ficmashup

[ficmashup]

(Hello children time for angst)*** cw for discussion for past child abuse*** Telling Simon about the past abuse you suffered at the hands of your own parents, but brushing it off as "not that bad" compared to what Simon went through

CW: implication of child abuse towards reader, parents being unpleasant and degrading, reader eats a burger

“Wha’s wrong?”

A soft sigh escapes from your lips. Your shoulders twitch, jerking in a graceless, mirthless huff. With a smile stretched far too thin for plausibility, you assure him, “nothing.”

He isn’t daft, though. Far from it. Not that it takes a genius to tell that was a white faced lie.

He narrows his eyes as though to egg you on, like you spilling your guts out is an inevitability with him.

It is.

“My parents want to have dinner.”

The corners of his mouth press down slightly. The raised white tissue on his scar contorts like silkworms writhing beneath skin. “Good for them. Three meals a day an’ all tha’.”

You roll your eyes at the wisecrack of a comment, and his smile reduces to something more genuine.

“Would love t’have dinner with yer folks, birdie. You know tha’.”

You string your lower lip between your teeth, dull ivory piercing through sensitive skin. Sucking and pulling on the inside of your lip now gives way for a raised, itchy ulcer-like bump. “Yeah,” you mutter, perfunctorily. You keep your gaze intentionally off his own keen one, instead pretending to be riveted by the brutalist specimen his stacked red brick ‘night table’ is.

He sighs, the bed dipping under his weight as he shifts closer to you. “Gonna ask you one more time.” His fingers reach up to your skin, and you feel the projection of calluses on his thumb. He tilts your chin so your gaze has escape no longer. “An’ I wan’ it straight, got tha’?”

The slightest furrow creases the middle of your brows, the bone of your jaw setting in a tense clench. Your molars grind and grate against each other. All you can manage is a feeble nod.

“Wha’s wrong?”

The box in your throat bobs with your gulp, and for a moment it feels as though you’re swallowing your worries. Your stresses.

It’s not gonna be like that anymore, you remind yourself. Baselessly, but you don't need a base. They’re your parents. You don’t clock the voice in your head as your own. It’s older. Brittle. Weathered like old rope left out in the rain—the voice you hear when you come home soaked through, hair dripping, and shame curling behind your ears. Mud splattered across your new yellow raincoat and cheeks. Fetid moppet.

You’re grown. You’re too grown to feel like that.

“Nothing.” A perfect smile graces your features. One you flash when there’s relatives coming over. One you muster when you’re promised a bar of chocolate for after, because no matter how much they yell at you—Mummy and Daddy will always love you. One you keep even though your cheeks start to ache within mere minutes, because you’ll be told about it after if it drops.

Something flashes in his eyes. A tempest of respect and care. He wants to keep you safe. He wants to make sure you’re okay. But why can’t he do it?

“Okay.” His voice is quieter. It lacks the edge it usually does when he’s dealing with a difficult interrogation subject. The unsaid hangs heavy and thick between the two of you, and the fog separates him from the core of it.

//

The bump has grown on your lips. When you close your mouth, your smile is a little tilted. You continue biting it regardless.

“Parked it,” he says, coming up behind you. He climbs the stairs to your parents’ front porch, hands now resting on the sides of your arms. “You didn’t ring?”

You blink away emotion, your vision now infinitely blurrier. “I was waiting for you,” you squeak, a response riddled with cracks. Uneven.

“Alrigh’,” he nods slowly, but his eyes tell a different story. Deep brown urging you, coaxing you, lulling you. Tell me what’s wrong. I’ll fix it.

I’ll fix anything for you.

Not this.

The ring of the bell is jarring, loud enough that it gives you an infinitesimal moment of silence in your head. A hard wired reset.

“Simon!” Her voice is like lambskin over a hollow drum. It doesn’t belong. It’s not real. She stretches out the middle of his name in her greeting, and her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

They talk the same shite they always do. We’ve heard so much about you (they really haven’t), we love to see her happy (they don’t see you), we just want what’s best for her (you’ve been hearing that one for ages now).

You get the sense he feels a disconnect. Something off. Something that churns in your guts like milk gone bad, rising acrid like the surface of bread. Boiling and steaming until it’s all you can feel and all you can hear and all you can see.

But he holds off on saying anything.

“So, how’s the job going?” starts your father, and you know he’s really only trying to fill the gaps between food.

The prongs of your fork trace the ridges of the bread on your plate. “Not a good fit for me.”

Your mother releases a chuckle, and the cruelty of it really shouldn't serve to phase you as much as it does. “What is?”

You bite the inside of your cheek hard. The corner of your mouth quirks up in what’s more a grimace than a smile. Your father adds to her cursory laughter, but the man sitting beside you has an indiscernible expression.

“A bit finicky, this one,” your mother continues, shaking her head as though discussing weeds in a garden, “very unstable.”

Simon clears his throat, and you feel a sudden warmth land over your thigh. “She was at tha’ place for a year an’ a half, so,” he thumbs the flat part of his fork, “... she stuck it out longer than she should’ve.”

Your father looks up from his roasted potatoes, a glint of something challenging playing in his glare. “That so? You think it’s good to leave the moment something gets difficult?”

Inadvertently, you flinch. It’s brief, almost imperceptible. A short-lived jerk of your body, tilted reflexively away from the general direction from which your father’s voice booms. You wish you didn’t, if only because you know Simon’s caught it. In the corner of his eye. Nothing goes amiss.

It’s near poetic the way the realisation now settles on him. Like nimbostratus over a beautiful July sky. Dark and heavy and soggy. 

It hasn’t just been him. 

Simon wipes his mouth with his napkin, slow and deliberate. "Don’ reckon it’s abou’ things gettin’ difficult. Sometimes it’s abou’ knowin’ when a place don’ deserve ‘er."

He glances at your plate, then back at your father.

"Takes guts t’leave when you ain’t treated right. Most folks jus’ stay and rot."

A white hot burning prickles over your skin, a small tremor overcoming your hands. Your cutlery hits the plate with a sharp clang, but none of it cuts through you quite as much as Simon's words do.

“Matter o’fact,” he continues, and you near wince at what you can imagine is a scowl etched in stone on your parents’ faces, “she’s got more backbone than most folk I’ve met in the field. And I’ve met lads who’ve stared down RPGs.”

A beat. Then another.

Your mother’s fork clinks softly against her china. Your father’s jaw ticks with an audible grind, like flint to steel.

Simon doesn’t care. He leans back just slightly, one arm thrown over the back of your chair in a gesture so territorial it might as well be a declaration.

“You’ve got a good one,” he adds, quieter. “Don’ mean ya get t’treat ‘er like a faulty appliance.”

You don’t look at them. You can’t. You just stare at your plate, eyes stinging, throat hot. There's a split-second where the air feels too thin, too thick, too much.

And then—

Your father scoffs. “This is our house.”

Simon looks up slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. It’s sharp. Vicious in the way only someone with righteous fury can be. “Then maybe you should’ve made it feel like a home.”

The silence that follows is so absolute, you think you can hear your heartbeat pounding behind your ears. And it’s in that stretch of nothingness, in the stunned, gaping void of their stunned silence, that something inside you breathes. Just a little. Just enough.

You reach under the table and find his hand. It's already open, waiting.

//

Your teeth sink into the bread, and molten cheese runs down the corner of your lips. The patty is cooked well, and you can feel the seasoned juices running into your mouth. It tastes like something you’ve never had before.

