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The idea that big bad Ghost can be taken down with a little tenderness will never cease to amuse me. The fact that he'll be so cocky sitting on the couch with you and dragging you onto his lap, grinding your hips back and forth against his clothed cock and asking if you want a ride only to end up with his hands gripping your hips so hard it's turning his knuckles white.

Because you keep pressing these soft, lingering kisses to his face, cupping his cheeks with gentle hands and turning him this way and that, dragging your lips to his ear so he can hear the breathy moans that your grinding hips pull from you. You force him to look you in the eye as you raise up and push yourself back down his cock, what a good boy he is, he's fucking you so well, doing such a good job, you feel so good, so so good. He wants to look away, he needs to look away, but he can't. The only thing he can do is tug you off his cock when he feels his balls starting to tighten, hissing through his teeth as you slowly sink back down his length, he can't- can't do it, can't take it, can't imagine how it's so hard for him to keep control when you're in control

You just keep touching him and cooing at him, and he's about to shoot off like a teenager with his first girlfriend. For God's sake would you just stop kissing him? He could handle the rest of it if you just stopped kissing him like he was something precious to you, this was supposed to be fun dammit!

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Did Gaz's brain tingle when his maid told him she's a virgin '3'

It rings greedily through his brain, yes. There's not a man in the kingdom who wouldn't be excited by the idea of having you completely. Being the first and only cock you'd ever take was an honor that Gaz was going to keep for himself. He believes you, though he knows many maidens have just cause to lie about such things, but that doesn't stop him from wanting to make good on his threat.

Inspecting that pretty slit between your legs, spreading you apart with his fingers and tutting over what he sees. How little prodding would it take to get that soft skin soaked, to make your thighs tremble under his hands, to make sure you were telling the truth about being untouched. Would he have to push his fingers into you? No, not fingers, just one. You probably couldn't handle more than that yet, but he'd work you up to it. Start with one finger and warm you up until you were grabbing at his wrist and whimpering for more.

He wanted to see you, he wanted to taste you.

To drag his tongue through your silky folds and taste your slick. He'd press his lips to your clit and kiss it until his lips were numb and your whimpers turned to begs, until he couldn't help swirling his tongue over it just to hear you keen. He could lick you bottom to top, find every place that he can wriggle his tongue into and make sure no one else has been there before.

And God he could do it for hours.

"You'll do no such thing," You reply, indignant.

Gaz blinks, his cock strains against his trousers uncomfortably and his brain rushes to catch up to the conversation after its brief stint in your bedroom. He's sure he hasn't said any of his thoughts aloud, and even if he had no one would believe you, but what had he said to warrant this dismissal?

Ah, he had offered to check your virginity for himself.

Again the thoughts rush to him unbidden, your legs parted, your fingers twisting shyly against your mouth, your wanton moans and cries as he spread you apart and sucked at your folds. His mouth waters, his cock throbs, your lips pout.

And Gaz has the most childish urge to hook his thumb in your mouth and pry it open, inspect your teeth or- no again, he wants to see your tongue, to see if your mouth waters for him as well.

[ficmashup]

Care

Summary: A bad day.

Warnings: uhm, depression naps, loss and regaining of appetite, excessive sleeping, Simon lets himself in, fluff

Words: 1171

A/N: This is very self-indulgent but I felt like posting it anyways. Sending love to anyone who can relate.

Requests are open as always.

Masterlist - Mobile Masterlist

-

You let your water glass clink against the sink and move back towards the sofa. The morning sun is barely peeking through the curtains but you feel tired.

The walking pad you had gotten remains unused as you lie down.

Everything hurts. There are days like this, where it just does and a bone-deep tiredness just blinds you, pulling you to sleep, even though you had already slept for 10 hours.

It’s no use trying to resist.

So you sleep, again, curled up on the couch under your blanket.

It’s already enough that you don’t go to work but when Simon texts you, asking where you are, it makes you hide underneath the blanket even more.

You don’t want to bother anyone with your sudden, overwhelming sadness, is what you text back. You really don’t.

Another text.

You ignore it.

