ficmashup

[ficmashup]

My Boys' Girl (18+)

Pairings: John Price / Simon "Ghost" Riley / Fem!Reader / Johnny "Soap" MacTavish Content Warnings: Voyeurism, mentioned exhibitionism, she/her pronouns used for reader Word Count: 1.1k A/N: Shorter fic this time-I've got a longer one in the works tho! Also-If anyone has any fic suggestions PLEASE tell me and i'll try my best xoxo

———————————————————————— “She wanted to show off for you, Cap.”

————————————————————————

John Price knew what his boys got up to in their spare time. He didn’t have to be told-he saw how they looked at each other, how they’d cuddled up to each other in the back of the van when they thought no one was looking, how they’d instantly look at each other at the mention of an “early finish.” He knew what they got up to. Not that he cared-he loved his lads like they were family. He’d shot enough evil glares at anyone who dared to criticize or gossip about the two. But what he didn’t know was how they’d managed to pick up you. The pretty little thing he’d seen clutching Johnny’s arm when they went to the pub, with the most beautiful eyes. He was happy for his lads-how they’d found home in each other, but God his eyes were drawn to you. Your perfect curves, your breasts (even if it made him feel like a dick), and your eyes. He could envision them looking up at him through those beautiful lashes, lips wrapped around his cock. 

He felt terrible about it. The lads obviously liked you a lot, and you’d been nothing but nice to him. And here he was-fantasizing about you. He’d often find himself getting off to you, wearing whatever tight little dress he’d seen you in. Cock in hand, imagining it was your mouth he was fucking. Nearly every night he’d flick through the selfies he’d gotten from MacTavish, nearly every photo including you. 

And then another notification came through-a photo, as usual. But it wasn’t the usual jokey selfie-which usually included you draped over the lads in some sort of way. This was different. This photo was…new. Evidently Ghost’s hands-based on the glove-tilting your face up by the chin, with your big, beautiful eyes staring into the camera. Eyes lidded every so slightly, with a blissed out look on your face. God you looked perfect. 

He hadn’t realized how long he’d been staring at that picture, his cock already stiffening in his trousers, until the next one came through. He exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping the arm of the chair a lot tighter than he had previously. It was like he could feel all the blood in his body rushing down, as he caught sight of you in the photo. Ass up in the air, face down in the pillow. Ghost’s hands were clearly holding your hands behind your back, and your pussy was barely covered by the lacy piece of string you called a thong. 

“She wanted to show off for you Cap.” The text read, and Price sucked in a breath. His hand swiftly reached down to palm his now painfully hard cock through his trousers. He could just imagine slipping his fingers inside you-finding that sweet spot deep inside you that would make your toes curl. 

His fingers were pressing the call button before he knew what he was doing. 

“Evening Captain. To what do we owe the honor?” Johnny’s voice rang out, sounding slightly too amused with himself.

“Photos, MacTavish. What was up with that?” Price asked, his voice catching in his throat slightly at Johnny’s ever so evil chuckle.

Price swears he can hear the plot in Johnny’s head as he spoke, the soft rustling of the duvet giving away where exactly he was. “Why don’t I put her on the phone for you?” 

————————————————————————

You could barely think-but somehow managed to pull yourself together enough to take the phone off of Johnny. “He-Hey John!” You squeaked out, instantly covering your mouth to conceal the moan that dared to try to escape your lips. Ghost’s hands gripped your hips, fucking into you at such speed you wondered how his knees didn’t give out, with his cock hitting that sweet spongy part deep inside you. 

“Heard you wanted to show off for me, love?” His voice rumbled through the phone, dark and smooth like a good whiskey. That teasing tone, the soft chuckle in his words, it was enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Go on then. Talk to me.”

At that, Ghost picked up the pace, hands gripping the flesh of your hip so tight you were sure it would leave bruises. “Is he making you feel good, love? Making your legs shake?” You inhaled a strangled gasp, biting your lower lip slightly. 

“Asked you a question.” Ye-ah-” You whined, bucking your hips back against Ghost. Something about having Price on the phone, with Ghost fucking you like his life depended on it, and Johnny watching from the corner-it felt so dirty. But so good. “Need-need to cum-” 

“I know you do, love. Gonna cum for me?” Ghost’s hands found your clit, earning a string of moans out of you. “Yeah she is-can feel her squeezing around me. So fucking tight-and wet-” Ghost’s thrusts grew staggered, his hips slamming into yours. You didn’t care to be quiet anymore, there was no point. 

————————————————————————

John already knew what was going on. He’d known before he’d called. He knew when he called that you’d be on your back-but he hadn’t expected to be listening. It felt dirty. But God the way your sweet little moans had him gripping his aching cock, and his head tossed back over the chair. Bucking his hips up into his hand, imagining he was fucking your soft little cunt. “Gonna cum for me?” He’d asked-and the gasps and moans he got in return had him gasping for breath. 

“I know you need it, love.” He murmured into the phone, trying his hardest not to cum before you. “Be a good girl and cum for me.” He needed to hear you cum. To hear those gorgeous gasps as you came on his Lieutenant’s cock, imagining he was the one balls deep inside you. “Come on, love, cum for me.” 

And the shuddering moans he received was enough for him to spill over his hand. Panting heavily-he was barely aware enough to hear Ghost’s cursing gasps as he followed. 

“Enjoyed the show then, Captain?” Johnny’s voice was back, sounding equally out of breath as the rest of them. “Should’ve seen it in person-she played such a good girl when you got on the phone.” His words sent another shudder down his back.

“You knew then?” 

“Had a hunch. Couldn’t keep your eyes off of her.” Price groaned as his hand-the clean one-came up to cover his face. He’d been that obvious. The whole time. 

“Don’t worry lad-she’s already eager to see you again. I’m always down for a good show-and Simon’s pretty interested in seeing how she’d take both of you.”  Well shit. The next pub meet was going to go very well for him.

[ficmashup]

cat vibes from simon riley. you try to move his head or something and he looks at you like you've committed the worst crime in history

oh fr those arms that are wrapped around you will just get tighter if he thinks you're even thinking of getting up. he'll just scoot further up so his head is right on your chest, pinning you even more with his weight so you really can't move. any attempts to talk to him, push him off, or 'wake him up' will be met with a loud, overly exaggerated snore. wriggle too much or get too loud and you'll get some pretty intense stink-eye thrown your way.

(and don't even get me started on how much that man loves kneading at the fat on your hips, ass, and belly like a cat making biscuits. if he could purr, he would.)

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Ghost used to hearing the higher pitched 'hihihi' thing girls do when wanting to sound cuter and more appealing for guys. And during training some idiot recruit fucks something open and he gets to hear your un-girl filtered voice as you absolutely drag the recruit through the dirt. Snarling and spitting and shouting, enough any mamas boy immediately sits down and has that look on their face.

I won’t write a full drabble for this one but I imagine it like this: Simon meets you in the military. It makes complete sense that you would fall for each other—you both understand the rigor of the job and the schedule, the inherent danger, the toll it takes mentally and physically. After dancing around each other for ages (though neither of you are dancing, it just happens that way, when two serious people have such busy and separate lives), you two finally move in together. 

Simon often marvels that you’re in the military at all. At night when you’re naked and spread out in your bed together on base, he runs his fingers over your skin and wonders at how soft you are. You are the slowest person to anger, even in the face of Simon’s eccentricities and poor communication habits. He’s never even heard you raise your voice, though after a change in your rank, you often come home with a throat that’s sore from shouting. 

I imagine him during a brief moment of downtime, smoking with Johnny or shooting the shit with Kyle when he hears some Private being taken to task nearby by his commanding officer. That sort of thing happens every other breath, so it doesn’t phase Simon—it takes the person he’s with to wince and remark, “The missus sounds like she's in a pleasant mood.” 

The—? And Simon turns and realizes it’s you. You’re the one ripping the Private a new one, your voice doing something smokey and furious (and judging by what he gleans of the conversation, your side of which can be heard crystal clear even from a distance you’re in the right to be). I imagine it would absolutely do something to him, something in his brain and something below the belt. It’s kind of fascinating to know that this side of you exists, but it isn’t for Simon. 

“She yell at you like that in bed?” Johnny or Kyle would wonder, watching closely the dumbfounded expression in Simon’s eyes and unable to help teasing him a little.

“Classified,” he’d mutter, not taking his eyes off of you.

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Telling Ghost/König you are too heavy for him to pick up or sit on his face, and he doesn’t say anything at first so you think he just accepted it even if your heart kinda twinged a little in pain because you know you are just not skinny enough-

Only for him to send you a video the next day: in the gym, looking mighty hot in a compression shirt and sweatpants just a touch low on his hips, and lifting a bar with ease. On a closer look? The weighs attached to the bar weigh far more than you do. And he so easily maneuvers and controls and manhandles it…

Between the heat curling in your stomach, face pink and thighs clenched shut, you almost miss the incoming text.