A key to a cage.

The soft, light sounds of his chewing pause. “Wanna talk abou’ it?” He tears open a sachet of ketchup that looks comically small in his hands, keeping his gaze on you. You can tell he’s trying to stay calm, keep this nonchalant. But beneath that exterior, something quivers. Something shakes—a young boy with hair blonde like bleach and cheeks sunken like trenches.

Not pity. Never that.

The memory of the night stings, like cold water splashing unwelcome onto your face. “No.”

There’s a faint rustle as he reaches behind, pawing around at the brown paper bag. He brings a napkin to your mouth, carefully wiping away the cheese.

“Fine by me,” and you can almost hear the way his jaw unclenches. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry. He just leans back slightly, like he’s making space for the weight to sit beside you instead of on your chest. There’s something in that silence—a quiet offering. Not a demand, not even a question. Just presence.

Then, like a warm hand over a fresh bruise, he says, “did you try the fries yet?”

[ficmashup]

brief nanny!reader x price to get the writing juices flowing

18+ (literal porn hardly plot)

vacation.

the white sand of a beach in southern spain. turquoise water, crystal clear, shimmering in the sun.

you could see it from the villa you were staying in, through large sliding doors that opened up onto a private deck. the smell of salt and sandalwood wafted through the air, and the gentle lull of waves on the beach buzzed like white-noise.

heaven on earth, made a whole lot more realistic with john price pressing himself right up against your back.

his bare skin scorched your spine, curled hair cushioning on his chest, but trapping immense heat against you. the sweat build up was nearly unbearable, made worse by the simmering summer sun filtering in the window in a golden haze.

john spread you out across his lap, two large hands pulling apart the fat of your thighs, splitting you open while he rutted his cock against the slick folds of your cunt, now aired to the room around you.

you whimpered softly as he moved slowly against you, lazily, the head of his cock a lurid red, leaking precum as it nudged through your folds.

he had his chin tucked against your neck, huffing quietly into your dewy skin. you imagined his eyes were screwed shut, pleasure coiling deep in the pit of his gut.

“john,” you whispered, grinding your hips against the movements of his cock. your slick soaked him, the movements slipping, the bulbous head prying your cunt apart and making you moan.

he grunted against you. just past midday and he was tired— a day in the sun, buffeted by salty waves, and two young children clinging to his every move sure knocked him around.

clearly not tired enough, though.

“shh, baby,” he cooed as, without warning, the tip of his knock hitched against your pussy, all wet and warm as sin. he nuzzled the side of your neck as he nudged his cock against you. “you’re okay.”

“daddy, please—”

“you’re okay, baby. i’m right here— y’daddy’s right here…” he tapered off as he slowly, gently, pushed his cock into the tight, hot heat of your cunt.

you squirmed against him, moaning out, head resting back on his shoulder. the thick of his cock pushed you apart, split your pretty cunt wide open. your body trembled, growing hot.

he moved slowly. in slight circular motions, too, so that his cock ground up against your sweet spot. you could feel him breathing against the soft skin of your neck, and you could hear him panting. his cock was twitching inside you, and after being ate out on the beach half an hour ago, your pussy was already beginning to spasm around him. excited for what she knew was to come.

“ooh, she’s liking this,” john uttered, as if hearing your internal thoughts. your pussy squeezed around him after a particularly deep thrust from a roll of his hips— her own reply.

“john,” you moaned, meeting his lazy thrusts. your chest was hot. you wanted to come so bad your brain was going fuzzy. “john, baby, please.”

“already, sweetheart?” john chastised, but it was hypocritical, considering the twitching of his cock inside you and the shortness of breath constricting in his chest behind you. he huffed out a moan before continuing, “you just want to give it t’your daddy so bad, huh, baby?”

“yes, fuck— yes, yes, yes—”

“yeah?” he had a finger on your clit now. soft, slow circles. gentle. waves on the beach, lapping gently. “you’ve been such a good girl for me, haven’t you?”

“i have—!”

you feel him smile against you, but you’re too busy focusing on the swell of your orgasm inside of you, ready to break.

“you have, baby, i know. i know— you’re such a good girl,” whispers, hushed, water on sand, foaming white. “so now give it t’ daddy and come all over my cock.”

you did, and then suddenly you were drowning. submerged in pleasure, the waves broke over top of you as your body shook against his. bubbling up and over, gushing over his cock as if he’d fucked you heavy into the mattress. as if he’s pounded into you and taken you within an inch of your life (metaphorically, thank god. although your pussy may say otherwise…).

a sensual, slow fuck had you creaming over his dick like nothing else. and your clit was throbbing (and shiny like a pearl in it’s shell).

behind you, while you fizzled downwards still, john huffed and groaned against you, hips rocking, cock stuffed tight into the velvet heat of your pussy. soft and warm, all his.

and no one else’s.

he stretched out a cuss through a moan, a deep-rooted “fuck” as he reached the precipice of his high. it was steep, a jagged cliff, but he was willing to throw himself over it. for you.

always for you.

“m’kay, sweetheart, say thank you while i fill this pretty pussy,” he grunted, and didn’t wait for a reply before burying himself to the hilt and coming inside.

“thank you,” you moaned. “thank you, daddy, thank you—”

treading water, breathing again. he kissed you to shut you up with his fingers still on your clit and his cock still emptying a load inside you.

ok ending here don’t yell at me i’m tired D:

[ficmashup]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ficmashup]

whatever you do, do not bend over for anything while Soap is in the house. not for picking up a sock, not for reaching over the counter. not. for. anything. because that fiend has a knack for sensing when you're bent over because a second later, you feel your panties either pulled down or pushed to the side and he's eating that sweet pussy from the back.

[ficmashup]

Which one of the 141 is more "wear whatever you want I can fight"?

Ghost for sure. Not that the rest of them can't fight or wouldn't say something similar but Ghost is the one sitting on a kitchen chair, elbows on his knees and a beer dangling from his fingers as you try on clothes for a night out, giving a little twirling motion with his finger as he sips his drink and eyes your ass. Reaching to pinch your ass where your cheek peaks out from the hem of your twirling skirt and giving you a smirk when you pout at him. Of course you'd ask him if you should change, you don't want to make him uncomfortable, but Ghost doesn't do more than finish his beer and stand to his full height, settling a meaty hand on your head with a huff.

"Wear whatever you want," he grumbles, which makes your skin feel warm and inviting where he drags his hand down to cup the back of your neck, "anyone looks at you, and I'll fucking kill 'em."

[ficmashup]

I had a diabolical idea...what if the find out reader has been faking her O's...maybe it's harder for her to cum than others and doesn't wanna bother them or maybe they're not doing enough...

Love your writing btw🪷💗💗

Oh, so we're faking it? Diabolical. I love it. Yeah, so, this is just me writing smut for the sake of smut. We want to fake it with them? Guess again. They're getting those orgasms out of us.

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

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: swearing, unprotected piv, one-night stands, dirty talk, creampie, cock warming, praise, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal fingering

Word Count: 1.7k

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

John Price

“No. No, love.” John clucks his tongue, disappointed. “You don’t fake it with me.”

He pushes off from the bed, going down on his knees. Grasping your ankles, John tugs, pulling you down to the very edge of the bed.

“John—”

“Hush,” he coos. “And keep those legs open for me, dove. Gonna make sure you come, yeah?”

John presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing lightly in slow little circles. One finger teases your entrance, slides in, and then out. John adds a second, removing his thumb, he replaces it with his lips, kissing your clit.

