and spit smearing on those perfect lips. Glossier than any lip balm or lip gloss you insisted to wear. A breathy ‘thank you, sir’ spilling out with tears making those insistent eyes of yours sparkle. He almost thought he went crazy when he couldn’t feel your expectant gaze boring into his skull.

He was much too old to be entertaining a sweet thing like you. Always making sure his boots were polished, his office tidied when he was gone for too many weeks, adding sticky notes to files and color coding each one to make sure they were in perfect order. Treating him to good coffee and pleasant meals. It took everything in him to keep himself glued to his paperwork when you came in and was so kind. So needy. You didn’t need a grump like him. A man with too many burdens on his sunken shoulders and blood staining more than his hands.

He tried to dismiss your quirks by giving it no attention. Mutters of disapproval whenever you spent money on him. But it just made you more keen. Trying again and again to get him to say something. To look at you but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. But now he was finally getting what he wanted? He couldn’t help but swallow each bitter grain of his efforts.

His day was long. His team giving him their usual shit but it was giving him a bigger headache than ever. Any bark of demand towards him had his hand clenching in a tight fist behind his back. Most of his paperwork had fallen to you and this time, it was his turn to come into your little space, knocking on the door with a coffee much too sugary for any of his teeth to withstand.

There you were, cramped in your chair with a flood of paperwork looming high to your shoulder. He cleared his throat and you snapped your head up, perking in surprise at his appearance. Wide doe eyes blinking at him as didn’t stop at your desk. No, he pressed a big calloused hand to the back of your neck, his thumb caressing the peek of skin between your hair and your shirt collar. Pressing the coffee down as he looked down to see how much you’ve done. His breath warm against your ear making your whole body turn to stone.

“atta girl. That’s it, love.” John murmured as he gave the back of your neck a small squeeze and stood back up. Leaving you gawking at the door as he left just like that. The warmth of his hand lingering on your skin. A blood that was meant to go to your cheeks oozed down, pouring between your legs as your sex throbbed at the simple praise.

It didn't take long, no, It only took the next day for you to be back in those little pencil skirts and a new blouse that embraced your figure nicely. Heels on your feet signaling your arrival as you leave a fresh mug of coffee on his desk and a small pile of files. All colored and checked, sticky notes paper clipped to each.

One file slipped from the stack making you bend down and scramble it back into your hands giving John a beautiful eyeful of those baby blue panties hugging your ass and a small chub of your sex teasing him as it peered between your thighs. A pleased growl, deep from his chest rumbling out as he took the file from your hand.

“good girl.”

something about mean old bastard price and his sweet new assistant who just wants his approval so bad but can never seem to get a positive response from him

your sweet gestures, like using your own money to buy him fancy coffee instead of the generic brand on base are only met with an unappreciative grunt followed with, “fuckin’ waste of money. tastes exactly the same.”

barely looks up at you when you drop folders on his desk, only nudges his empty cup towards you. a silent way of commanding you to make yourself useful

until one day when you catch him shameless checking out your ass in the new skirt you bought, his usual grunting response actually seems to be out of approval for once. doesn’t even acknowledge your eyes watching him as he rakes his own down your legs before adjusting himself in his trousers and going back to his paperwork

What do the internet people yearn for

Have I been gone for a while? Yeah. But we ball, and I wanna get in the groove a little because if I have no time to draw, I shalt write.

Valentines (Part one)

I know I'm (very) late, I just forgot how to write and lost any and all motivation for a lil while.

Warnings!: Fluffy fluff, sickeningly soft. Polyamory and awkward conversations. If you want a song for mood, "luther" by Kendrick Lamar and SZA is what I was listening for the entirety of writing this.

Nightmares are common among people of your station.

The SAS is no easy place to be, and sometimes... viciousness is a gruesome requirement of work.

That being said, the fear is a good reminder. The breaths you swallow, greedy for air and sweating a little, remind you that you are human. You are a being of feeling, despite what you've done.

What you feel is not fear. For a few moments, it is a blind panic, but that settles quickly. No, what overtakes you after is a mild annoyance with your mind's need to pull a fast one on you mid-sleep.

"That was just unnecessary, really."

You speak into the comfortable darkness of your small room, hearing your own voice crack as it warms back to life again.

Music smoothes your nerves over as you pull yourself up and our of bed, into the kitchen to fill a cup of water and sip it.