Never too heavy for me, doll.

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Husband!Simon Riley that lurks behind you constantly. in your home, at the grocery store, at a bar - he’s just looming behind you. sometimes he just stands and stares at the back of your head, absolutely smitten that you’re his and he’s yours. he’s not the best with words, but he’s great at following behind you

Husband!Simon Riley that’s silently delighted when you lean against him. he’s sturdy, a wall of a man - he’s cracking a small smile under his mask when you lean into him. he’s wrapping his arm around your waist, supporting your weight as you glance around. he tried leaning against you once, he didn’t tell you and caught you off guard, almost sending you tumbling to the floor

Husband!Simon Riley that likes when you give him mundane tasks. he’s always been good about following through on orders, yours just happen to be less life-or-death than his job. he’ll do exactly what you tell him to do, no comments or complaints. you want him to fold laundry? he’s doing it how you showed him, folding shirts and pants the way you like. you want him to change a lightbulb? he’s already walking to the closet. you want him to give you a kiss? say less, he’s stalking towards you

Husband!Simon Riley that spritzes his clothes with your perfume/cologne. just a little, he likes that he can walk around alone but it still feels like you’re with him. it doesn’t matter what scent it is - floral, fruity, smokey, musky, he’d happily drown in the scent. sometimes he sprays his balaclava with it before he leaves on a deployment, the 141 silently side eyeing each other because they can smell Ghost coming before they can see him

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it is proven that majority of women can’t orgasm from intercourse alone. So imagine reader who can’t make herself cum, no matter how she touches her swollen little bud.

it’s becoming more annoying as you keep trying, different speeds, pressures, and angles, but nothing seems to work for you! It’s gotten to the point where you’ve quite frankly given up on even touching yourself. You’ve tried for so long, yet always get nothing.

so imagine telling Simon when he asks you, oh so kindly when on deployment, to touch yourself with him to make you both feel good. The silence over the phone when you say you can’t.

“What?”

“I just can’t. I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t work for me.”

“‘Ave ya-?”

“I’ve done everything, Simon! I can’t, okay?”

it was clear that this was something that you weren’t comfortable with talking about. It made you upset that you didn’t “function correctly” like other women. So the night Simon came home, he greeted you with a soft kiss. There wasn’t any harsh underlying emotion, just soft and sweet love. His large and calloused hands would cup your cheeks and look at your eyes, watching the slight confusion slip into your gaze.

now laying against his sturdier chest, looking at yourself in the mirror with him behind you, you knew what was happening. He gently pulled down your sleeping pants, taking his time to let his fingertips brush against every inch of your thighs, all the way down to your ankles. And soon enough, off came your panties too. He started by admiring the slight glistening of your slick right by your entrance, using his fingers to gently dip into the fluid that he loved. Dragging his fingers upwards, he brought his fingertips to the side of your clit, letting your slick be the lube for his fingers.

Simon looked at you through the mirror, keeping eye contact as his fingers pressed onto your clit. The gasp that left your lips was sudden, almost reaching down to grab his wrist, but stopping when he gave you a stern warning look. Everything felt different - his touch felt electrifying, while yours felt like watching paint dry. Why was it so different? Your eyes fluttered shut, head resting on his shoulder when he started speeding up his small circular motion. Your thighs spread a little more, shuddering when you felt a build up in your lower tummy. That burn you never felt unless you used a toy, the burn you got before you were clouded with euphoria; it was coming. You let out small squeaks and whimpers as your hips lifted and you came undone. Usually that’s when you’d stop, let your body just relax, but Simon kept a firm hand across your torso, using his leg to keep yours pinned down so he could still rub you till complete satisfaction.

once his movements slowed and he was panting along with you slightly, he pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder, looking at your eyes through the mirror again.

“I don’t care what time of day it is, if ye need t’cum, y’tell me and I’ll help, love. Alrigh’?”

you mustered a small nod, droopy eyes falling to the wet and sticky mess between your thighs, and the lovely hands that helped you along the way.

[ficmashup]

Ghost is Not a Good Man (18+)

Pairing: Simon Riley/Fem Reader/Johnny MacTavish Content warnings: Intimate touching, hand on throat, she/her reader Word Count: 2.9k

Service Dog Johnny Part 18 (full part list here)

It’s one of those days where the front door lock is getting the best of you.

Your bag is falling off your shoulder, your index finger is encased in bandaids from cutting yourself on a box at work, and it doesnʼt help that you barely got any sleep the night before. You stop for a second to squint at your keys in the dim porch light, but by the time you’ve verified you have the right one and your frozen fingers manage to jam it into the deadbolt, the door opens on its own.

Simon just gives you a nod before wandering back through the shadowy house, apparently caught up in an important phone call. He must have just got home because his hair looks like it was squashed under a helmet all day before having a hand roughly raked through it.

He’s definitely annoyed by what he’s hearing. You can tell that much from the way he’s keeping his back to you, just standing there all tense beside the couch while you turn on a few lamps. Please don’t let it be a mission. Please let it be some work misunderstanding that will go away in twenty-four hours, and never end up affecting your home life. 

Naturally, you hover in the area for a bit and worry. You take off your shoes and hang up your coat, listening intently to each noncommittal, “Mm,” he does every so often, to show he’s listening. 

“Everything alright?” you press, when he finally pockets his phone.

He merely gives you that same acknowledging grunt, so apparently it’s going to be one of those days. He’s going to keep whatever-it-is bottled up inside, and you're going to try to not hurt your feelings about it.

It happens sometimes, you know that. There are a million things at work he’s literally not allowed to tell you about, and it’s okay for them to bother him from time to time. It’s not your job to make him happy for every second of his life. You couldnʼt do that even if you tried, so this weight of dread is just something you need to pretend isnʼt there, because itʼs not about you at all. 

“Want a snack?” you offer.

“Nah. Need a shower first.”

“Okay. I’m gonna change real quick.”

Disappointingly, Simon doesn’t join you in the bedroom. The house remains quiet and still while you remove your jewelry and get into some comfy clothes. You hurry through the naked phase, because it’s chilly and you can tell he’s forgotten his usual task of bumping up the thermostat when he gets home. 

When you wander back to the living room, you discover that your boyfriend has made no progress towards the shower. He’s just sitting there in his usual spot on the couch, zoned out and staring at the blank TV. 

Wait, no, he’s got his head tilted down. When you come closer, you see what you missed before – shallow, bloody scuffs on his hand. They’re not the kind of wounds you’d get in a fight, because only the thumb knuckles are roughed up, and also the inside of his wrist where a glove would end. 

“Simon?” you prompt, coming around the couch where he can see you. 

He tucks his wrist against his stomach. “Hey. Telly?”

“It’s easier to watch when it’s on,” you tease, perching yourself on the arm of the couch to nudge your hip up against his warm shoulder. 

“Mm.” He snags the remote and spreads himself out on the cushions, under the pretense that everything is perfectly fine, and you definitely don’t need to keep asking him questions.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Work.” His face has a heavy layer of boredom plastered across it, not sparing you a glance. “Usual.”

No, not usual. The usual injuries are mat burns and random bruises, and the occasional cut on his face. So you let the lie linger in the air for a few seconds, hoping he’ll change his mind about opening up. This behavior wouldn’t seem out of place to some people, but you know Simon. He’s abandoned his coming home routine, he doesn’t snacks, and he’s still not touching you, even though you’re sitting right next to him. And that’s weird. 

Leave it alone, his aggressively casual body language insists. I came home to escape this, don’t suffocate me. 

But you don’t want to suffocate him, you just want to be a part of him. You sit there for a minute, mentally flipping through every option you have that doesn't feel like self betrayal. Because this isn’t right. The superficial baseline you’ve maintained in other relationships feels like rejection, when it’s him. 

Impulsively you reach your hand out, sliding your fingertips up the back of his neck to press into those tired muscles. What do you need? Your fingers ask, in slow, steady movements. 

Your boyfriend finally rotates his head up to look at you, sacrificing his privacy for the eye contact he knows you want. Silence, his gaze answers, unwavering and dark. Control. 

His needs don’t contradict yours. You can give him silence, as long as he gives you back some connection. Two compromises for the sake of mutual comfort, it’s a fair trade.

So you get up and step around the arm of the couch, and Simon shifts himself like he’s expecting your ass in his lap. Yeah, you could go for that. You could press yourself into his chest and cuddle him for a little while, hoping it doesn’t feel like he’s doing you a favor the whole time. You'd be holding onto the idea that he wants it too, trying not to think about how he’s counting down the minutes until he can get rid of you and wallow in his feelings more comfortably. 