Slow and languid, your thighs quiver, the start of an orgasm blooming low in your belly.

“There we are,” he smiles.”

His lips part, the tip of his tongue brushing over your clit in a tease even as his fingers pump steadily in and out of your pussy.

The pleasure builds. Widening.

“You have such a gorgeous pussy,” he praises. “Love watching how well you take me. Fingers and cock.”

He flattens his tongue, running it around where your body takes his fingers before swirling up to tease your clit. The groan that claws up your throat is real and loud, and John purrs with contentment.

“Come for me. Let me hear you.”

John sucks on your clit and it’s over. Back arching, you come off the bed a bit, whimpering as your pussy squeezes around his fingers.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he groans against you, slowing the movement of his fingers.

You’re still buzzing when John stands, slotting himself between your legs. His hand lightly grasps your throat, forcing you to look at him. “Will you ever fake it with me again?”

You shake your head.

“Good. Now let’s breed you properly, yeah?”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

You force out a moan. It is higher than it usually is—louder. Kyle stills mid-thrust, the middle of his brow creasing slightly in concern.

“What was that?” he asks.

Oh shit.

It’s been a long day, and while you want to have sex with Kyle, part of you just isn’t feeling it. Having this intimacy is lovely, but you’re also not…committed.

“What was what?” you reply, avoiding the question.

Kyle shifts his weight to an elbow. “I know when you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

Busted.

“Hey. Look at me.” Kyle’s hand slides to the back your neck. “We can stop.”

You lightly shake your head. “That’s not it.”

His thumb traces the line of your jaw. “Talk to me,” he murmurs, following that caress with a brush of his lips.

“I’m—I’m just feeling it.”

Kyle hums softly, placing a soft kiss just to the side of your mouth. “If you want to stop, we can stop.”

“No,” you whisper, hooking your legs around him a little tighter. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Okay,” says Kyle. “Okay.”

Shifting from his elbow to his hand, Kyle starts to withdraw, his cock sliding out slowly. You relinquish, dropping your legs wide as he kisses softly down your body.

“Just relax,” he coos, moving lower. “Relax.”

You settle, eyes closing as his mouth finds your clit. He gives it one kiss, then two. The tip of his tongue teases. Withdraws. Teases again.

“Kyle,” you breathe, a flicker of pleasure awakening.

“Don’t ever fake it with me, love.” Kyle flattens his tongue against you. Pressure. Retreat. Pressure again.

This time your groan from somewhere deep in your throat.

“There it is,” he coos. “Come for me.”

Kyle returns, tasting and tasting in the same rhythm, never deviating, pushing you closer to your end. Another brush of his tongue and it’s over. All the muscles in your body contract, seize, shudder. Your thighs squeeze his cheeks, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you might crush him, continuing to lick and suck.

When your hand presses to the top of his head, overstimulation filtering in, that’s when Kyle lifts his head.

“No faking it with me, ya hear?”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Are you fucking faking right now?”

“I—no. Simon. I’m not.”

Heat creeps up your neck and ensnares your cheeks. You’ve been caught, and you don’t want to admit it.

“You are,” says Simon slowly. You shake your head but Simon tuts. “Lying won’t help, dove.” He leans in and lightly bites your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. He releases it with a wet pop. “You think I want you to fake it?”

This time, you answer truthfully. “No.”

“Think I want you to hide when you’re not into it?”

“No.”

“Come here, dove.”

Lifting you into his lap, Simon shifts you around until you’re leaning against his chest, head resting on his shoulder. Gripping the underside of your thighs, Simon eases you down onto his cock, keeping your legs spread wide and draped over his thick, muscled thighs.

“You don’t fake it with me, dove,” murmurs Simon as he nuzzles your exposed neck. He lightly bites, and then eases the sting with a kiss. “Touch yourself.”

“Simon,” you gasp as his lips trace the curve of your ear.

“Do it.”

Bringing your hand down between your thighs, you make a v with your index and middle finger, parting your pussy to expose your clit and where you and Simon’s bodies meet.

“Fucking gorgeous, dove,” groans Simon, his voice honey-sweet. “Take me so well.”

The praise washes over you, seeping into your pores. Bringing your fingers together, you slide them back and forth over your clit. Simon’s hands shift to the tops of your thighs. They press down just as his hips snap up.

“Oh, fuck,” you moan.

“That’s it,” murmurs Simon. “Keep going.”

You find a pace and sink into the sensation. With each pass of your fingers, and every upward thrust from Simon, the orgasm builds. This you can’t fake.

“Gonna fuck you hard, dove. Don’t you dare stop. Understand?”

You nod frantically, and Simon smiles against your throat.

Keeping you in place, Simon fucks up into you over and over again, driving home in powerful strokes that steal your breath. You follow his order, playing with your clit, allowing the orgasm to build until your heart thunders in your ears.

“That’s it,” coos Simon as your orgasm unfolds. “That’s it.”

It’s a full shudder and open mouth silence as you’re cracked over the head with euphoric pleasure. Simon is grunting into your ear, his hips thrusting upward quickly now as you squeeze down on his cock.

“Simon,” you manage to moan.

“Gonna fake it again with me?”

“No,” you gasp. “Never.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Fucking look at you,” croons Johnny.

His large hands palm your ass, squeezing both cheeks. Releasing slowly, Johnny’s hands slide to your hips and then up to your waist before shifting to your back, caressing your spine. You shiver under his touch, arching your hips a bit more, rocking back to take more of his cock.

From the bar, to buying you a drink, to going home with him all in the span of a few hours. Now, you’re in his bed. He’s fucked you twice, and you haven’t orgasmed once. But you’ve faked it, groaned loudly and with enthusiasm when he’s finished inside you.

Johnny’s hands wrap around your throat, and then he’s fucking you, using you like he’d use a toy. The very idea is fucking delicious and yet the building tension plateaus, leaving you hanging as Johnny holds your body against his, cum filling your pussy.

Your head drops, the tingling edge receding, leaving you aching. Johnny’s hands remain around your throat, his thumbs rubbing slow circles across the back of your neck.

“You know,” he murmurs absently. “I think you’ve been lying to me.”

Turning your head, you glance over your shoulder. “Lying to you?”

Johnny hums as he eases himself from your body. “On your back,” he instructs, lightly tapping the outside of your thigh.

You roll onto your back, and Johnny spreads your legs wide. Your cum-coated pussy greets him, and Johnny smirks at the sight.

“I know what it feels like when a woman orgasms,” he says, hands sliding up and down your inner thighs. “There’s nothing else like it.” With one hand still on your thigh, Johnny palms his cock, jerking himself back to hardness.

“How—how did you—”

“Know?” he asks, tapping the head against your clit. “Would have felt you squeeze my cock, love.”

Johnny lines himself up and slides home, bottoming out. “I’m staying right here. Play with you until you orgasm. And if you don’t squeeze my cock hard enough to make me come, I’ll keep playing with you until I do.”

A quick swipe of his thumb and Johhny drags some of his cum up to your clit. He lightly presses—swirls. A little shock of pleasure shoots through your body, and your pussy briefly flutters around Johnny’s cock.

“Just like that,” he groans, continuing to circle your clit. “Just like that.”

With your legs spread wide, you’re unable to clamp them shut as Johnny plays with your clit. His cock remains in place, unmoving. It’s just his fingers and the deliciously dirty words dripping from his lips.

