Cw: Death

John Price and a younger reader, but one who didn’t mind that he couldn’t always give her what she wanted. One who found it endearing when he stressed over how he wasn’t performing, and was content with pleasing herself most days.

That didn't mean that he didn’t know what he was doing, or that he was anything less than satisfactory in general. In fact, it made sense — he ruined you so badly after sessions where he really got at it, essentially spearing you in two and leaving you a babbling, aching mess, that you often couldn’t stand for days afterwards, let alone have another round.

So instead of going at it like feral creatures every other minute, which was how Price assumed his subordinates did by the way they gazed at you with hungry, lust-filled eyes, you’d have sparing nights of pleasure, but you’d always make them count.

And that was just how the two of you liked it.

Had imagine giving the old man and his abilities some love without immediately resorting to his teammates <33 (not that im complaining id take any of them)

I think Nik sleeps naked. Not a stitch on that bear. And he gets hot so the windows have to be open, and the blankets are getting kicked off at some point in the night.

Meanwhile, Price wears the cotton t-shirt, the plaid flannel trousers and wraps himself up in that duvet like a burrito. He gets cold, and itchy, and his bollocks stick to his thighs, and it's just uncomfortable.

When Nik wants sex, he has to unwrap Price like a present. Nothing gets him going more than the feel and smell of a sleepy, bed-warm John Price that he can slowly tease into arousal, feel him flush, skin to skin, and then the soft, wrecked whimpers as Nik sinks his cock into him.

Sure, they like it rough and raw too, but there's something uniquely special about seeing that level of vulnerability from his partner, and Nik laps it up.

johnny ⊹₊⟡⋆

Ghost never defines your relationship, and in a lot of ways what is allowed is determined by him. And he’s fine with the loose boundaries of your relationship until he realizes that you also have other people in your phone. It only really crosses his mind when you ask him to come as your date to some event and when he inevitably declines that offer what does he look like getting dressed up and forced to go talk to a bunch of fucking idiots you hit him with a shrug and mention that you’ll ask someone else. You don’t even look up from your phone but he is staring a hole into the side of your head cause who the fuck else would you ask?

Please enjoy this smutty little scene based on a discord convo I had earlier today about sex after IUDs. Unedited and abrupt - if you know me, no you don't 😌

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Reader

*As always, 18+, Minors DNI*

When you'd gotten your IUD a few months back, you'd been prepared for the worst. You'd heard so many horror stories before you'd decided to bite the proverbial bullet and get yours, and you thought you'd prepared yourself for every eventuality.

But you'd never heard anything about the increased sensitivity afterwards.

"C'mon hen, keep your hips up."

When you'd met Johnny, all you'd been expecting was a quick fuck. It was supposed to be a one night stand, the perfect way to test everything out, a practice run before your next longterm relationship. That was before he'd gotten you on your on your tummy, legs splayed wide around his hairy thighs as he slid into your aching center.

You'd struggled against it at first; it had never been your preferred position with past partners, especially ones as... blessed as Johnny. Most of the time, it hurt, your cervix too sensitive to last long as they pounded into you.

However, in between your last partner and your current situation, something had changed. Rather than the sharp pain you'd been expecting, there was a soft, dull ache where Johnny rested inside of you.

"You're so warm - feels like heaven inside ye."

You couldn't stop the whimper that bubbled up, and you were grateful he couldn't see your face; you were sure you were blushing. As you began to rock back, your hips pressing into his, you savored the new sensitivity, the ache adding to the pleasure starting to build. Your movements became frantic, both of you pushing towards your own orgasms.

You crested as you heard him curse behind you, his hips flush with yours as he pulsed inside you. You couldn't stop your hand from creeping between your thighs to press gently on the skin over your womb - the dull ache lingered for a moment, gently pulsing with the last aftershocks of your orgasm.

Oh yeah, you could get used to this.