When you wake up again, it’s well into the afternoon, almost approaching evening.

At least you feel comfortable now, still tired and sad, but comfortable.

The creak of your front door makes you freeze, going completely stiff, as the door falls back into its lock.

The heavy footsteps are familiar and you tug your blanket away from your face just in time to see Simon appearing in the kitchen.

He doesn’t say anything, just stands in the door frame for a moment.

He approaches with care. It's like you can feel his heavy gaze on you as he rounds the couch and comes to another halt right in front of you.

And then he produces a paper bag and puts down a steaming paper cup (a little cardboard sleeve already wrapped around it), right in your eye sight, on the coffee table.

You furrow your brows and already feel tears gathering in your eyes. So you ruck the blankets a little higher. The dull sound of your water bottle hitting the wood of the table follows.

He puts the paper bag down, too.

Then, he just turns on his heel and leaves again, locking the door behind himself.

You fall into an uneasy slumber after that, but manage to take a few sips of the drink he had brought you, before hiding underneath the blanket again.

The next time the door opens, he locks it behind him.

The warm, savoury smell of food wafts through the air but this time, Simon’s footsteps are so quiet, you wouldn’t know he was inside if you hadn’t heard the lock turn, moving through your kitchen like a ghost.

You sigh and push your nose deeper into the cushions.

You jump when you feel Simon sitting down on the couch, already having nodded off again.

He wordlessly checks how full the water bottle and the paper cup are, before gently pushing them to your side and setting down the crinkly, white plastic bag in his hand. It clinks metallically as it hits the table and your eyes automatically follow the movement of his hands.

He unpacks a plethora of black boxes, some of them steaming, some seeming cold.

You recognize the packaging immediately- your favorite sushi place.

You can feel your mouth salivate a little, a sudden ache pulsing behind your eyes that reminds you that you had barely had breakfast before you had slept for another eternity.

He puts down two beers and one of those yuzu lemonades you like to get sometimes, before he eventually leans back. He glances at you before demonstratively patting the cushions, obviously searching for the remote.

You huff and carefully extend an arm out of your cocoon to reach for it. 

He hums when you give it to him.

When he opens his beer with one hand, you instantly realize that you desperately need to go pee.

Simon’s gaze follows you, as you get up and quickly retreat to the bathroom.

As soon as you are back, you stop in your tracks.

Simon has spread out all of the food on the table, containers opened.

Additionally, he has put a blanket on himself, his legs spread invitingly.

You chew on your lip and hesitate for a moment.

He wordlessly flips the blanket open and meets your eyes.

You keep chewing on your lip but you are cold and you know Simon is a walking a heater. 

So you cave and crawl into the offered space.

Simon manhandles you until you are comfortably sitting back against his chest.

He is quick to positively swaddle you in the blanket, making sure to fold the edges down underneath your feet. On screen, a trashy dating show is already on, running on low volume.

He grabs one of the boxes and wordlessly deposits it on your lap. You quickly notice a second pair of chopsticks lie in the box as he starts to eat.

It takes him getting through just one of the takeout boxes for you to grab hold of the chopsticks and start getting into a few of the side dishes, before you eventually start picking out your favorites from the other boxes. Behind the armrest of the couch, Simon carefully collects them in another bag as soon as you are both done with them.

As the show goes on, you eventually come back to doing your little quips, commenting on who you think is a toxic asshole and how the women deserve better. Simon grunts his approval or murmurs something about those bloody idiots, while steadily making you eat up the rest of the food.

With your belly full and your mind busy with the trashy tv show, you don’t even notice the time going by. Simon keeps you warm, his hands constantly rubbing over your skin, petting at your waist, wrapping his arm over you, rubbing his cheek against your temple.

When the last episode finally wraps up, Simon turns you in his arms until you can nuzzle into his neck.

He lets his hand stroke over your back as you try your best not to let the weight of the day get to you again, the aching emptiness.

He just holds you, silently. Providing you with the steady up and down of his breathing and the blissful absence of any questions.

Eventually, his hand wanders up to gently wrap around the nape of your neck, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb in slow circles over your scalp.