But you have a better idea. It’s a straight whim that has you lowering yourself to your knees on the carpet between his legs, tasting the way his attention abruptly locks onto you when he realizes what you’re doing. His legs flinch against your shoulders as you settle deeper into place, blinking up at him and softly resting your cheek against the inside of his thigh. 

It takes him a minute to consent to it. You can see the struggle in his eyes, realizing that he’s going to have to reject you if he wants to maintain that emotional wall he’s built. There’s something inside him that’s hurting, and you don’t need to know what it is, you just need him to stop hiding from you. 

Finally he lets out a breath, and you feel his hand stroking over the top of your head. There’s the beginnings of surrender in his eyes, as you run your own hand in a comforting press over the front of his shin. You’re not going to ask for anything, you’re not going to hurt him, you’re just going to stay here a moment and let his energy mingle with yours. It’ll be good for both of you. 

But then his eyes go dead, staring down at his hand as he samples the texture of your hair in his fingers. Because you know him, you know it’s a good thing. It’s the wall of pretense coming down. 

“I’m not a good man.” 

“I know.” You turn your face to give the inside seam of his jeans a little kiss.

He frowns. “You know?”

Your mouth twitches with your poorly suppressed smile. “I mean… No… of course you are, baby. You… uh… build schools… and save kittens every day, remember?”

You try to bite the finger that flicks your nose, but you’re not quite fast enough and can only manage to snap your teeth in the air. 

Simon laughs under his breath, his shoulders relaxing a little with how unserious you’ve made it sound. It is serious, obviously, but if he wants a formal heart-to-heart, he’ll have to open up first. 

You both know he’s got kills under his belt. Plenty of people in varying degrees of ‘deserved it’ have fallen prey to him in that bone mask he wears, but you don’t think he’s talking about that. He’s talking about something inside him, something that settled wrong in his heart today. He saw something about himself that scared him. Maybe it was something new, or maybe it was old and buried, but it violated his personal code in some way.

There’s nothing you can do about that. You can’t reach into his chest and dig it out, as much as you wish you could. All you have are your eyes, looking at him now like he isn’t a monster at all, and he never could be.

“What am I gonna do with you?” He tugs on a piece of your hair, hard enough to sting a little. 

“We’ve got things for steak and potatoes if you’d like to cook tonight,” you offer, rubbing your cheek against his leg.

“Yeah,” he whispers, caressing his thumb along your hairline. “I’ll do that.”

You should probably get up now. He’ll want to get started on dinner, and you got through the worst of it together. He’s present with you at this point, and maybe after you eat he’d let you make out with him, the way you used to before Johnny started coming over — all slow and relaxed, tangled in each other's arms until one of you got sleepy enough to tap out. He can’t do anything while you’re here on the floor, so you need to get up. 

It’s just… it’s difficult to pull yourself away. He’s so solid and warm, and he’s still looking at you through those smudgy, black-stained lashes. There’s affection in those dark eyes, and a bit of tiredness judging by the heavy way he blinks. He’d be the one to tap out tonight, you think, wandering your eyes down the low slump of his shoulders. You’d feel his lips go clumsy and his breathing start to slow, because it’s been a long day—

Okay, listen.

You’re not a pervert. 

It’s simply because it’s already so close to your face that you can’t help but notice something swelling in his pants. It's definitely there in your peripheral vision, so you tell yourself not to look directly, because you should have far more self control than that, but somehow you find your eyes flicking down to the zipper of his jeans—

Unnhh. It’s not as easy as you’d hoped, to pretend you don’t see it. Your guilty eyes fly back to Simon’s face, as fingers of heat start to crawl up your neck. This is sort of your fault. You’re the one who put your face down here to begin with, even though you really weren’t trying to start something.

“I… uhm. Need a shower,” he mutters.

“Okay, baby.” Is that code for him wanting you to get away from him? Or does he want something else? You’d totally suck him off like this.

“I’ve got cigarettes in my mouth, and fucking—” he makes a frustrated noise, shifting his hips a little— “dried sweat everywhere.”

“Mhmm.” Would, would, WOULD.

Simon releases a long exhale, scrubbing both hands over his face like he expects things will be different when he surfaces. 

Nope. You’re still here between his legs with hopeful eyes, and he’s still here bricked up and unshowered. That shouldn’t be a problem, right? You had normal, actual sex a few days ago, so couldn’t you just do that again? 

“Touch it,” he tells you at last, resting his hand again on the top of your head.

Oh, god. Your breath catches because you weren’t expecting that at all. He’s never let you touch it before, so this is… phew, this is new. This is something powerful, especially when he’s having a hard day and doubting himself. Your eyes automatically drop to the situation in his pants, and you wonder… does he want you to take it out? He didn’t say to suck it, he said to touch it, so… 

It’s so natural, it’s not even a thought to bring your hand up and cup him through his pants. You love him so much, it’s almost less work to give in to your mind’s instinctive need, and let him find pleasure in your touch. It’s like a long-held breath of relief, running your thumb over that neglected piece of him, hoping it feels good even through the layers of fabric. 

Your eyes fly upwards again for validation, and he meets them with a quiet, “Yeah.”

Simon’s hand slides up under your hair to lay heavy on your nape, finding whatever control he needs in that action. He wants you to touch. 

So you do.

You lean forward and press your lips to the bulge in his pants, savoring the audible inhale of breath somewhere above you. You close your eyes and nuzzle up against it, hard lines of denim pressing into your cheek as your fingers gently stroke. His body is tense against your shoulders, so you take your time with it, coaxing him into it with kisses and gentle rubs of your cheek. You can practically feel his heat radiating against your face as he grows painfully hard in his pants.

He was probably expecting just hands, but there’s something more intimate about your mouth. You’re letting your hot breath seep through the material and wash over him in a shameless promise of something else, whenever he’s ready to unzip. When you start to hear his breaths coming out with some low noises, you get a little more confident. You drag your tongue up that hard piece of denim, just to feel his hand tighten on the back of your neck. 

“Not a good day for that sort of thing,” he explains in a low warning. 

“Oh.” You pull back just far enough to peer up at his face. “Do you want me to stop?”

Simon’s eyes flutter a little as he stares down at you, his thumb running a delicious sweep against the vulnerable side of your throat. “No.”

“Okay.”

He wasn’t letting himself enjoy it before this. Because after that one little word, you feel him finally melt. His knees widen further, and his head falls back over the top of the couch as your mouth makes contact again. You start to slide another lick up the fabric, but you freeze when you feel his hand wrapping firmly around your neck.

“Do you—”

“Don’t stop,” he whispers, and you watch his throat roll as he swallows, loosening his grip a fraction. 

This is his choice. He’s holding you like this so he can close his eyes and still feel safe, and that’s the farthest thing from a problem in your mind. You both know he could snap your neck in about two seconds if he wanted to, but if you were afraid of him, you wouldn’t be rubbing your hand against his cock right now. 

You get a little more bold with it, mapping out his exact anatomy and locating the most sensitive spot to tease with your fingernails, working extra sensation through that thick wall of denim. 

There’s that breathy groan you were waiting for. You mouth at him and repeat the motion, enjoying the way his thumb tightens around your throat. Fuck, it pushes hot blood between your legs and makes you pray that he’ll let you get him off like this. You want to kill that part of him that’s afraid of his own pleasure, and just yank his pants down so he can cum in your mouth. 

But it’s not yours to kill, it’s his. Simon gasps, and jams his free hand down to shove yours away, effectively preventing what you were working so hard to accomplish. There's a sharp flash of disappointment, but you manage to hide it by the time he drags his head upright again to look at you. 

“Alright?” you ask, leaning back to give him space. 

“Mm. I’ll just, ahh…” He releases your neck like he forgot he was holding it.

He may drive you crazy with his self denying masochism, but fuck if he doesn’t look pretty with his chest heaving and his cock still hard. 

“Shower time?” you prompt.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go chop the potatoes.”

He adjusts the thermostat when he gets up, and then pats your ass on the way to his belated shower. You end up doing the prepping, and he does the cooking, while you both plow through so many snacks that you’re barely hungry when it’s dinner time. 

You were right, it’s him who loses steam first, making soft, sleepy noises into your mouth while his tongue slows against yours. You aren’t quite tired enough, so after you’ve rolled over in the dark, you grab your phone and search for something vaguely boring to get sleepy with. 

But for some reason, you pull up Johnny’s texts. You read the last one again, and it doesn’t have the same heaviness it did before. 

Hey, you type, trying to hold your eyes open enough to think clearly, I’m dragging Simon to the Christmas festival tomorrow night. Want to come?

You don’t expect anything of it. You go back to another app and just begin to scroll, when a text banner flashes on your phone, not thirty seconds later.

Yes

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

[ficmashup]

“Do not wear anything pretty,” Gaz insists.