Thinking again about neighbor John Price and his 13 year old that loves you. He asks his daughter what she thinks about him asking you out. For a moment, she looks absolutely delighted before she puts on a pensive, unsure expression.

“C’mon, dad, don’t you think that might be, uhm… punching above your weight class?”

Did you teach her to say things like that?!

Way to tear an old man down…

How do you think the secret baby trope would go with Nik or Price? Maybe reader either never got a number or a name. Maybe she was worried about being asked to get rid it and so she just kept it a secret and let the man leave cause he was just passing through

With Nikolai like. We don’t even know his last name. He probably didn’t even tell you his first name. If he did, it was just “Nik”. And of course, that meant no number. He has a rather… irregular schedule. Not the most conducive for a relationship, and he doesn’t care to lead women on. Maybe he even meets you on a visit to England — so it checks out that he wouldn’t see you until he was in the same area. (And he can’t just visit England without going to Tisbury to load up on fudge to bring home).

So when he sees you with a baby, one with inky black hair and the same nose as you, he’s obviously a little taken aback. But as harsh as it sounds, he was raised to believe that real men remember their bastards. So of course he’s not letting you get away when your eyes catch his in recognition. Besides… as much as he loves it on Price, he doesn’t want his baby to grow up and have a British accent. C’mon.

With Price— I think it’s you who let him go. Why burden a man with fatherhood over a one night stand on his military leave? It’s your choice to keep the baby, you don’t think to trouble him with it. To make him feel like he has to say. To be honest… you wouldn’t mind him as the father. But you can’t stand to see him start to hate you for saddling him with the job.

Of course, when Price finds out about this, he’s just gathering it as evidence that you need him. You’re so silly, trying to do this all on your own when there’s a capable man here who’s basically gagging for the chance. By the way— it’s one of his men that rats you out. Points and says hey, ain’t that the bird you shagged when we were at that pub in Teffont? Very classy.

tw: self-shipping; emotional boner; premature ejaculation, mild degradation

Johnny gets hard when I listen to him.

As in, paying attention. Listening to his stories, his ramblings, his opinions, his problems. I never once tell him to shut up, he simply notices himself when he's been talking non-stop for more than an hour. I sigh, my eyes start drifting around the room. I'm like a dog making whale eyes and yawning, a cat flicking her tail, flattening her ears.

And then he gives me space until I invite him to continue; asking a question, for a followup, and he obliges happily.

We're just friends at this point, but he stopped having meaningless hookups a while ago. He won't admit it, but he couldn't get hard for the woman the last time he tried having meaningless sex. It shook him to his very core.

He even went to the dick doctor on base, but his dick is fine, which makes it even worse.

And then, one evening, as I'm cooking dinner for us, because he invited himself over again, his chatty voice fizzles out after talking non-stop, no period nor comma, and I glance over my shoulder, making eye contact with him, show him that I'm still listening with a social cue.

But Johnny sits at the kitchen table, tattooed forearms resting on the top, spine rigid, breathing shallowly. He's staring at the wall as if seeing a ghost.

"You okay?" I ask, lowering the temperature on the stove to let the pasta sauce cook slowly.

"Mhm, 'course," he answers curtly, and he squirms on the chair, wood creaking under his weight.

I glance down, following the movement of his thick thighs in his jeans as he squeezes them together. My eyebrows draw together, crease now between them, an invisible question mark appearing above my head.

"The hell are you doing? Go pee if you have to. Dinner's not ready yet, anyway." I let out a laugh, because it sounds so stupid. He's a grown ass man. A spec ops soldier.

He lets out a half-snort/half-scoff at that.

"Dinnae 'ave ta take a piss," he retorts, all little too snappishly for my liking, and I almost feel like starting an argument just for shits and giggles.

"Then why did you stop talking? That's a fucking first." I taunt, dropping the wooden spoon on the counter before walking over to him, pushing at his shoulder with my fingertips.

He hisses and grits his teeth, looking like he's in pain. My attitude drops, and my expression softens. Perhaps he's having some sort of silent panic attack?