“Do you know how fucking gorgeous you look right now?”

“Full of my cock.”

“Full of my cum.”

His words are slow and languid but his fingers play a perfect dance. Your breath quickens, toes curling as Johnny finds the perfect pace. You whimper, the orgasm quickly rising to the surface.

“There it is,” croons Johnny. “Give it to me, love. Let me hear you. Let me fucking feel you.”

The pent-up tension from three faked orgasms comes blasting forward. Your head falls back, and you release a feral groan, body shaking under the tension.

“Oh, fucking hell,’ grunts Johnny as his fingers dig into your thigh, keeping you firmly against the bed as he continues to flick your clit.

He rubs and continues to do so even as the orgasms crests and recedes.

“It’s too much,” you gasp, but Johnny only shakes his head.

“My cock is still inside you, love. Once I cum inside this tight little pussy, then we’ll stop.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving

[ficmashup]

For some reason, the thought of reader being a werewolf too in the Soap neighbor thing seems like an ironic/funny idea. Like, maybe reader was bit and changed, but has no idea how to navigate the wolf world. I mean, you can't exactly google correct info on something that "isn't real". Plus, it's such a big world reader had never actually run into another wolf. It seemed safer for the reader to keep their secret werewolf existence hidden. Maybe reader's never seen another wolf before and likes their safe solitary little world. Only to then be confronted by Soap when they finally open their door.

ohhh. i like this twist. imagine you’re minding your business, living your recently upturned life, dealing with your new circumstances on your own. you’ve never seen another wolf before, other than the bastard who bit you, so you’re just figuring things out as you go. maybe keeping a journal or something like, “note to self: raw steak cravings = normal, do not eat neighbor’s cat.”

but then you smell them. someone like you. you catch whiffs of them at the building’s entrance. by the post boxes. on warm days when everyone’s windows are open. that’s the kind of day it is when you spot him on his balcony for the first time, and the thick scent of his sweat carries across the gap. there’s a certain doggish undertone to it.

the staring problem begins.

and it is humiliating.

it makes your instincts go haywire. you jot down feverish notes about what it does to you. how you keep finding yourself creeping through the blinds. it isn’t normal. none of it is normal. but you have no idea what to do. you can’t just outright ask, can you? hey, i smelled you from across the building and i really dig your musk.

of course, then you’re caught peeping, and he winds up at your door. you have to open it. what other choice do you have? you get the feeling it will open with or without your permission. you throw the deadbolt but keep the chain hooked out of some remaining shred of self-preservation. then you crack the door open.

it is pungent, to say the least. he didn’t even bother to throw a shirt on. looks like he ran here, too, judging by his heaving, hairy chest. he stares down at you, unblinking, his mouth set in a line. you go tongue-tied. he must be furious.

after a beat, he plants a hand on the door and gives it a push. just a nudge. but it’s enough—the flimsy chain strains, pops out of its track, and snaps into pieces. you don’t look down when it lands on your feet. you’re too busy watching the slow curl of his smile. his nostrils flaring.

“...yer jokin’. a pretty she-wolf? right under my nose?”

[ficmashup]

any tips for writing Price? trying to write him but it’s hard

hmmm. so i will do my best to answer this. i think a lot of what's below applies to any of the 141, tbh.

obviously, not an expert.

if you haven't watched a playthrough of the games, i highly recommend it. pay attention to his mannerisms, listen to his speech patterns, and note how he interacts in conversations versus when he's in the background. i rewatch clips when i feel stuck on how to beef up his physicality or have trouble 'hearing' him.

also read @391780 's post on barry sloane. no joke, i have this saved and bookmarked. i re-read it when i need help blocking his body language.

study and dissect his core traits. what seems to motivate him, how he reacts under pressure, etc. this feeds back into watching the playthroughs and really tuning into his decisions and dialogue.

to me, that means price is: strategic, relentless, protective, possessive, convinced of his own indispensability (the world needs men like him—how is a reader character any different?), emotionally perceptive, hypocritical (unmatched ability to rationalize a behavior when he's the one doing it), charming (half-natural, half-practiced), etc. i could slap on so much more. mess around with dialing certain traits up. traits fluctuate depending on the mood/tone of fic.

i always keep in mind he's highly specialized and trained. he's a captain. he acts from a place of authority and is accustomed to wearing that mantle. he knows how people work, how to manage them, and how to appease or poke at them. a lot of leeway there.

and my number one writing tip, as always, read. i am a big fan of my pals @/391780, @/yeyinde, and @/ceilidho. while i love everything they share, their price x reader works are it for me.

i hope this helps. again, not an expert, just a fan.

[ficmashup]

Who from tf141 would bring up anal but for themselves? (Ie pegging and such?)

SOAP. Now, I don't think it's something he has in mind when you're first starting to explore sex with each other, but that man will wander into pornography and bring it up with you within the hour. As soon as he has both hands free he'll send you a text asking it you'd ever want to fuck his ass. The man is just begging to be fucked, honestly. He will be grabbing the sheets and moaning for you with no shame or remorse. If the neighbors don't look at him afterwards then that's their problem not his.

Gaz would bring it up only after he'd gotten you comfortable with anal. Much like everything else he's easing you into it, having you finger him while you blow him, shoving your head a little further down when you kiss his balls, testing the waters on buying you a strap. Now be warned, this man will not be giving up any control when you fuck him, IF you fuck him. He knows what he wants and he's going to get it, but sometimes that means pinning you down and fucking himself on your strap while you beg and whine for him to let you do it.

Ghost absolutely will not bring it up. You can ask him about it and he'll just stare at you. He's a tough nut to crack and you'll really have to work on him (and the trauma) if you want to fuck him.

Price... he won't ask but he wants you to fuck him. That man needs someone to fuck his brains out. He'll play it off like he has to think about it if you ask, but he is salivating at the thought. And even if he wasn't I'd want that old man bent over a desk STAT

[ficmashup]

line-up [alpha!141 x omega!reader]

summary: pack 141 shows their interest in you.

pairing: alpha!141 x omega!reader

warnings: +18 (mdni), omegaverse, a/b/o, mild sexual themes, heavy misogyny, low self-esteem, forced exchange of personal items (underwear).

part 1: the gift exchange

you’ve heard that they’re picky.

somehow that doesn’t surprise you. there’s not many people who are allowed in their pack. even less people step on their territory and not without good reason.

it makes sense why they’d choose this specific prison establishment.

it’s a whole process. every omega’s package was sent to a pack for The Selection. from there, they would choose which omegas should be placed in a room to come and meet them for the first time. after that, only one (or a few) get to go home with them.

you sent in your package weeks ago. you were required to send a few things in that box. someone cut a few pieces of your hair to place in ziplock bags. scent packets too (these were very important); you had to rub square pieces of wet cotton on your scent glands and put those in ziplock bags too. a few items of clothing, both washed and unwashed, each also placed in it’s own ziplock bag so the smells don’t mix. usually, it’s a shirt, a hoodie, something with your sweat. and finally, one vial of your blood for genetic testing and to see if there’s any conditions they need to be aware of.

it’s all very clinical. hardly any feeling put into it. you just go through the motions of following instructions given to you like the good little omega you are.

however, this pack, 141, a week after you sent in your package, put in a request for one pair of your underwear.

then. you were... surprised, to say the least. when you sent your initial package in, you thought that would’ve been the end of it. packs and lone alphas usually overlooked you and didn’t pay you no mind. you assumed it would be the same again this time.