“What? Why?” It’s not like you were planning on it. You have a pair of jeans wedged under your arm, and you’re currently searching through your shirts for something medium-cute.

Your boyfriend sighs on the other end of the line. “Wear a hoodie. Maybe one of mine, with the hood up.”

“What the fuck, Kyle? Are you embarrassed of me?”

“No, I… I just think it’s for the best.”

You frown, moving your phone closer to your ear so you can hear every change in his voice. “What are you afraid of?”

“Nothin. Just wear the hoodie. Please, sweetheart.”

Fine.

You show up on base later in a stupid hoodie with the stupid hood up, bringing Kyle his stupid passkey that he stupidly forgot to grab this morning. He’s waiting for you at the front desk, so you don’t even have to check in.

You get a quick kiss and a fervent, “Thanks, really,” from your boyfriend, and then just as you’re opening your mouth to demand an explanation—

“AHH! Ahh! I fookin knew it!”

Some asshole with a mohawk is suddenly striding up to you, arms outstretched and beaming as if it’s Christmas morning.

“Christ, Soap,” Kyle groans, putting himself slightly between you and the oncoming threat, “will you just—“

“Ghost!” the man calls over his shoulder, undeterred. “Get your arse over here, Gaz finally brought that ‘friend’ to meet us!”

Kyle pulls you into his side, whispering, “I am so sorry.”

“The one from the photo?” rumbles a new voice. “Ahh, yeah, it is.”

Turns out he’s been hiding your existence from his coworkers all this time, but that didn’t stop them from glimpsing his phone background one day when he wasn’t paying attention. They’d been hounding him ever since.

[ficmashup]

Ok, not to disrespect ghost/step on his turf but...

Can goose pick me up too...? 😳🥵🫣

Of course my darling, you just have to ask.

You can just walk right up to her while she's setting up for the nightly haunted corn maze and ask if she'd pick you up. Which is easy enough, right? Except it's really not. You know her more from seeing her around town than really knowing her, and Goose is always with people which makes it hard to approach her. Plus she might be married? You're not sure, but you've seen the guy and he's... not someone you're particularly interested in messing with.

So it's probably good that after staring and looking away, staring and looking away, Goose finally walks over to ask if you need something. Another aspect of her that makes your heart pound in your chest. The way she settles her hand against the picnic table you've sat at, and leans over you, her head tipping to make sure she meets your eye, none of it is helping the cat that's got your tongue.

"You got somethin' I can help with, sugar?" In that damn accent that you can never quite place but slips so nicely over her tongue.

"Um," You eloquently start, "no."

"No?" She tilts her head to the side, "Starin' an awful lot for someone who don't need nothin'."

You shoulders raise to your ears, you can feel the churn of your stomach as butterflies heat your cheeks. "Just watching you work," You supply, "you're pretty strong."

She hums with a smile, "I am, could carry you around a little if you wanted a demonstration."

"Oh! No, no, you don't have to-" You change tactics as her smile grows, "I'm probably too heavy, and you look busy, and-"

"Stand up sweet thing," She steps back to wave you up and you hesitantly comply. She grabs your arm as soon as you're vertical, and in one single crouch/tug/lift you're hauled over her shoulders and off the ground. She bounces you once, to adjust the position and you giggle like a kid. "I pick up calves heavier than you, baby," She assures you, turning away from the table to start walking... somewhere, "Nothin' to it."

You believe her, she hardly seems to be breaking a sweat carrying you and with how firm her shoulders feel, you're starting to get a little dizzy. You really only feel the reality of your situation when she starts walking towards the farm house. You wiggle a little and she tightens her grip on you with a click of her tongue.

"None of that now," She reprimands stopping in front of a chicken coop.

You twist to look at the birds running around and spot the giant of a man that you'd always assumed was hers. Your eyes dart to the gold band hanging off his necklace. Definitely married then. He stands up with a chicken under his arm and tips his hat back.

"Wot's this?" He asks.

"Thought you might like a treat tonight, figured we could share." Goose tells him.

You regret staring so long, the way the big guy looks at you... you don't think you can handle both of them.

[ficmashup]

Fun idea cuz I love Mafia sandwich AU, everything reversed.

Reader is a baker or a cook at a restaurant/bakery, they love their little shop. They put their heart and soul into it, even though it’s not popular. A small mom and pop shop with a whole lot of love.

Unfortunately for reader there are four men (who definitely are in the mafia) LOVE their food and keep coming back for their food. No matter how many times they tell them they’re going to scare the normal customers. At first reader was horrified at these dangerous men coming in their shop, (probably doing a meeting or hiding) and timidly walked over to ask if they want anything to eat. They all stare at you for a full minute before the scary skull masked guy gruffs out “A sandwich.” And so you go make him one, and he pays you way too much for it. (Trying to give him change back he’ll glare at you.)

Now you fed them and they’ll never leave. The mohawk and pretty one always come by after a robbery or successful escape from the police. The skull guy always comes by later in the day to eat, he’s always has stained red patches on his clothes. The bearded guy comes by sometimes with the others, always paying you more than you need. (“No need to tell anyone we were here, Hm?”)

Your mom always warned you not to feed strays, they’ll never leave.

Ok but that's so cute and well deserving of its own au, but also here's what I think a true reverse au is for the mafia sandwich shop au:

You've just opened your own restaurant/bakery in a not great part of town. It's the only place you could scrape enough money together to rent, but it's yours and that's what matters. Except it's empty. You bake all your nice goods and make soup for the lunch rush but it all ends up going to waste. A month in and you're only making enough food for your own lunch and the few people that stumble in every week. It's only when you realize what part of town you've truly set up shop in that you realize what the problem is.

This is the Price family's turf, and you've neither paid your respect to the family, nor have you found yourself with any intention to do so.

So you resign yourself that you'll have to break your lease, and that your dream is dead. You have no intention of getting involved with organized crime, and that means the end of your business here. You're taking out your trash, mourning the fact you have to go back to a desk job, and you sort of accidentally throw your trash bag onto a man that's almost entirely covered in blood. He grunts and you rush to get the bag off of him.

"All that yours?" You ask tentatively.

"It's on me isn't it?" He growls.

Which is how you end up with a giant man in your kitchen, using up all the supplies in your meager first aid kit when you avoid asking any questions. He cuts a length of thread from your emergency sewing kit with his teeth and threads the needle that ends up plunged into the skin around the gash on his side.

"Quiet fucker aren't ya?" He asks and you sniff, slightly offended.

"Oh yeah lemme just start asking questions, I definitely want to know the answers to them." That gets a laugh out of him, a short huffed thing with a crooked smile to match.

"You got anything to eat?"

"This is a restaurant-"

"a dead one." He cuts you off with a grumble.

"Then starve." You deadpan, going to fix him a sandwich and some soup anyway.

He leaves pretty soon after he's done eating. Doesn't pay either. Not that you expected him to.

He's back the next day. At least you think it's him. The mask is sort of... intimidating, but you recognize the width of his shoulders and the way his eye twitches when he sets his hand on the counter. He shifts his weight off the injured side too quickly for you not to notice.

You make him a sandwich, you don't really have much else. He pays for it, and stuffs a wad of bills into your tip jar when you're not looking.

The amount would pay your rent for the month.

You wait for him to come in again so you can give it back but he doesn't show his face. Begrudgingly you use the money to keep the shop open. He comes in again with some other broad specimen in tow. You stare at the blue eyes and mohawk and silently place every quiche you made that morning into a bag for them. The masked guy orders a soup and sandwich. He doesn't even ask what either of them are.

They pay. Mask tips. You pretend you don't recognize the man from the news.

He comes back a third time. You know John Price, you'd be a fool not to, but you still smile amicably when the bell over your door rings for the four huge men that force their way inside. Price whistles at your neat little shop. Soap already has his face pressed against your pastry case. The mask shows the one you don't know, the pretty one, the printed menu.

"Only thing they got's a soup sandwich deal. Not bad." He tells him curtly.

"What's the soup?" The pretty one asks you.

"Uh, red pozole with pork shoulder." You supply. You've given up trying to cater to british tastes. You mostly cook for yourself these days since you're the only one eating it.

"Wot's the sandwich?" The mask asks.

"It's just some crusty bread with cheese."

The mask nods, his eyes narrowed on you. You blink at him. If he has something to say he can say it.

"We'll do that." He finally grunts.

"And a slice of cake." Soap chimes in.

"Surprised this place hasn't burned down," Price nods from the little table and chairs by the window, he almost sounds impressed.

"It's always been my dream to avoid insurance litigation over arson charges," You deadpan over the register.

"They're cheeky," Price tells the mask.

"I know." The mask responds, holding his card out to you.

"We should come here more often." The pretty one smiles taking a seat next to Price.