“D’you want me to stay over?”

You don’t answer.

You do, you desperately do, but this already feels like you have required too much of him. All of your thoughts are circling around being a burden, not even being able to open your fucking mouth-

“Tell you what���, he mutters, “‘m gonna watch a few episodes of a show I wanna see. Finish my beer. You just stay there and keep me warm and comfortable, yeah?”

You make a non-committal sound.

He switches on some sort of moody, crime focused show and keeps petting you. His thumb strays from your hair to your pulse every now and then, gently stroking over it, until your eyes eventually fall shut and you drift off.

-

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does ghost suck the strap? 🤔

Do you want him to, sweetheart?

You wanna fuck his face, his throat, and make him choke on it? Wanna grab him by his hair and just... Christ.

Wanna prepare him to get fucked the way he fucks you?

By all means: Do it. Ain't his first rodeo with dick, luv. Sure as fuck won't be his last.

Wanna see Simon panting heavily afterward, pupils blown, cock leaking and twitching, ready to see if you got what it takes to fuck him silly?

By all means, sweetheart, do it.

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when he comes back to you, gently examine for scratches

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jealous sex in the alleyway behind the bar with Simon!!!! Maybe because reader is flirting a lil too much with soap? 👀

smut mdni | fat fem reader | he picks you up | this is my first non prompt ask and i squealed so fucking loud

meeting all of simon's friends for the first time left you on edge, three other men who suffered the same memories that keep your boyfriend awake as you peacefully sleep next to him tucking into his side.

it was at a dingy bar where there weren't many patrons but still enough to keep the place open, smoke from clipped cigars hung around the room turning it into a smokescreen of sorts.

people stayed close to the bar while others milled around other tables speaking to one another when you and simon entered, your arm looped with his as you stayed close to him for protection.

he was a guard dog as well as your boyfriend, simon has chased off a pestering co-worker of yours who has been hounding you for a date with nothing but a look while standing behind you at the party.

"lieutenant!" soap was the first one to greet him standing from the booth with a dopey smile that made you smile shyly and tuck your face into simon's bicep gathering attention from the table.

price and kyle turned to look at you, both wearing warm smiles that put you at ease. "oi, who is this pretty little thing?" soap asked, his grin deepening as you extended a hand forward to shake his.

simon grumbled his distaste when soap kissed the back of your hand letting his lips linger there for a moment as he stared at you like you were a painting of sorts. "you can let go now soap." simon told him.

"my bad lieutenant." he replied and moved over to let you have some room between him and simon.

the five of you shared stories, them about their time on missions and you as a civilian and your job as a secretary for a doctor's office, and despite the people who have gone off you it paled in comparison to what they did for a living.

simon watched as soap held your attention the most, even kyle and price shared a look before glancing at simon waiting for the moment he pulled a knife out to threaten him then you started flirting back.

it wasn't on purpose truly.

him being able to see straight down your shirt to see the soft supple skin of your breasts was a complete accident and when you got out of the booth to use the restroom the flash of your panties got him.

"i bet you're the best worker in the entire place." soap complimented before handing you the drink he just paid for with a wink pulling a giggle from you.

having to watch one of his good friends, someone who has had his back in times that most people would run from treat his girlfriend like that made simon seethe with jealously even though he understood.

you were everything he wasn't, soft and so fucking sweet.

when simon had a bad day a hug from you made it all better and being able to hold you tightly made his chest flutter, a lot of the times he was scared that something would happen and he lost you in a setting he couldn't control and right now he could control this.

"i never thought anyone could pull of a mohawk but you make it work with that grin of yours." you cooed to soap as you played with the strip of hair on the top of his head and that's when simon snapped.

he took a hold of your wrist gently but tight enough to let you know there wasn't a way out of this. simon guided you toward the back ignoring the looks from his friends and everyone else.

outside behind the bar in the alleyway you and simon stood between the narrow bricks thankful no one could see anything.

cool air caressed your warm skin as you stood by the door that clicked shut. "si?" you stepped forward placing your hand on his back when he twirled around to look at you with darkened eyes.

his mask hid his mouth but you knew that the upper one twitched with irritation. "do you want to fuck johnny?" he asked bluntly.

you furrowed your eyebrows and shook your head. "what? no. why would i want to do that when i have you?" you hummed sliding your hand up his shirt with a deep shiver as you looked back at him.