“no.” said Laswell.

you halted in your tracks when you attempted to get a pair of panties from your hamper. Kate Laswell is a cold individual. she stands tall with a stern face and speaks with a temperament that douses you in ice cold water.

her tone, though not unkind, makes you think she doesn't like you very much. more like she’s running an errand that’s wasting her time. she’s not too low on patience, but it’s not enough for her to be overly nice to you.

Kate is no omega, that much you’re sure of but it’s hard to discern if she’s beta or alpha. she gives no sign that she might be beta as she gives off no scent that speaks to her designation. and while she seems non-aggressive to the naked eye, you can tell that she could easily put down an arrogant alpha if she needs to.

icy blue eyes drop to just below your stomach. “the one you’re wearing right now.”

what. the. fuck.

the mere notion of it is so crude. your cheeks burn hotly as you stare at her with wide eyes. she bears no emotion on her face. like what she’d just asked you was completely normal. like it was just standard procedure.

it wasn’t. this was new. unprecedented, even. for you, anyway.

“o—oh. um…” you nervously glance at the two guards behind her. “is— is that allowed?”

the one who came with her, Alex, a beta with nods. like Kate, pale, blond haired and blue eyed. except, unlike her, he has a friendly face.

“it is.” he softly confirms. “we’re sorry that it’s such a sudden request. the pack just wants to be sure.”

it’s not the suddenness of the request that’s so jarring. it’s how wildly inappropriate odd it is.

and they want to be sure? of what exactly?

you don’t know what your panties have that the rest of your package doesn’t. it’s all scent, all biology. clinical. right down to the bone. you can’t think of a single good reason why the package you had sent wasn’t enough for them.

you stood there, mouth agape as you try to think of something to say. to resist. to counter. but you know nothing you say has no weight. you don’t have a choice in this. it hardly matters how degrading the request is. you must follow through with it, even if you expect no follow up on how the alphas have responded.

either you give them what they want or suffer the consequences.

the other guard, the one hired by the establishment, growls when you take too long to decide. his brow twitches, face twisted into a scowl as he snaps his teeth at you. “come on, Ms. Laswell doesn’t have all day. do as you’re told, omega—”

you flinch at his raised voice. his burning scent invades your nose faster than you can try to prepare yourself for it.

Jason has always been like that. an alpha who cracks his whip at any disobedience. he especially seems to have it out for you. you have no idea why and you’ve done your best to stay out of his way.

Kate, however, doesn’t tolerate his anger. because she immediately shot back—

“quiet.” a veiled threat. she’s not even as loud as he was. she turns to face him, blocking you from his view. “do not talk to her like that.”

alpha, your mind screams.

her annoyance freezes the air over. it’s the only sort of emotion you’ve seen from her up until this point. and it’s the only thing that gives her away.

she’s an alpha.

it’s all she needs to make Jason’s spine straighten in a split second. every ounce of bravado vapourized into thin air faster than you can blink. he hangs his head in shame and looks away. “y—yes, ma’am. my apologies.”

you’re stand very still, watching the exchange in awe. you think this might be the first time anyone has ever truly put him in his place. nonetheless, you obeyed when she turns back to you, if only you don’t end up on the receiving end of her ire.

when Laswell looks at you once more, you’re quick to avoid her eyes as you reach under your skirt and took off your underwear, a simple piece of soft cotton, cheeks burning with heat because you’re all too aware of the wet spot on it. you wonder how many more omegas were also made to hand over their panties like that.

she holds out an open ziplock bag and lets you put them inside then seals it shut. Alex then steps forward. he holds out a box. it’s the standard semi-clear package. your eyes widen when you get a glimpse of what’s inside.

ziplock bags. you count four big bags. there’s more in there but you can’t see how many from where you’re standing.

“take these.” he gives you the box. your arms sag a bit at the unexpected weight of it. it’s heavier than you thought. “they wanted you to have them before The Selection.”

“thank you.” you squeak, unable to think of anything else to say.

Kate leaves without another word and Alex bids you goodbye with a warm smile before he follows.

Jason glares at you. all of that sheepishness is sadly short-lived and once they’re well out of earshot, he points a finger in your face. “don’t think you’re special just because you’re whoring yourself out.”

you flinch. he scoffs at the hurt look on your face.

must he remind you? that you shouldn’t get your hopes up? that you know this ritual won’t go anywhere? it’ll end the same as all the others that came before.

“and don’t get your hopes up. they’re not gonna pick you.” he hooks a thumb in his belt, leaning on the door frame.

realistically, you shouldn’t let his words get to you. he’s mean to everyone who isn’t his group of friends. he’s mean to every unmated omega he crosses paths with.

“you’re too…” he looks you up and down, eyes damn near glowing with disapproval at what he sees. “ordinary.”

the word strikes true. tears sting your eyes.

“they probably asked ten other omegas to give them their panties to sniff.” he backs away from your door and chuckles. “don’t be too disappointed when you’re not called to The Selection.”

he slams the door and locks it behind him. leaving you standing in a sea of sorrow. you take in the silence of your small enclosure and take a deep breath, your head tipping back to look at the ceiling as you try to will back the tears.

an arrogant ass he may be but at least he’s truthful. that’s your only consolation. your only reminder that not every omega gets to leave this place. not everyone gets a happy ending.

when you sit down on your small bed and place the box right next to you, you sigh before opening the clasps. immediately, a potent mix of scents permeates all around you.

your body reacts to it faster than your mind can process.

it’s a gut-punch. pure molten heat poured straight down your throat and flowed all the way further down to your cunt. you hadn’t expected the intensity of it, the sheer want to be filled to the brim.

the sudden pulse coming to life between your legs had you whimpering and panting as if you’d just ran a mile. clenching your thighs didn’t do much to help ease the ache. not with your panties clinging to the slick suddenly dripping from your pussy.

you had to put the box away and retreat into your bathroom to calm down. gripping the cold sink and breathing uncontaminated air more so to stop yourself from reaching under your skirt than anything else, but eventually, you had to return to your room.

the box was half opened when you returned. you pull up the lid and peered inside. like you thought, the four massive ziplock bags. each with a hoodie and a shirt inside. all of them were labeled with names.

Johnny was scribbled messily on the front of the one you picked first. his heady scent was faintly earthy with a touch of what you assume is motor oil and gasoline. not bad. he must like cars then. his hands must be rough from all the work he puts in them.

GHOST was written in big block letters and with a small skull face at the bottom right. his clothes were huge. he must be a really big guy. bigger than Johnny even. he smells like gunpowder and sweat, and strangely enough, that doesn’t make your nose wrinkle as it does with every other alpha you’ve come across.

then there’s John. neatly written, but you could tell he doesn’t really care too much about how his letters are formed on paper. you recognize the scent of cigars anywhere with how often the alphas in your facility take part in smoking them every week in their lounge room. your lips purse in contemplation but ultimately decide it’s not that bad. with time, if they decide to take you with them, you might get used to it.  

lastly, Kyle’s name was written in cursive and circled in one big heart. that alone makes forces a giddy smile on your face. you can already tell that he showers more often than the other three. there’s hints of shower gel and cologne alongside the smell of John’s colognes. you like him already.

you liked all of them. you don’t even know which one to start with.

that’s not all, though. there’s snacks too. chocolate bars, bags of chips and three bottles of different flavoured sweet tea. but every muscle in your body stopped when you saw something else. neatly packaged in between all those gifts was a bundle of beautiful red roses.

they’re... this is…

there’s a note between the petals, which you’re scared to even touch. your shaky hands pluck it out and open it to see what was written inside.