"Nice and quiet." Soap agrees.

"You know this is like, a restaurant, right?" You ask the mask. He shrugs, and puts next month's rent in your tip jar.

"What'd ya say last time? 'Bout askin' questions?"

"I'll let you know when the food's ready." You're already mourning your peace, but at least the dream is alive. Your mum will be so proud.

[ficmashup]

boyfriend’s best friend simon

(18+ smut, fem!reader, infidelity but your boyfriends a cunt if that makes you feel better)

—•—

you don’t know how this happened. you don’t know when this happened. all you know is that it is happening, and you really don’t want it to stop.

simon’s everything that your boyfriend isn’t. has everything that he lacks. communication, understanding, selflessness; commonsense, emotional intelligence, a big cock,

the list goes on, frankly.

but here you are, your bedroom sweltering around you, swimming beneath distorted waves in your vision. convection currents radiating from your conjoined bodies.

simon’s hands were large and calloused on the soft fat of your hips, fingers toying with the taut lines of stretch marks passing onto the thick of your upper thighs. his hands gripped and pulled and moved you against him, slamming you up and down, grinding you against him.

he was leaned up against the headboard of your bed, head cocked back with dark, hungry eyes glued to your body and a coy smirk plastered across his face. the way he looked at you, gazed you, admired you as if you were some kind of prize, had your stomach in knots.

maybe you were a prize. after all, he was balls-deep in his best friend’s girl, and he didn’t have a care in the world. didn’t have a care in the world that his cock had chubbed instantly when she opened the door to let him in an hour ago.

you panted above him, thighs burning, shins pressed into the warm sheets of your bed. you were hesitant to be on top, to perch your body weight across his pelvis. your boyfriend never assured you it’d be okay, just agreed with you and fucked you flat on the mattress. simon was different.

“what? think i can’t handle myself a girl like you, eh?” simon had uttered, looking you up and down. a prize. he was also knuckle-deep in your pussy by this stage, two fingers scissoring you open. “oh, sweet girl, you have no idea.”

and now you were here. straddling simon riley, the formidable ghost that you’d seen only occasionally with your boyfriend. a recluse of a man, a mountain of a man. was always kind, always respectful.

an army dog, a government mutt. always so obedient, and so polite. well-trained and well-mannered. clearly, until he had a pretty bird like you stretched across his lap. a prize.

“yeah, ride this fuckin’ cock, baby,” simon grunted, helping you fuck yourself down onto his cock. his thick, fat cock— a cock that hit you so deep, stretched you so wide, that the joke of ‘is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?’ had died on your tongue because, holy fuck,

he could use it. he knew what he was doing. you should have guessed it with the way he spat on your cunt ten minutes into you letting him into your flat; the way he licked the glob of spit from your wet folds and fucked it into you, tongue warm and searching. you also should have guessed when he rubbed at your clit with his thumb while stretching you open on his fingers; the way he moved them at just the right pace to make you come twice in a row. now:

“s’all yours, baby. s’all yours,” he uttered, pushing his hips upwards to meet your downwards movements.

your tits bounced with each of his thrusts, the mattress creaking beneath you. the sheets were bunching, the heat in the room thick and molten. liquid, drowning you.

you gasped, air in your lungs. you were not drowning, just fucking delirious with the way his cockhead knocked up towards the plug of your cervix.

panting, you clutched at his shoulders. broad and muscular. you could feel the difference in texture where skin ended and scar began. a few times, your fingers wandered upwards, and you drew the tips through his hair. once cropped, now grown out. scruffy, rugged,

handsome. sweat beaded on his forehead, turning the lighter strands dark, sticking to his skin. between the filth he spewed from his mouth, you could hear him grunting and moaning. you wished he’d moan louder. maybe once he stopped talking it’d be different. but you weren’t sure how soon that would be.

“fuckin’— look at the fuckin’ state of you. such a pretty girl. such a pretty— fuckin’— girl,” simon groaned, thrusting up into you. the force made you hiccup around a long moan. simon smiled, triumphant. “look like a dream takin’ all o’ my cock, sweetheart. perfect little pussy letting me stretch her open, huh?”

“simon,” you moaned, and that wasn’t the first time you’d said his name tonight. but he acted as though it was.

a dog with a bone, simon flashed a wicked grin, canines showing, and redoubled his efforts in pushing his cock in and out of you, rutting against your body.

“yeah, baby, i’m here. your simon’s righttttt here,” he said, grinning, as he took one of his large hands and placed it over the mound of your belly, pressing gently and squeezing you there. he couldn’t actually feel his cock inside you, but the added sensation knocked an airy moan from your chest, your eyes rolling. simon hummed, pleased as he fucked you. “‘m reaching so far, aren’t i? so deep. bet your lad couldn’t reach up here, could he?”

you whimpered, and you wanted to whimper a ‘noooo’ but it died in transit. instead, you whimpered, like a wounded dog, as his cock hit that perfect spot inside you. it made you want to scream.

you continued to bounce against him, his thighs pressed close to yours. he fondled you, squeezed your hips while you both worked each other towards release.

“simon,” you pleaded, breathless. “oh, fuck—”

simon wanted so badly to beam with pride. but he resisted, cocking his head and watching the way your greedy cunt sucked his cock in with wet squelches at each upward thrust.

“you feeling good, sweet girl?” he asked, tone warm and honey-sweet. well-trained. then, “this cock making you feel good? he followed with an obvious lilt. mutt.

you replied with a yes, that trailed off into a high-pitched moan when simon’s thumb found your swollen clit, rubbing against it and beginning to draw small, tight circles.

“thaaat’s it, baby. sing for me.”

“siiimon,” you mewled, body tiring but stomach growing tight. bubbling hot, molten like the atmosphere of your bedroom. the knot in the base pulling tighter and tighter with each nudge of his cock against your g-spot.

your cunt was soaked around him, dripping out onto his pelvis and onto your bedsheets. making a mess.

tight, velveteen walls clutched at his cock as your climax built. gripping tight, holding him against you, keeping him with you. wet and warm and the closest to heaven a non-religious man like simon’ll ever come close to.

“beautiful,” he suddenly whispered, eyes on your face now. “beautiful girl.”

well-trained. damn, your boyfriend wasn’t even close to being this well-trained. he was more used to chewing you up like a toy, and heading off to do god knows what once he’d finished. once he’d satisfied himself.

you weren’t a toy for simon. just a prize. much different than a toy, for your information.

a toy is something you play with. a prize is something treasure. savour. and with the way simon revelled at the silky feel of your pussy against his bare cock, he intended to savour you forever.

“you wanna come?” he asked softly, but you knew the soft tone wasn’t going to last. not with the way his eyes glinted, his soft abs flexed, and his mouth curved at the corners. “can feel this pussy startin’ to make a fuss. so desperate for it, isn’t she?”

personifying your pussy. a new one, but one you weren’t entirely afraid of.

so you answered. “yes. simon, please—“

simon quickened his pace, thrusting deeper. your flesh rippled, thighs and stomach and tits moving with the sheer force of his movements. he grunted and panted, eyes drooping, fingers tight in your hips, chasing his own high too. he still had a hard-working finger drawing sharp shapes across your puffy clit.

“go on then. come all over my cock, sweet girl. show me what i’ve been missing out on.”

the tension in your body grew and grew, sweat accumulating across your skin. shiny, dewy, completely ethereal, you hurtled towards release with wind in your sails. sweating, hot, on the brink of overstimulation, you let your mind go fuzzy. you had a heartbeat in your clit. you could feel the stickiness of your inner-thighs. you could hear simon,

“come for me, baby.”

the coil snapped as if on cue. maybe you were the well-trained dog in need of a new collar.

your release rocked you off balance, and you slumped forward, ready for simon to catch you. he did, of course, leaning you against his chest as your body shook, twitched, jerked with the force of your orgasm. it travelled through you like electric shocks. an electrical current that fizzled out after a few long seconds, and left you boneless against simon’s chest.

he was close behind you, his balls drawing tight, tip leaking inside you, flared head now ruddy and red.

he moaned. “god, baby. feel so good around me.” a speechless moment, filled only with pants and— moans. simon moaned loudly, eyes snapping shut as his orgasm quivered inside him. bees trapped in a glass jar.

“just needed a proper cock to split you open,” he said suddenly, voice deep and rich. “pretty girl like you needs a big cock to keep her happy.”

rutting, in and out. desperate mutt. canines flashing, grip tightening, moans increasing. military stamina you hoped wouldn’t last all night. a working dog, too, this man. god, what a man. not perfect (you wouldn’t want him to be), but pretty fuckin’ close right about now.

“simon,” you whined, desperate.

he groaned deeply. “oh yeah, fuck, that’s it, baby. say my name— yeah, say my name when i come inside you.”