You know you're not alone long before Simon steps in, and you still.

Right as he crosses the barrier, you speak.

"Hey, Lt."

He doesn't flinch, but you grin as you hear his breath catch in his throat, followed narrowly by a grumble.

"You."

He croaks back, a little too fond in the voice to be normal. This means one of two things: He had a really bad nightmare, or you'll have to deal with the rain of fire and the end of days.

The way you tilt your head when you look at him, curious in the same way as one of those parrots that just won't shut up makes Simon chuckle to himself.

God, he has a type. Dammit.

"Got a question?"

He asks, stealing the glass with your water before taking a sip, and then another, smirking to himself as you sputter with a tamed, playful sort of indignation.

"Most of them are why you're so fond o' stealin' my shit."

If you only know what you've stolen from him. You'd die of embarrassment.

"S' alright. I can pay you back."

Your eyebrow raises, but Simon reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants to produce a small trinket for you. It's a simple puzzle, the sort he's seen you collecting for months now.

Five aluminum parts, unassembled.

He doesn't even let you see how they should fit together. Gives you the challenge.

"Why?"

He shrugs, taking one more sip of your water before setting it back down, finding his voice more functional than it usually is in the mornings.

"Check the calendar, I'm going back to sleep."

"Sure."

You're a little too focused on the metallic pieces to check immediately, and you hear Simon padding off as you rotate two in just the right way, slotting them together with a gratifying click.

You realize what day it is right as his door quietly shuts somewhere down the hall.

Oh.

Fuck.

Watcher 1-1

Part 2!!!!

Warnings!: The 141 will be criminally stupid, fumblers, all of them. Death (canon-typical), Violence (canon-typical), loss of limb (no, I won't tell you who yet >:), but I will cover the symptoms as well as possible) They do get kissy, but no smut (that I'm writing, but it's very much implied).

The transport over the pond has never been a fun one, for you.

Not like you're scared of heights or anything, but it's a very long flight for your tastes, and you've never been the best at sleeping while sitting up.

Still, it elapses, and the oddly nice pilot (Nikolai, you thought his name was, though you weren't entirely sure), pats your shoulder with a smile when you step out, giving you some cryptic tease about being thankful the boys finally have someone new, a chew toy.

You're sure he's kidding, but even while you smile, it kind of unnerves you.

You'll be a hell of a lot more than a chew toy.

That spark is smothered when you see a group of four walking over the tarmac, hear the thick rubber soles of boots aggravating the landing surface. You shut your mouth immediately, straighten your back, blank your face.

The man in the front–Price–is the first to look you over, hard-eyed and stern as crystal blue eyes look beneath your skin with the strength of diamond behind them, like he's peering at every single part that makes you up, taking them apart and putting them together to see what ticks and how to break each one.

It's nauseating, especially when it comes from four sets at once.

The lieutenant is almost worse, wordless, blank eyes beneath a crude skull-bearing mask, a gaze that makes you think he's waiting to see you take some damage, to watch you snap like the fragile wings of a bird in his cruel hands.

You can't put words to how the sergeants are looking at you before Price speaks to you, making your head to snap to his the second he starts.

"You're Laswell's recommendation?"

He sounds almost... unimpressed, and it makes you straighten, puff out your chest like a rookie would. He thinks you're too green. you have to prove him wrong.

"Yes, captain."

Your voice is a bit deeper than normal, in your nervousness, but it doesn't sound unnatural. You see Kyle–the second sergeant–look away from Price for only a second, and you see him swallow.

The confirmation is met with nothing but a grunt at first, then he turns.

"On me. I need to make sure you're not as green as you look."

MacTavish chuckles, makes that weird "ooh" noise like a schoolboy.

"Training day, huh sir?" He's peering at Kyle as he says that, like he's trying to tease the other sergeant. Garrick doesn't look at him, pointedly.

Price nods, and they all fall into step behind him, making you jog to keep up.

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Masterlist

For Joanna:

Synopsis: Nikolai has been trying to find the right person to repair his beloved helicopter for a while too long, now. And then, he meets you.

Status: Completed!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

Watcher 1-1:

Synopsis: You used to be a star member of the Task Force 141. Good things never seem to last, and change paves over your old friendships. Now, the only issue is that those old friendships are staring at you across the table, with anger in their eyes.

The Mistakes That Have Been Made

Synopsis: Sometimes, things don't work out. Sometimes, you're going to be the idiot on the wrong end of a deal. It hurts the most when you're training the next idiot in line.