It’s a little early but Happy Valentine’s Day to our favourite omega. Looking forward to seeing you at The Selection <3

no. it can’t be. surely not. they’re not doing what you think they’re doing.

you look back to the roses. the gifts. the food. a box filled with clothes from four alphas who express an interest in taking you into their pack. this.

it’s clear, cut and dry what this is.

it’s a courting gift.

panic rises up your throat. it feels more like bile and you think it best to stay in the bathroom, preferably near the toilet in case your stomach decides it doesn’t want to hold its content anymore. you end up standing there, staring at the toilet bowl for approximately four and a half minutes and spend another two taking deep breaths while pacing around the bathroom because your omega is too charged to let you think clearly.

and your clear, rational thoughts tell you to be serious for a second.

usually, one or two omegas are chosen for one individual or one pack. pick too many and you run the risk of creating conflicts because you didn’t allow everybody to get used to each other first before letting the pack settle into a sense of normalcy.

since there are four alphas, it’s likely that each one might want to have their own.

which leads you to believe that there are three more omegas who probably got sent the same package and with the same note. there’s four alphas. surely, they’re not going to be satisfied with just one of you.

one omega won’t be enough to contend with four ruts on differing occasions or worse, four ruts at once if one decides to trigger the other. it’s just not possible if they truly are serious about you.

besides, there has to be some mistake. it can’t be you they want.

it just can’t.

courting gifts usually aren’t exchanged until after the selection process is complete and the pack is certain that they’re keeping you.

this is definitely not something that should be happening right now.

Jason might be right about one thing. they probably did ask a bunch of other omegas for the same thing too. alphas are perverts like that. you’re not special. they probably want to add to their collection of sorts.

and yet, regardless of that fact...

your eyes drift to the hoodie you left on the edge of your bed. its scent calls to you. fervent and sweet, you’re drawn to it. the cold air in your room makes it difficult not to crave any sort of warmth that’s been given so freely.

regardless, of all this logic telling you that you shouldn’t have high hopes for anything, for even daring to think that you’ll ever leave this place.

regardless, you bury your nose in the hoodie and sharply inhale Kyle’s lovely scent and roll around your bed, purring and sighing deeply. he smells like kindness. like the first ray of light after a brutal winter. he smells like everything you’ve ever dreamed of in an alpha who would be willing to take care of you.

whatever the case may be with these gifts, you hope they meant what they said in the note. you yearn to be their favourite, you want them to look forward to finding you.

(and you hope they aren’t disappointed once they do).

four alphas expressing an interest in you is far more than you could’ve hoped for. it will break you when the unfortunate outcome finally rears its head and you don’t get to follow them to their home.

you hope that you’ll still get to keep one of their hoodies once The Selection passes.

in my defense, i was ovulating when this n00dled in my head.

banners by@cafekitsune and @vase-of-lilies

offer a coin to the picklejar

[main masterlist]

[part 2]

[ficmashup]

you can never do the "losing your bf in a mall" trend with 141 because they can instinctually feel when you're more than three feet away from them.

Gaz has to be talking to you every five seconds. he either has questions, comments and opinions on whatever you're buying and is helpful with his input. so if he doesn't hear your voice when he says something while looking away, he's worried and immediately comes to your side like the dutiful boyfriend he is.

Price is somewhat similar in the sense that he's the one pushing your trolley and needs to be near you so you don't have to carry shit. isn't really helpful in helping you choose stuff and just wants you to put everything in the trolley so he can pay for it.

Ghost can't be your guard dog if he's too far away to protect you so naturally, he's always nearby and has an eye on you while keeping mental notes of all the exits. nobody bothers you because of it. not even the pesky shop assistants who insist on following you arround, trying to help you do your shopping so they can get a commission, whcih you're so grateful for.

Soap is always glued to your side, always pawing at you, always sniffing anything you seem vaguely interested in buying. he just wants to feel included in everything you do, including this. especially this. he can be a helpful test subject for skincare products and pefumes you want to try and always walks out of a store smelling like he got bathed in flowers.

[ficmashup]

daddy cool, side B ⋆˙⟡

simon riley x fem!reader (background price x reader) summary: you make a movie with simon. ↪or, john produces. tags/warnings: making a porno, rough sex (p in v), oral (f + m), please forgive my dialogue i'm trying my best, degradation / slut shaming, squirting, a little dubcon, size kink, a little pain, unnegotiated kink, john is mostly in the background but he's there

“Alright honey, move a little to the right.”

“Like this?”

“Just like that, sweetheart. Spread those legs a little.”

John had been your fluffer earlier, licked you until you were rarin’ to go, wet and soft and needy. He can probably still taste you on his mustache.

You’re taking photos now, leaning back on the bed, bare wet pussy spread for John and the camera. Your two fingers create a perfect V, showing him your winking hole, your pert clit.

He really wasn’t lying about producing– you hadn’t deeply suspected him, but there was a niggling little thought there that he was maybe putting it on to get you in bed. It had worked either way, but nice to know he’s honest.

Ghost, the masked man. Cheesy, but popular with women, John says. They like the mystery.

“Touch yourself a little,” John shifts the camera as you do, lightly petting your clit with two fingers, “that’s good, that’s real good.”

You dip two fingers into your hole, wet from John’s earlier attention, biting your lip in what you hope is a seductive manner for the camera. John chuckles low in his chest, cock pushing against his tight pants. The view makes your mouth water, but you aren’t here for John today.

You’re here for the giant of a man that walks through the doorway, wearing scuffed blue jeans and big black boots. The mask isn’t what you’d imagined, but it fits over the tight white t-shirt he’s wearing. A skull.

“Ah, Simon,” John turns to greet him, “there you are.”

Simon’s cock is already chubbed up in his jeans, long and thick against his leg. For a perverse moment you imagine what it would look like for he and John to push their bulges against each other, groaning, pec squeezed against pec, and your pussy clenches.

You wish John would perform, if only just to tag team you with this meaty specimen of a man.

Add it to the spankbank.

“John,” Simon greets him back, stepping into the room. He’s not even looking at you, which is hot for some reason you don’t care to parse. He lifts a boot and steps onto John’s stool, “fresh meat?”

John laughs, which seems to be the only answer Simon needs before he turns towards you finally and pins you to the bed with his gaze. 

Your fingers pause, still dipped halfway inside, clit pulsing against the heel of your palm.

“Pretty,” he says, and just as you’re about to say thank you, “nice, Cap,” a pause, “picked a ripe one.”

He walks until his shins hit the bed, looking down at you and your spread legs, where your hand is still and your pussy drips onto the sheets. His eyelashes are pale, ghostly, strangely beautiful against his brown eyes. 

You wish you could see his face, his expression, but John was right– they do like the mystery.

There’s a little hint of a scar that pokes up from his cheekbone, pulling the skin of his bottom lid a little, but there’s no time to examine him in detail.

“Right then,” John interrupts, “let’s take a few pictures.”

The first pose he puts you in is on Simon’s lap, explicitly directing you to press your pussy against his jeanclad thigh and make a little wet spot for us, will you, love?

It’s honestly humiliating, but you’re so tuned up that the heat of your embarrassment only adds to the tension.

“That’s good, that’s real good,” John murmurs, instructing Simon to put a heavy hand on your lower back, pressing you further into his leg.