“simon…”

“that’s it, baby. that’s it. fuck, m’so close. m’so close, baby, keep going.”

“simon, please—!”

“mhm, thaaat’s it, fuck,” simon moaned, then shoved his cock as far in as it’d go (making you gasp and choke on a loud moan) and then came inside you.

you felt the heat. more heat, more liquid fire. molten. lava. you were drowning again.

he filled you, cum painting your insides as he moaned out your name, whining as his head flopped backwards, his large hands keeping you firmly in place.

then, everything stilled. your heartbeat clanged loudly in your ears, heavy in your rib cage. your puffy clit beat in tandem with it, and your hole fluttered around his cock, now still and plugging his release inside you.

for the briefest moment, as you lay against simon’s chest in the warm, sex-laden air of your bedroom, you thought of your boyfriend. the man you should’ve been doing all of this with.

but the thought was merely a linger. it flitted away, brushed aside by simon’s lips, that came to rest against your tacky forehead. he peppered a few kisses there, rubbing your hips, arse and back soothingly as you fizzled down.

“pretty girl…” simon whispered softly, hugging you to him. “my pretty girl.”

his prize.

he always thought his mate was a bit of a prick, anyway.

[ficmashup]

I've been thinking about reader who can't cum lately because she has too much on her plate. Too overstimulated, overwhelmed and tired, she didn't really touch herself, and when she did, it was nothing.

She didn't have sex with the boys for a few weeks, because they were busy too, so when they all find some time, Johnny is almost wagging his tail, Simon is kissing her with a grin, gripping her a bit tighter than usual — they missed it. She did too, but her mind just can't forget about all of the problems even when they hover on top of her, leaving hickeys on her neck and squeezing her hips.

So when the time comes, and Simon groans "C'mon love, cum for me, pretty" while panting on top, she doesn't know what to do. They tried so hard for her, were so excited about this.

She imitates.

And the room goes quiet.

I’ve been coming back to this ask and then leaving almost immediately because the second hand embarrassment is so strong. This is literally a stress dream. The only thing worse than having to fake it is having to fake it and getting caught.

They’d know right away—you think they don’t have everything about your orgasms burned into their minds? Your face? Your voice? That adorable flutter your cunt gives?

Johnny’s brain to mouth filter is broken so he probably asks before the sweat has even cooled on your bodies what the hell that was. Ghost is more tactful, trying not to embarrass you. He internalizes it and considers it a review of his performance. He’d been doing everything you usually liked, but obviously not well enough. That’s not on you—that’s on him. Johnny is still crowing in the background wondering what the hell was that, no really, what—

So you have to come clean, the way you should have immediately. They’re more than understanding. Like it hasn’t happened to Simon before after hard times away, when he brings home his work like boulders on his shoulders? Like Johnny doesn’t get whisky dick? You all have your moments when you don’t feel like performing or can’t. Communicating is the most important thing.

Then they commit to helping you relax in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you have to be performative. I suggest a bath and a nap, preferably skin to skin on clean crisp sheets. Hard reset.

[ficmashup]

the writer’s urge to ask your friends “do you wanna see a little somethin’ i’ve been working on?” when the little somethin’ you’ve been working on is 800 words and ends in the middle of a sentence

[ficmashup]

no thoughts just simon roughly undoing your corset at the end of the night. idk how he'd be there without it being seen as improper or whatever or maybe hes your husband but i feel like it'd send me into subspace so quick.. kinda similar to shibari? idk.

The times when he's rough with your stays are few and far between, mostly he unlaces the (newly) double stranded thing with blunt nails that slip against the laces. His own knots so carefully tied keeping you held tight in what may as well be his embrace. His signature is already neatly embroidered on your modesty panel, his words neatly penned in bleeding ink professing all the places his lips would touch. Scandalous delivered before he ever made it to your marriage bed, you might add.

Oh no, Simon is very... deliberate with your stays. Possessive, even. His knot is one you can't undo, one that even he sometimes resorts to pulling between his teeth. It's a security you can't go against, a lock whose only key is held by Simon. He won't even let your maid touch your laces. You sit for him and arch into his touch as he threads one line, then another, and another. His fingers skim your chemise, his breath just barely even. You hang your head to feel his teeth graze the top knob of your spine as he pulls you tight, and takes the first swell of your breath between his fingers.

It's a beautiful thing. A second spine borrowed from your husband's hand. How each crossed thread holds its own knot at the center, how each lace ladders itself to climb up the looping of Simon's signature, his name just barely visible under the knots and laces. No, he doesn't tear at your stays. Swear at them maybe. Tell you he won't tie them so tight next time, a lie. But never tear.

Cut? Well, now that's another thing entirely. And you'd be lying if you said the press of his blade along your spine, slowly carving out your trapped breath, didn't make you squeeze your legs around the hand he'd already buried between them.

[ficmashup]

Price has a thing for virgins.

He'll never admit it, not outwardly of course. It lays there under his skin- a hungry sort of selfishness, an impulse that craves to sink its teeth into something soft just to leave a mark. If the other members of the taskforce take notice of the birds he picks at the bar, wayward eyebrows raised but voices quiet, they choose not to say it. Young things, sweet things, pretty things that he can scent from a mile off. Unmarked, maybe not entirely innocent, but at least untouched.

MDNI

It's addicting, he admits, the pure, selfish act of defiling something else so no other could possibly have it the same way. There's the knowledge that no matter what happens they'll always secretly compare anyone else to the time he took them first- pressed into the mattress, hips rutting as he breathes praises warm and damp into their ear. When they inevitably leave there will always be a piece of him carved inside, one that can't be torn away no matter how much they try to forget.

It's always the same, sweet things that want their first time to be gentle, want it to be romantic, with candles and silk sheets and low, luxurious kisses. He assures them of that, of course, lays them down gently into bed until they sigh against his lips. Yet underneath his true intentions lie- the urge to bite. To claim. To ruin.

Marking, so no matter what happens, they'll always remember him.

He's gotten to have a knack for it, being able to spot a pure, untouched prize from across the room. Usually, not always, it's with a group of friends who all tend to giggle and look in the direction of him and the others with knowing eyes and flirtatious smiles. He's never interested in them. There's no use to nap his jaws down on something that falls oh so neatly between his teeth. Instead, he looks to the sweet thing that hangs at the back, a little more hesitant, wary.

Ready to bolt.

It takes patience, this game of his. Price waits until your friends have decided to wander off for more drinks or to dance or to flirt with one of the young, handsome sergeants beside the captain. It's the moment in which you're alone that he decides to approach you. Smiling, amicable, the utter gentleman that he is. It's easy to worm himself into your good graces with his smiling eyes and easy, natural posture. The smoke-laden voice curls through your thoughts and he sees your shoulders drop. A friend, he manages to convince you without words.

You lost the moment you let him scent you.

You're skittish at first, almost standoffish, as if you can almost tell the intentions that lay behind his smile. You don't go home with him that night, or the next. You make him text you first, and even then you play hard to get. Price finds he doesn't mind this. After all, the best meals are the ones you have to wait for. Waiting, waiting, waiting, until his maw drips and his belly turns dark with need.

Roses, gentle touches. Trust, romance, if he'd allow himself to call it that. Price gives you a parting kiss on the cheek after your third date, resists the urge to push his nose against the heartbeat fluttering beneath your jaw. He takes you to dinner, to coffee, and even when you finally invite him over to yours for a simple dinner and movie Price has to dig his nails into his thighs to control himself. Not yet.

Making him work for his meal.

His fist closes around his cock at night to the skittish embarrassment of you, of flustering every time Price so much as drops an innuendo. He taunts himself with imagined images of your flesh, of the moans and mewls he'll hear for the first time, and the knowledge that it will be him that steals them away and ruins you for anyone else.

You tell him you want your first time to be special. A romantic dinner, a nice dress, coming home to sit by the fireplace with chaste kisses until he leads you upstairs with gentle, guiding touches. Price agrees to all of it, tells you you are in good hands, assures you how well you'll be treated even as his need wells wet against his teeth.

So when he finally does lure you to his den with promises of gentleness and sweet indulgence obscuring the utter ruin you face, Price finally finally sinks his teeth into you.

and becomes addicted to the taste.

You curl into him as he spreads his calloused fingers into you, as he hushes murmurs into your hair and you cling to his broad, hairy chest. He drinks down your gasps, your mewls, starving as it fills his belly and slicks his cock with your need. He sinks you onto his cock mercilessly, kissing away your hitched breaths and fluttering hands as you grip desperately to him, searching fruitlessly for an anchor against the tide of his desire.

Price fucks you down into the mattress and kisses the sobbing tears of overwhelm from your eyes, growls endearments of possession into your sweat slick skin just as your walls flutter around his cock. He bullies his girth into your wet heat, taking, taking, taking as you beg for mercy, for more. Snarling, biting, ravenous as his jaws close around you with the defilement, the ruin, the greed.