"Hey "

As I rest my palm on his back, rubbing the taut muscle mass in wide, soothing circles, he shudders and lets out a choked moan. A sound that has my whole being freeze, my hand stilling on his back.

"Keep going, keep going, keep go "

His head tips back, lips parted with a soft groan, and our eyes meet over his shoulder. His bright blue, unnecessarily pretty eyes look hazy, his pupils blown. As I peer down at his crotch, I notice the outline of his cock straining against his jeans. I always had a hunch that he's big.

No man, this cocky and capable, has a small dick.

"Are you a little excited there, Johnny?" I coo at him, palm rubbing over his back again as I lift my other hand to rest on his left shoulder, massaging lightly.

He has the audacity to nod and let out another throaty groan before swallowing audibly.

"Can you come without touching your cock?"

He nods again, his eyelids flutter, and cheeks begin to blush furiously. I've never seen that look on him before, but I enjoy it tremendously.

"Of course, you can, you fucking pervert."

Johnny huffs in what sounds in agitation, but his blush only deepens in colour and I can practically watch his cock twitch and drool in his pants.

I reach up to tug on his short Mohawk, enough to pull his head back further, and he lets out a high-pitched groan before squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment.

"Pretend ye didnae hear tha' ah," he pleads, hands balling into fists on the tabletop as I give his short hair another firm tug.

"Aw, I think I won't," I reply, leaning forward to murmur against his temple, lips pressing against his burning skin, "Actually, I think... I'll make sure that sound you made is burned into my brain, so I can use it for later, Johnny. For when I'm playing with my pretty wet pussy all by myself."

"Oh, fuck !" His thighs jerk, knees bumping and rattling the table as he lifts his hips, humping the air with a pathetic cry of pleasure.

I watch the dark stain on his blue jeans become bigger while slumps down in the chair, and I keep rubbing his shoulders while he catches his ragged breath.

Muzzled at last.

I give his back a few gentle pats, pretending I'm fine, even though my heart is racing and my mind along with it. I just made him cum in his pants. Hands-free.

"Wanna talk about it, champ?" I croon, glancing at him over my shoulder as I walk back over to the stove, tending to dinner.

He lifts his hand to flip me off.

cw: manipulation, possessive reader, suggestive language

You told him you didn’t do casual.

You didn’t make it a big deal. You just said it like you meant it, not trying to sound dramatic or emotional about it. Just honest.

“I don’t do casual,” you said, eyes on your drink. “It always ends up messy, and I’m not built for that.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s alright,” he said eventually. “I’m not looking for anything serious.”

You nodded. No reaction on your face, no shift in tone. “Then we can just be friends.”

He raised an eyebrow like he was trying to figure you out. “You sure?”

You smiled a little. “Yeah. I like hanging out with you. We don’t have to fuck.”

“…Alright,” he said, after a pause. “Friends.”

And that was the start.

Except friends don’t show up to his gym when he’s meeting a girl for a workout date.

Friends don’t slip him a text during his Tinder dinner like,

“you left your hoodie here again. i’m wearing it. smells like you.”

Friends don’t show up to the pub when he’s got plans with someone, all dolled up like you just rolled out of a damn music video, giving his date a once-over and offering a tight smile that says run, babe.

You’d always act surprised when things didn’t work out. “Oh no, she ghosted you? That’s so weird.”

And Simon? He wasn’t completely oblivious. But he was tired, and lonely, and honestly kind of lazy when it came to trying to figure women out, and you were just so easy to be around, so warm and funny and low-maintenance and somehow always around when he needed someone.

So when he started seeing you more than anyone else, it didn’t feel weird. It felt right.

He told himself it was just friendship.

Even when you leaned against him on the couch. Even when you started sleeping over. Even when he started feeling a little sick thinking about you with anyone else.