Valentines

Synopsis: You've been on the team for a while now. It's been a task to get used to, but you've been getting on just fine with the boys. Or maybe, juuust maybe... better than fine.

Drabbles: Winding Down

Fiber Arts S/O!

Wisdom Teeth

Breakup Day (Johnny)

Damaged, but not beyond repair

Tf 141 with an s/o who loves fiber arts!

Word count= roughly 1,750

Warnings: No! Just fluff with the lads :) Enjoy (but inly if you wanna)!!!

Kyle, who really never thought that knitting would be this hard, considering how much you raved about it keeping you both calm and properly stimulated. Now, he sits by your side on the living room floor, shakily holding two bamboo needles in his hands and trying to hold the "working yarn" (the yarn attached to the ball, apparently) the right way as you tenderly lecture him for being a dunce. "No, baby, you need to get through the stitch first before you yarn over-" Your voice is so pretty like that, trying to steer him from making another weird-looking hole for no real reason, but Kyle just whines again as you take the swatch into your own hands, finish off the whole row like some magic creature of the yarn and thread.

"You said that this was supposed to be easy, luvie." He whines into the crook of your neck, having loosely wound himself around your side as you showed him exactly what to do for the fourth time this hour. Some part of him loves the unfailing tenderness, the softness of your voice and the way you poorly hide the fact that you're laughing at him under your breath. "Sorry, i just thought-" There's a snort from your lips as giggles envelop you, your smile turns wide. Kyle's heart melts a little in his chest "I just thought you'd be better at this-"

Kyle gasps in mock offense, before pushing the needles to the floor, already planning his revenge for that little slight. "Say that one more time, and I'll give yer little magic sticks to my nieces and tell 'em they're swords." He revels in the shocked gasp you give, and grins as you bat him upside the head. "Hah, funny man. Try." Your voice is quieter, a little bit more dangerous, just daring him to do that very thing. Kyle saves his own ass by pecking your cheek, gently taking your hands into his own. "I wouldn't, babes, you know I wouldn't." There's not a modicum of lie in that statement. Kyle knows that the sweetest ones are the most terrifying, and his mum would never let him hear the end of it if he lost you. "Yeah, I do know you wouldn't, jus' wanted to mess with you." It's Kyle's turn to gasp now, but he smiles when you kiss his cheek in return, leans into you like a lapdog despite himself. Tonight's going to be good, and he knows it.

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Johnny, who remarkably managed very, very well with embroidery. You had been so happy to see him, posted on the couch next to you, working away at the hoop, having only very few questions on how he should hold the thing, if the tension you kept talking about was a little bit off. For an hour, maybe two, it was lovely. Simple silence as you leaned up on his shoulder, working a larger project as the Scot figured out exactly what he was doing on his own. Deft hands, you watched him pick apart the small knots in the thread without issue. It flooded your heart with pride. "Are you finally going to let me see the thing, Johnny?" You questioned playfully, trying to straighten your spine to get a peek before there's a big hand shoved over your eyes, and a thick accent chiding you for your gall. "No!" He squawks, you just know that he relishes in not letting you see, riling you up through your own curiosity, because Johnny is, at his core, a cheeky little shit. "Ye gotta wait, mo leannan, ye cannae jus' peek like that!" It draws a grumble from your lips, but you close your eyes, gently take hold of his wrist in your hand and nod, giving a softer affirmation before he coos at you. "Don' worry, it's almost done anyway." He soothes you with a soft peck to your temple, and just like that, you're calm again, all heart-eyed and dumb with love, relaxed. It's another thirty minutes before the finished product is tenderly set into your lap, and you gasp in surprise before seeing it. It's... stupid. An old sketch of his that really had amused him all too much, one of you from a picture at a night out (you had tripped on a root and he managed to get a picture of your face mid-fall) that he had always seemed too damn enamored with. "Oh my god." You press your hand to your face in shame, already feeling ridiculous before Johnny laughs brightly, pressed a firm, wet kiss to your cheek. "You look lovely! Don't ye? I think you look lovely." It's a sweet sentiment, enough to endear you to the terrible, terrible thing that your fiancé has chosen to immortalize and drive a too-fond sigh from your lips. "You're lucky that I love you." You grumble, giving Johnny a half-hearted glare before he swoops in to sweetly kiss your lips, because he really does know you too well. "Aye, I really am" He doesn't miss a beat, still grinning like an idiot. It makes your chest soften, your guts go mushy and fluttery. "Don't be coy, MacTavish." You reprimand. He grins, and kisses you again for good measure.