When you cum for the first time you sink your teeth into his shoulder, nearly draw blood with the force of the bite. Price huffs a laugh into your skin just as the realization sinks low and viscous into his gut, just as he kisses your wet, panting mouth with the chasteness you so desired.

Marked, he realizes. Ruined for anyone else. Yours.

[ficmashup]

Not to be horny on main but

I need Price to push me down into doggystyle with his big calloused palm on my nape and his soft stomach plastered across my spine. I need him to huff warm and wet in my ear while he stretches me on his cock so much I whine and his only response is to chuckle so deep I can feel it in my fucking bones. I need him to use one massive arm to haul me back against him just as he pants in my ear and purrs filthy lecherous praises in my ear until I cum.

And frankly I think I deserve it

[ficmashup]

wait for protective price and nanny reader how about her doing the food shop with the kids and one guy always hits on her so as the kids are recounting the day to him they tell him about that!!!!!!

yk what hell yeah

part two <- part three -> part four…?

nanny!reader (18+ smut, fem!reader, infidelity, jealous price, daddy kink 🫣, unedited cause it’s just fern on her bullshit)

—•—

“hello you two, how was your day?”

john lowered himself down onto the couch as his two children scrawled away at their colouring books on the floor adjacent. he watched them with a soft smile on his face, also listening to your gentle humming filtering in from the kitchen. no doubt preparing to cook something amazing.

his wife was yet to make an appearance home, and so the kids had given up asking for her. they were happy enough with their dad coming home earlier and earlier, as well as their awesome nanny.

“good thanks,” his daughter replied, pink glitter pen clutched in one of her hands. “we went food shopping today.”

“oh yeah? and did you two behave yourselves?” john looked between his two children, who looked over at him momentarily.

they both nodded, with his son answering verbally as well, “of course we did. and, dad, we saw one of her friends there.”

john’s eyebrows twitched, threatening to raise in slight surprise. “really? was she nice?”

his daughter, catching him father off guard, let out a snort and a laugh as she slipped the cap of her pen back on before placing it aside. she picked up an orange one next. “it wasn’t a girl, dad. it was a boy.”

“a man,” his son corrected, swirling a green pen around in the air. “and we’ve seen him before. well, i’ve seen him before, anyway.”

“…have you, now?” john leaned back against the couch, one of his arms spread out along the backrest.

his son nodded once more, returning his attention to the page he was colouring, which was some sort of ocean-themed still with coral and seaweed and a bunch of cartoon sea creatures.

“yeah,” he replied. “duh, cause he works there.”

something twisted low in john’s gut. he cleared his throat, a sinking feeling became ever more present as he set up a picture in his mind— a picture of some other guy putting his hands on you, complimenting you, having your time of day. sitting on the couch, he realised he didn’t want anyone else to do that to you, his nanny for goodness sake, but him.

“he works there?” john kept his tone light. he was speaking with his children after all, both of which were extremely intuitive and intelligent, so he prayed they didn’t pick up on the slight strain of worry in his words.

“in the deli section, behind the counter,” his daughter said. “he usually gives us a piece of ham or something to eat when she stops by there.”

of course he fucking does.

“what does he say to her?” came out instead. thank god. the last time he swore in front of his children was when he hit his head the corner of a cabinet, said fuck rather loudly, resulting in his then five-year-old daughter repeating that word for the next few days.

silence.

“honey, darling,” he addressed his daughter softly. “what does the man say to her?”

his daughter put down the orange pen, the cap snapping back into place. she peered up at her father with a slight pout to her face.

“does it matter?”

oh this little—

john took a deep breath. nerves continued to eat at his stomach, which made him feel slightly ashamed. not at the fact that his seven year old daughter’s sass reminded him of the woman he had married, but because he realised there was another man out there possibly flirting with the woman he wanted.

“i’m just curious, darling, that’s all,” he replied smoothly. he then tried to his speaking to his five-year-old son a shot, which he didn’t expect to go very far. “what kind of things does he say, mate?”

his son gnawed carefully on the tip of his pen, the tip clacking against his molars. “just stuff.”

ah, right. stuff.

“stuff about, um, going out and stuff.”

that’s… better than nothing.

john could still hear you pottering around in the kitchen, mixed with the sounds of your humming, quiet music playing most likely from your phone, and the muted clanging of pots and pans together.

his daughter, thankfully, chimed in. “he’s always telling her jokes that aren’t even that funny, and asking her questions about her life and stuff. he once asked if we were her kids, and she said no, and he looked, like, happy.”

relieved, john’d guess. nosy son of a bitch.

his son decided to add his two cents too. “he asked for her number today. that’s nice.”

john felt his heart drop out of his fucking arse. her number? are you fucking kidding me? does this cunt have a death wish or something? asking a girl for her number while he’s on the job, how fucking ridiculous.

bless his son with the added that’s nice. john longed to tell him that no, it wasn’t nice. it’s rude to ask a woman for her number if she doesn’t appear interested the first few times you try and hit on her. it’s weird. let alone when you’re working at a fucking deli counter.

john took a deep breath. he was winding himself up. tighter and tighter, something dark and heavy pulling at the strings of his heart.

he removed his arm from the back of the sofa and got to his feet, knees cracking.

“thanks, you two. now i’ll leave you to it. dinner shouldn’t be too far, i’m guessing,” he said, leaving his kids in the living room as he entered the kitchen, giving them one last glance before resting his eyes on you.

you swayed in front of the stove, humming to yourself, something catchy playing from the tinny speakers of your phone. he watched you closely, the way your plush hips moved side to side, the curve of your arse looking fucking great in your trousers, the bow of the apron resting just atop it.

you turned with a wooden spoon in your hand. when you caught sight of your boss on the other side of the kitchen, you jumped, heart clattering against your sternum.

“mr. price, oh my goodness, you scared me. i didn’t even hear you come home,” you said, always polite when he came home. “i’m sorry.”

in case of company. the company you weren’t exactly wanting to keep.

the wife, obviously. the wife.

“don’t apologise, sweetheart,” he told you, crossing his big arms over his even bigger chest and you willed your eyes not to follow the movement. “and she’s not home yet. i came home early.”

of course you did, you wanted to counter with a roll of your eyes. but you didn’t. you just let him have a soft smile before you were turning back towards the pot on the stove.

he slowly began walking across the kitchen, watching you the entire time. you could hear him walking, hear the hard soles of his shoes against the kitchen tile. he hadn’t taken them off like he usually does, and you’d tell him off for it later.

the weight of his eyes on you was almost unbearable. already, your heart was beating a million miles an hour as you clutched the spoon and stirred at the soup in the large pot.

“how was your supermarket trip?” he asked you, and you thought that was slightly weird. a little too specific, perhaps.

then, because you’re a smart girl, it hit you. you sighed through your nose, shaking your head as you watched the thick, rich soup simmer before your eyes.

“the guy at the deli counter just flirts with me, that’s it. i don’t reciprocate it in front of the children, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

john was right behind you now. you could feel his presence, warm and solid, at your back. you could smell him too, and that alone had the backs of your knees weakening.

“i don’t care about flirting in front of my kids,” he said firstly. “what i care about is some cunt flirting with my fucking wife.”

your stomach dropped. “john… not now.”

“why not now?” he questioned, and now his hands were on you. resting on your hips, squeezing you there, holding you tight. “hm?”

his head craned down beside yours, chin tucking against your shoulder.

you swallowed. “i… look, he asked for my number, and i said no, okay? nothing happened, and he respected it.”

“okay,” john said calmly. “okay, sweet girl, i believe you. i believe you, baby, but…”

but…?

he continued. “if he ever talks to you again, talks to what’s mine again, i’ll fucking kill him.”

“jesus— fuck, john, don’t say that—”

he pulled you tight against him, your arse to his pelvis, and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your head as he wrapped his arms around your torso.

“i’m serious,” he said between kisses. “if he ever tries anything like that again, i’ll gut him. and, if he does try again, make sure to tell him you’re fucking married, got it?”

you don’t answer. the soup seems really interesting right about now.

“answer me.”

right, okay.

“yes, sir,” you reply, and he groans against you. you try not to let the sound make you drop the spoon into the soup, but it was difficult.

“good,” he grumbled, then retreated. you missed the warmth already. he leaves a light smack on your arse in his wake, though. “we’ll continue this discussion later tonight.”

discussion. sure.