Your clit drags against the fabric, and the camera snaps your open mouthed gasp.

“Pull her shirt down,” and Simon does; pulling your tanktop down until your tits fall out, soft and peaked, pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt.

You’re looking over your shoulder, hazy, bottom lip between your teeth. John snaps a few more before he places you in the next position.

All you can stare at is the dark patch on Simon’s jeans.

“This one’s for the cover,” he says, getting Simon to lay down and pull his jeans a little down– showing off the line of hair leading to the biggest tease; the beginnings of his bush, trapped under just his jeans.

He’s gone commando. All you can see is the little pudge of his pubis as it’s squished by his waistband, a tasty little tenderloin you want to bite.

You’re next; standing over Simon, legs wide open, looking down at him with your tits out and your thighs wet. It’s a movie-esque kind of pose, and in another universe maybe you’re decked out in cheap sci-fi costumes for a blockbuster.

Then he’s ready, and you have to re-dress. Tanktop goes back on, shorts get slid right back up your legs, and he puts you on top of the covers.

Simon prowls like a panther, graceful in his movements despite the sheer size of him. You’re leaned back, elbows on the bed, breathing harder the closer he gets.

“Felt that wet little pussy,” he says, voice low, “she’s more than ready for me, isn’t she? Probably soaking those slutty shorts.”

“Uh huh,” you murmur, legs outstretched and straight before him. 

John had told you a little bit of the ‘script’ beforehand, a loose skeleton to follow outside of improv, so you aren’t shocked when he pulls the button open on your shorts and pulls them down in one fell swoop.

“Look’it that,” his lips move under the mask. You wonder if he’s licking his lips, looking at your pussy like that.

He takes you by the ankle, dragging you across the mattress until you’re flat on your back and looking up at him.

“Haven’t even seen my cock yet,” he laughs meanly, his other hand reaching to take a big squeeze of his cock through his jeans, “and look’it that. Slag if I’ve ever seen one.”

Your face burns, breath stuttering. This wasn’t a part of the little warning John had given you, but you’re not that mad about it. Hot, humiliated– but not opposed.

Simon looks at you for barely another second before he’s crawled up to your face, knees on either side of your head.

Oh.

“Gimme a kiss.”

You lean forward, lips pressing against his rough jeans. He smells good, a little like cigarettes but there’s that musk you love so much. You mouthe against him until he pulls your head back to the mattress by your hair.

He pulls down his jeans, freeing a mostly plump cock that flops onto your cheek. Oh man, it’s weighty. The nestle of curls at the base of it is like a magnet for your eyes, too.

“I can take it all the way,” you look up into those inscrutable eyes.

“Yeah? Prove it.”

You take the tip first, licking it lewdly, turning to the camera every so often like John had told you to– just let them see those eyes, honey. Show them how much you like it.

So you do. You give big, wide eyes as Simon gets impatient and starts tunnelling down your throat, shoulders trapped beneath his heavy thighs.

When you gag, he laughs lowly, keeping you there. He runs a rough thumb over the taut stretch of your upper lip, down to your lower lip, palm cradling your jaw.

“That’s a good girl,” he slides backwards, jeans scraping your nipples through your tanktop, hardly giving you but a moment before he's pushing back in. Rinse and repeat.

It’s like with John, only Simon’s cock is a little different. Longer, and curved where John’s is thicker. The tip pokes you in the back of the throat, sometimes at the roof of your mouth from the awkward angle.

You feel crushed underneath him despite your entire lower half being free, legs coming up and thighs squeezing together as the camera pans towards them and John murmurs, “show me that pussy, honey.”

So you spread your legs, humiliated at the gluk-gluk-gluk sound coming from your throat but gushing impossibly more under the camera’s lens.

“That’s a pretty picture,” Simon grunts, sliding out of your mouth to tap the head against your lips, letting you stick your tongue out and drool drip down your chin, “yeah. Keep your mouth open.”

This is mostly for the camera, the way he rubs himself on your face, the way you lay there and keep your mouth open. You don’t have to fake the desperation, but still.

Simon’s a pro.

He leans back, fingers finding your bare cunt and sliding a finger along your slit. Slippery, swollen, the contact is like drinking water in the desert. Like the satisfying pleasure-pain of pressing down a bruise.

His finger slides up and down shallowly, never stopping where you need it while you kiss the underside of his cock.

“This cock-hungry pussy’s soakin’ my fingers,” his eyes squint, like he’s grinning under the mask, “reckon I could solve a drought with this,” he lifts his finger to your mouth, slipping them in for you to taste yourself.

Where the fuck did John find this guy?

You play along, face burning, sucking his fingers with a soft moan.

After a moment, he leans back and gets off you, pulling your tanktop down as he does so your tits bounce back out. Hello again, ladies.

There’s a small moment of stalling where John sets the camera up on a tripod near the end of the bed and Simon drags you so your head is towards the headboard, and then it’s 3 2 1 action again.

“Hands on the headboard,” Simon gruffs, then slides onto his belly and presses his mask to your cunt. Your hands fly to the headboard, hanging on for dear life as he inhales through the fabric.

Jesus. He rubs the knit on your swollen pussy, up and down, spreading you open with his covered chin and then pressing his nose to your clit.

You don’t have to exaggerate your sounds. They come naturally, rising in pitch when he pushes his mask up just enough to see his pink, scarred lips wrap around your engorged clit.

He’s greedy, eating more to taste you than to please you.

When he lifts his head, mouth wet and tongue poking out to lick the remnants of your slick, stopping at the cusp of your orgasm, you give the camera at the end of the bed your best wounded animal look.

Simon doesn’t take his jeans off when he gets back up to his knees, shuffling to kneel between your legs.

You notice all too late that he hasn’t fingered you, not even a little dip. He’s licked you, sucked on your clit until you were keening, but there’s a deadly focus in his eyes as he puts the fat head of his cock against your hole that tells you you’re in trouble.

“Got a good look at this?,” he grunts, tilted towards the camera, “this is the best part.”

Oh fuck, he pushes in and it feels like a hydraulic press; crushing pressure, a sting, stretching taught around him as you gasp–

“Pinching me,” he curls his lip, abdomen tensing, “Jesus.”

“Oh god, fuck,” you shiver, trying to keep your knees spread, wincing and gasping in deep breaths for air as he carves a space inside you for himself.

“Relax,” he squeezes in further. Stretching, painful, intensely delicious, “relax that cunt for me, sweetheart. Let her get what she needs. ”

You try, only noticing John as he palms his bulge, watching your pussy struggling to take Simon’s cock.

It takes a few see-sawing movements of his hips before you finally loosen a little around him and he really lets loose. Doesn’t let you take a breath, just starts pounding like he’s getting a bonus for it and you shout with surprise.

A vision of an adventuring viking comes to mind, beaten and lashed by storm, the only respite to hang onto the mast in the middle of a ship… that’s the headboard for you.

He fucks like animal, but it’s still as graceful as the way he moved when he first entered the room. How can a man that looks so rough, is so big, roll his spine and slap his hips into yours in such a dancerly way? His pace is inhuman.

His cock spears into you like he’s digging for gold, tilted just so that you’re loud with how good it feels and almost wincing every time he pokes a little too deep.

You think maybe it’s on purpose, what with the way he stares down at you, big hands coming to hold your midsection and dig his fingers into your skin. 

Yeouch, that feels good.

“There she is,” he fucks you deep, unrelenting, groaning when he feels your hole start to squeeze, “doesn’t even need a hand, then,” he laughs.