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Simon, who really didn't think this would be necessary, but here he is, sitting next to you cross-legged on the floor with the hook in hand. "Like this, right?" He speaks gruffly, and loosens his posture for you to peek over his shoulder. He feels the ghost (pun intended) of a smile pulling up at his lips when he hears your affirmative hum. "Yeah. You're doing real good, honey," Your voice wafts into his ear so nicely, floods his mind so deliciously, the only person that Simon knew he would always listen to, his angel right here on Earth. "Out of curiosity, have you ever done this before?" When you finish your question, Simon does let that smile grow on his face, lets the warmth flood into the cavity of his chest, seep into the crevices of his soul, heal the damage bit by bit. Simon leans his head on yours, and takes in a breath. The truth was, he had. One night, after a particular date when you had entirely infodumped a current project to him, he had done a little research. Then, promptly after, learned to crochet, even if it was only the basics. It paid off now, with you on his arm and impressed with his skill. "Nah. Maybe I'm just good at this, hm?" He denies that, shuffles his cheek closer into yours, soaking up the warmth that you radiate, relishes in the soft chuckle that you give. "Mmh, maybe you're gonna be even better than me, is that your plan?" Your teasing is soft, given out of affection. It makes Simon smile, makes him relieved that he's once again managed to make sure that a date went well. "No. Just pick things up fast." The mood really is dead in the water, but Simon really loves that you seem to thrive in that, that you still peck his cheek anyway despite him practically having negative game. "Smartass." You chirp at him, setting down your own piece on the floor before wholesale resting your head on Simon's shoulder. He fights a chuckle. "Better than being a dumbass, isn't it?" The joke wasn't his (he stole it from Johnny), but when you laughed, Simon knew it was well worth it anyway.

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John, who was more than content to help you work on another big project of yours. He was endlessly proud of you, how wonderfully you worked on those commissions and how perfect they always looked when you finally shipped them off. But disaster always strikes at one time or another, and the cat is often the cause of that. After maybe an hour of soothing his panicking partner, John had you wrapped up in a blanket in the corner of your own office, gently taking the needle into his own hands to sew the small tear in the fabric back together as you sniffled a little bit. Were you more than skilled enough to fix this issue yourself? Yes. But John felt particularly loving lately, wanted to make sure that his lovely, hyper-competent partner knew that they could rely on him. Because they always could. When he speaks, its gently, glancing up from the fabric in his hands to look into your eyes, still a little bit bloodshot from the tears. "Don't worry yourself, sweetheart. My mother didn't raise a man who doesn't know how to do repairs." The comfort was genuine, both an assurance of his skill and a statement that you could just lay back, let him take the reins for once and allow you to calm down a little bit. "But-" you sniffle, wipe at your nose with a tissue, and John doesn't allow you to question this. "Nope. None of that self-doubt, yer therapist already said that's bad, didn't she?" You nod, John watches your cheeks flush a bit simply because he remembered, that he cared enough to stow that away in the back corners of his brain. Oh, if only you knew how much he adores you, your little heart would blow up. "I can't just let you do my work for me, John, that's not right." The small rebuttal makes him pause in the middle of a stitch, gently set the needle down. His darling had the morals of a saint, why was he surprised by that? "Who said that I was doing your work? Maybe I'm just your guest of honor, sweetness." John speaks softly, shoots you a cocky grin that finally brings a smile back onto your face. "Yeah, yeah, alright," He smiles as you stand, wraps a strong arm around your midsection as you tuck yourself into his side, calming all of the way back down, turning back into the wonderful, sweet, bordering perfect partner returning to form once more. "That means that you have to sign it, too, you know." You tease in return as John nervously swallows, knowing damn well he is hopeless to ever replicate the pure beauty that is your signature on professional pieces. "Well, I'm not so sure about that-" He uselessly stutters to the joke, feeling his own cheeks heat up more than a little bit at the invitation. "Oh, don't be like that, I could teach you." Now that makes Price melt.

❥ What i think y/n would have on her phone (as a coquette)

❥ Her wallpaper

❥ her notes

❥ her phonecase and her instagram

likes n reblogs r appreciated !! 💗