—•—

later that night, you were back at your flat. it seemed as though you hadn’t been here in days, although you only left to work earlier that morning.

you weren’t a live-in nanny. not yet, anyway. but you were anticipating it. not that john would spur the conversation, but his wife, probably. his wife who was sick of having to get up during the night for her kids, or annoyed that you turned up around half-six to prepare their school lunches and breakfasts for that day.

so you were waiting for the invite to live in the guest room. until then, however, you’d stay in your not-so-cosy little flat with a radiator that made odd sounds and a neighbour that liked to practice her saxophone in the early hours of saturday morning.

john had promised you a discussion. and, for the most part, despite the gnawing in your stomach, it was a normal discussion.

he expressed to you how he felt about other men speaking to you, as the man at the deli counter had. not necessarily in front of the children, but just in general. you were his employee, you had affirmed. he shook his head and told you you were his, employee or not.

and then the discussion progressed into exactly what you thought he had been implying originally. through context clues, of course.

“you’re mine,” he muttered as he slowly pushed his cock into the tight, wet clutch of your cunt. he had two hands on your arse cheeks, spreading them apart, squeezing firmly. “d’you understand that, sweetheart?”

“yes, fuck— yeah,” you moaned into your bedsheets, arching your back as he sunk his cock deep into your pussy. deep until his hips came to rest against you, flared and dusky head pressed far inside. “i understand, i understand.”

he grumbled, deep in his chest, as he slowly pulled his cock out until just the tip rested inside you. then, he gripped your hips and pulled you back towards him at the same time he thrusted forward, spearing you on his cock in once heavy thrust.

your body went lithe, rippling and wriggling as he repeated the action again and again. you cried out, begging for him, pleading with him, his thrusts heavy and making a goddamn point. his balls slapped against your swollen clit, the soaked seam of your pussy, wet squelches falling throughout your quiet room.

john controlled the movements. he brought you back against him again and again, fucking the thick of his cock into your tight cunt, over and over, watching the way the fat of your arse cheeks shifted; the way your legs quivered; the way you buried your sweat-slick face into the sheets and sobbed as pleasure wracked through you.

the bed creaked, headboard tapping lightly against the wall. you couldn’t even bring yourself to think about your neighbours— or wonder if your neighbour will still play her stupid saxophone tomorrow morning.

your mind was swimming, drowning in thoughts of john price. he speared you on his cock, pussy taut around him, fluttering with each punch up against that perfect, gummy spot inside you. the spot making you see stars and bright little phosphenes behind your sinking eyelids.

“john,” you moaned into the sheets, bare tits rubbing against the fabric of your bed linen, nipples sore from john’s foreplay of pinching them. just a reminder, he’d said, before taking them into his mouth— a reminder of what!?

“oh, i know, darling girl, i know— feels good? am i making you feel good?”

“yesss,” you turned your head to moan, a hiccup threatening to bubble up through your trachea. something tingled in your lower spine, pleasure pooling through your pelvis, molten. “john, feels so good. m’sooo—“

you lost your train of thought through another moan as the head of john’s cock slammed repeatedly into the right place. your cunt clenched around him, arousal dribbling out and down his balls, down the fat of your inner thighs too, warm and slick.

no man had ever made you feel like this. no man had got you dribbling down your thighs, pussy wet and puffy and kiss-bitten, stretched happy and wide.

and that was the point.

“pussy’s a fuckin’ dream, baby. missed her so much these last few days, y’know. missed how tight and wet she always is f’me—” john uttered, then tapered off to listen to you mewl sweetly beneath him. he continued with a light chuckle. “yeah, my kind of pussy— just made for me, isn’t she? she been kicking’ up a fuss without my cock in her, hm?”

you nodded deliriously, mouth parted, eyes basically closed. you didn’t have the reservations to feel embarrassed by the way he was talking to you. all you felt was warmth, pleasure, and, as you always felt with john no matter where you were or what you were doing, safe.

“yeah, that’s it, good girl. taking my cock like you were fuckin’ made for it,” he grunted, pulling you back particularly hard. “and you were made for it, weren’t you? s’cause you’re mine. my fuckin’ girl— my— my wife.”

his accent got thicker when he fucked you, and he always let slip his fantasy— his desire to have you as his wife. put a ring on your finger. put a baby in your womb. claim you with his last name, and his kids, and his everything. he felt as though you were his already, and he sure as fuck liked to play a bit of pretend.

“john,” you moaned loudly. “john, please— feels so good, feels so good.”

he panted above you, grunting as his head dropped, sweat dripping from his forehead, broad chest rising and falling quickly.

“yeah, baby? you feel good? is— fuck— is daddy making you feel good? hm?” he coaxed with a rasp in his voice. “yeah?”

“yeah, please,” you mewled, release pooling in the depths of your belly. your clit was hammering with your heartbeat, static buzzing up your legs as they began to tremble. “pleaseee.”

john groaned, feeling your cunt tighten around him, gummy walls constricting tight around the girth of his cock. “you wanna come?”

your eyes were rolling, body shaking. “yes, daddy, please.”

john moaned this time. “yeah, come on then, pretty girl. come for me. come all over your daddy’s big cock.”

he maintained his pacing and this thrusts as you came with a shout of his name, pussy squeezing tight and spilling arousal out the sides of his cock. your body shook, writhing on the bed beneath him, legs threatening to give way as pleasure wracked through you. white hot pleasure that had tears slipping down your cheeks as he fucked you through it.

“that’s my girl, that’s my girl,” john repeated lowly, letting you flop tiredly against the mattress. he held your hips up as he fucked himself into your cunt, arousal gushing with each movement. “fucking hell, such a wet pussy. so fucking wet for me.

you squeaked out something of a moan. he grunted above you, thrusts disintegrating into ruts, moving desperately against you as he worked himself towards completion. white hot and shining like a pearl ahead of him.

it always was like that with you.

he wanted it to always be with you. only you. he wanted to enclose you in the strong, corded muscle of his arms and hold you to his broad chest and soft stomach. he didn’t want to let you go. he wanted to shove the thickened mass of his cock into the clutch of your cunt and empty himself, fill you with his seed, flood up your womb with an entity that chained you to him. forever.

it wouldn’t happen now, he knew. but one day, he’d have what he wanted. he always did.

“m’coming, sweet girl. m’coming,” he moaned quietly, desperately humping against your backside, cock barely sliding in and out anymore, just rutting up towards the plug of your cervix, balls deep. “fuckin’ hell—”

john came with a moan of your name, hot spurts coating your insides. you replied with a mewl of your own, the side of your face pressed into the sheets below, sweat slicked across your body. his hands tightened against your hips, holding you tight against him, arse flush to his abdomen, as his cock twitched inside you. he continued to thrust lightly, working his orgasm all the way until it fizzled out like embers.

when he stopped, he didn’t pull out. he kneeled there for a moment, panting, big chest heaving with his cock still plugging his cum in your pussy. after a few long moments, you whined lightly, and he took that as a cue to keel forward and take you in his arms.

“my good girl,” he murmured, holding you between the mattress and him. boiling hot, sweaty. his cock was still plugged inside you, and you felt your lightly aching pussy clench around him. he groaned, “yeah, my good girls.”

—•—

you stood at the door to your flat, lean in against the doorframe with your arms folded over your chest. body dressed in one of his tee’s, a pair of his boxers, and some fuzzy slippers someone had brought you for your birthday years ago.

you watched john go. walk down the few stone steps and towards his car. he stopped before he reached it, though, and turned around to appraise you with— even in the darkness of night— soft eyes that shimmered under the light of the full moon. shimmered with something, maybe yearning. you didn’t know.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” john said, eyes raking down your body one last time.

you hummed, annoyed. “yeah.”

john frowned. “sweetheart, you know i have to go. just because my wife’s asleep, doesn’t mean i can be gone the whole night.”

my wife. that hit you right in the chest. slamming into your whole body actually. pulled back down to earth by that red string of fate, and you scraped up your knees when you reached the ground. cause it stung like hell, the realisation that you were in love with a man that was married.

“i know,” you replied. “i’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, i guess.”

john sighed and, after looking up and down the street, crossed the pavement once more and climbed the couple of steps before he could put his large hands over your hips and back you up against the doorframe.

“it won’t be like this forever. i promise you that,” he whispered. “but, for the meantime, i guess i’m going to have to treat my special girl right so she keeps coming back, hm?”

he locked his mouth against yours, catching you pretty much by surprise. he quickly shoved his tongue through the part in your soft lips, licking between your teeth and smoothing his against yours. you moaned quietly, something in the back of your throat, throwing your arms around his shoulders as he kissed you in a way that you’d never been kissed before.

you ran a few fingers through his hair, tugging gently, to which he groaned and pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your mouths until it snapped as you smiled up at him, coyly.

he chuckled, placing one last brisk kiss to your lips, before stepping back. you let him go, and then once again, leaned against the doorframe with your arms over your chest as he walked towards his car.

“goodnight, sweetheart,” he said, opening his car door. i love you, he wanted to say.

“goodnight, john.”