The night it finally changed, he had just come back from a shit deployment — nothing too dangerous, just long and annoying and cold, and you’d been waiting at his place (with your own key, because somehow that had happened), and you were in his clothes, curled up in his bed with takeout, and when he saw you like that he just… stopped thinking.

“You’re perfect for me,” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself.

You blinked, looking up from your phone. “What?”

“I was so fucking stupid,” he muttered, dropping his bag, walking toward you like something magnetic was pulling him in. “I didn’t see it. I don’t know why.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him for a second, then smiled, slow and easy, like you’d been waiting for him to finally figure it out, like none of it really surprised you, but you were still happy to hear it out loud.

From there, it was easy.

The relationship happened fast. Slipped into place like it had always been there. He’d gone from “I don’t do serious” to leaving his toothbrush at your place, to falling asleep with his face buried in your neck, to holding your hand in public without even realizing he was doing it.

He was happy. Stupidly happy. The kind that made his friends suspicious and his coworkers tease him. The kind that made you look like the hero of some cozy domestic fantasy where nothing ever goes wrong and love is enough.

It wasn’t one big moment. It was a bunch of little ones that slowly added up until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Like how you always just showed up when he had plans, how his phone would buzz with a text from you right before he left for a date. Or how you’d casually mention how certain girls “weren’t his type,” even when he never brought them up to you.

And then one day, while you were going through an old playlist together, you said, “God, I remember this song. I used to listen to it every time I thought about you with someone else.” And you didn’t even blink after saying it.

And the more he thinks about it, the more it starts adding up.

You’d played him. You’d baited him.

And now he’s sitting on the couch, watching you walk into the room in one of his old T-shirts, holding a bowl of snacks, looking like home, and he honestly doesn’t know whether to laugh or be pissed off or bend you over the arm of the sofa and remind you who he is.

You plop into his lap like you do it every day (because you do), nestling in like you’re settling into your rightful throne, and he wraps his arms around your waist automatically, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“You know what I realized today?” he asks, voice low.

You hum. “What?”

He tilts his head like he’s thinking it through. “We’re together because you manipulated me.”

You pause for like… half a second. Then?

“Yeah,” you say, nonchalant. “And?”

He squints at you, mouth twitching like he can’t decide if he wants to smile or frown. “You sabotaged every girl I tried to hook up with.”

“I did,” you say, and lean forward to grab the remote. “Most of them were trash anyway.”

“You tricked me into thinking you weren’t interested.”

“Mhm.” You don’t even look at him. “Worked, didn’t it?”

There’s this long silence, and then Simon groans and lets his head fall back on the couch dramatically.

“I should be mad,” he mutters.

“You’re not,” you say, smiling down at him like he’s your prize. “You love me.”

“Fuck, woman,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours. “That turns me on.”

You grin, shifting your weight so you’re straddling him properly, hands sliding up his chest slowly until your fingers curl around the back of his neck. You squeeze—not hard, just enough to make him feel it.

“You belong to me,” you whisper against his ear. “Always have.”

He shivers. Actually shivers.

“…Jesus.”

You kiss his jaw, slow and smug. “Say it.”

“…Yours.”

“Good boy.”

And yeah. He is.

PART 2

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@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

the simon and kyle blurb?!!! hello?!!! I rarely see this duo together and it’s so unfair 😣

Sugar and spice is the best way I can describe being sandwiched between Kyle and Simon.

Just imagine the sexual tension between them and the reader and how it just... comes to a head.

It's you three, shooting the shit, and the conversation somehow veers over into shotgunning. Next thing you know, you're in Simon's lap, Kyle's scooted a little bit closer and they teach—demonstrate, rather—the basics of shotgunning.

Which turns into Kyle's tongue down his Lt.'s throat.

Which then turns into Simon's tongue down your throat.

Which THEN turns into you sandwiched between the two, you and Kyle making out, your tongue down his throat, and Simon leaving hickies on your neck and groping you wherever he can.

Cheers, darling.