He’s right. You don’t. Your abdomen squeezes, orgasm building, the first of its kind– without any kind of contact on your clit, that is.

You try to hold back for as long as possible, try to make eyes at the camera again, but you’re lost to the feeling of getting fucked so good and so deep. The feeling builds and builds and steamrolls you, legs shaking where they’re spread, ears going deaf with the blood rushing in them.

A scream bursts forth from your throat at the same time as you literally spray, slick soaking Simon’s jeans and the bottom of his t-shirt. 

There’s no time to be embarrassed with the hard, punitive thrusts he gives you as he rides his orgasm out behind yours, filling you up with hot come.

You’re boneless, after. Laying nice and still for John to get closeups of your creampie’d pussy, for Simon to rest his spent cock between your pussylips and grin under his mask, tucking himself back into his soiled jeans as John dismisses him.

He’s damp everywhere, but he strolls over to John’s little minibar area and pours himself a whiskey like it doesn’t bother him.

John doesn’t give you a break, either. He pans the camera to the mess on the bed, the wet spot you’d caused by squirting all over Simon’s cock.

John grins at you from behind the camera.

“You’re a natural, honey.”

[ficmashup]

Alpha!Simon: I don't need anyone

Omega!Y/N: Slaughtered any and all alpha's that pushed their luck. Their back yard is covered in bones

Simon: I stand corrected

He's scared and horny. They've killed so many. He respects that

His buddies are trying to smack some sense to him but it doesn't work. He's going to court this one and he's doing it scared but respectful

Embodiment of that one Cowboy Bebop meme that's just "I love the kind of woman who'll just actually kill me"

I’m crying, that’s him. Mark him down as scared AND horny, yeah, he’s going to do the most careful courting of his LIFE, just bringing gifts and lingering near the entrance because wow, the bones are polished so nicely, oh wow.

Omega!Reader watching him like a fucking predator, eyes glowing, grin wide and ready to tear his throat out.

Simon:

Simon: you hungry there, luv?

Omega!Rider: *low clicking purr of an alien creature, shifts a little closer to him*

Simon:

Simon: fuck, I’m gonna die. This is so good. You smell so good. But Jesus, I’m gonna die

[ficmashup]

hear me out™️

Price’s spouse gets annoyed when John stays on base for too many weeks in a row and is shit about looking at his phone- it doesn’t happen often, but it has happened- so they’ve taken to serving him divorce papers (via one of the guys, probably) to light a fire under his ass to get back home. Do they really mean it? No. Does it always work? You bet.

Happy wife happy life and all that.

i already touched on what happens when you pull this type of 'prank' on john. and that's just if you were to mention it to him.

this is straight-up diabolical, and he'd respond in equal measure. you want to embarrass him? rope his boys into something that foolish? well, fine. have it your way.

but don't you dare complain when you arrive home one evening to find his men waiting for you. :/ what are they doing here? don't worry about it. price just wants to demonstrate what a lasting marriage looks like.

oh? is that embarrassing? hmmm. too bad.

[ficmashup]

you’ve just given me a thought

Reader sitting on Johnnys face with Simon fucking him. Johnnys pushing reader down harder on his face, all pussy drunk, smothered in her and it gets to a point where Simon has to physically pull reader off of Johnny just to let him breath because he wasn’t gonna do it himself and certainly wasn’t going to let reader go. He’s all flushed and breathing heavy getting air back in his lungs, face covered in squirt 🫣

oh lord i may have died and ascended-

and the way johnny’s got a vice grip on your thighs or on the dip of your hips, pushing you down on his face, either to muffle his moans on the hot press of your skin because simon’s fucking him so good, hitting his prostate so well, or to lick up at your pussy because it is so wet and warm, and your slick is so delicious, he can’t help but gulp it down because he wants more—

“joh-nny,” you hiccup, his name slipping from your gritted teeth in a slurred hiss. “stop! stop, please!”

it’s too much, too fast, and johnny’s frantic movements are only making you anxious. you can’t even feel his breath against your cunt anymore, and you tremble, wide-eyed as the cold wash of worry mixes with your desires.

you fist at his hair, trying to pry him off your cunt so you can get to your knees for a second, but your squirming just makes johnny grip your body harder. he digs his tongue in deeper, and you let out a drawled-out whine at the drag of his nose against your hardened clit.

“simon!” you sob, your breaths hitching as you tremble. “make’im stop! simon, make’im—”

“fuckin’ hell,” simon murmurs, breathless himself, his voice a rich timbre from somewhere close behind you. you feel his arms wrap around your chest before he pulls you towards him.

you lazily topple off johnny’s face and into simon’s space, your back pressed flush against his chest. you tip your head down, feeling the way simon does the same, and you two watch as johnny catches his breath.

he is flushed oh-so beautifully, his nose all flared as he gulps down air. his face is wet, messy with your slick, and you watch, with a silent gasp, johnny poke his tongue out to lave at his glistening lips, tasting the remnants of your euphoria.

you jump when you feel simon buck his body forward, jostling you and johnny together. johnny hisses, his face crumpling in his pleasure, and—

“oh,” you say, reaching down to stuff yourself with your fingers. “si, do tha’ again, please?”

simon hooks his chin on your shoulder, grunting in his own bliss when he pulls out, slow like he is deliberate in teasing johnny, only to punch his cock back in johnny. you three share a moan.

[ficmashup]

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

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

-anasdump

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"don't fucking touch me!"

"you cunt--"

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

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

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

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

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

you rub your knuckles gently, looking down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you laugh, shaking your head.

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

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

"i'm john."

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

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

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

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

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

"yes, ma'am."

[ficmashup]

priest!Soap pumping his hard aching cock to the thought of bending you over the pews and ripping your stupid habit off of your pretty little head, showing you precisely where a woman's place is in his church. Listening to you in confessional like you're his own personal pornographer, as he makes you explain in detail all of the dirty thoughts that have been running through your head. He can almost taste the tears that must roll down your face when you confess that you've been blaming him for them (wicked girl, dirty, filthy thing) because you've never had such a young priest watching over you.

"I'm so sorry father." You sniffle, and he has to choke his cock just to keep from coming on the screen between you. Maybe he could make you lick it off if he did. No.

"It's the nature of women," He tells you thickly, "One of Eve's curses to be lustful."

Spread your legs, he wants to tell you, do your fucking duty. Not to God but to him, the closest proxy. Perhaps your lusting will drive you to the same frenzy it drives him, will consume you with fire far before the devil can, so that it's you coming to him in the night and pressing your hand between your legs.

Wouldn't that be a welcome surprise? He hasn't tasted you yet, not there at least. He'd take to you better than he ever took to communion. Devourer, he thinks to himself, glutton. He'd sink his teeth into you until he tasted wine, until you cried and begged him to stop so he could shake his head like a dog and make you stop.

"Press your tongue to the divider," He tells you in a moment of madness (divine inspiration, a new prophet, a now gospel, a new god and a new wife to worship), "and I will at least purify the mouth if God cannot manage the mind."

The devout are desperate, and Soap has never found his congregation to be lacking either. It's why he pulls his rosary from around his choked cock and presses the tip of the cross to the wet muscle you've pressed to the screen. It's why he says the hail Mary for you as he attempts to brand the metal to your tongue. And it's the knowledge that your lips part so fucking easily for him (desperate whore, filthy, dirty girl) that baptizes the confessional booth with his come.