"you're entertaining the bastard." simon bit out as his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt tugging you until there wasn't an inch of space between the both of you, his scent made your heady fuzzy.

leaning in you pressed a tender kiss between his eyes when you pulled him to your height. "he's cute, but not as cute as you are."

that was enough for simon to reach one big palm down to smack your ass making you cry out from surprise and the sting which was accompanied by it which was quickly followed by a soft moan.

simon met your heated gaze and jumped up letting him catch you as your legs wrapped around his waist while you clung to his broad shoulders still feeling a little nervous about your lover doing this.

hooking a finger in his mask you tugged it until his lips were visible and you could feel the roughness of them against the softness of your own. simon turned to have your back against the wall.

you engaged him in a sloppy makeout session, tongues gliding against one another as you licked into his mouth like a hungry thing as your fingers clawed at his jacket feeling your cunt leak slick.

the gusset of your panties stuck to your pussylips while you ground against simon needily with soft pants until one hand was sliding into his pants to stroke the thick length of his cock, so heavy and warm.

simon made sure that the brick didn't bite into your back as his hand moved from under your thigh to between your legs to easily rip at the stockings you put on because it was rather chilly this evening.

"si!" you cried and buried your face in his neck feeling the cold air kiss the baren skin that pooled out of the gaping hole in the fabric.

thick fingers simply moved your panties to the side to play with your arousal making it coat each inch of your cunt before sinking two fingers in your heat making you bite down on his throat.

you matched the pace of his fingers that scissored deep inside your cunt making you squeal and hump him the best you could as you jerked him off while struggling your best to kiss him how you could.

he bucked into your hand and pulled his fingers out making you pout from the loss of him. "say you're mine." simon needed to hear it to help soothe away the thorns of the green monster that got him.

"i'm all yours simon, no one else's, i only want you." you whispered in between each peck as you helped him remove his dick in a haste to feel the thick crown push against the first ring of muscles.

with your admission, simon bent his knees a bit and dropped you down fully on his cock causing tears to instantly prick your eyes. "that's for letting soap think he has a chance with you sweetheart."

with simon balls deep in your drenched cunt you swore you felt him in your womb as he ground against you not even thrusting in and out feeling the way you twitched around him so warm and fucking wet.

now that his mouth has been exposed he left a trail of bites and passionate open-mouthed kisses along your neck and chest marking you in a way that people can see and they could smell him on you.

it was wild as you tried to fuck him back with soft whines that grew louder as he picked up the pace feeling his sack pat against you, it had to be somewhat of a quickie so no one would come out and see.

another sloppy thrust and your orgasm ripped open making you cream simon's dick that pulsed nestled between your walls dumping a thick load into you as his mouth found yours in a heated kiss.

he held you there until the both of you came down from your high and most times simon would eat his load out of you or clean you up he decided to just fix your panties when he sat you down. 'a reminder of who you're with." he whispered in your ear as he opened the door.

comments and relogs with tags are really appreciated <3

[ficmashup]

big bad Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley, who's job is to boss people around in that gruff scary voice and even scarier face, being bossed around by his sweet wife. and him softening his eyes at you and you alone when you politely ask him for things and him following your orders without question... makes me fucking feral.

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simon "you having a go at me? try again" riley vs john "you can have a go at me but i'll get my lick back" price

simon will let u have ur piece but he's the type to give the energy back and then some 🫦 while price will let you at it the whole entire day and he'd only have an inkling why you're having go before he's getting his lick back after dinner (figuratively aaaand literally 🫦)

Simon's the one who lights up a cigarette, smokes, and stares at you the entire time you're talking shit. Dark eyes are just... boring into you.

When you're done, he's on his bullshit. "You finished, luv?" "Fuck you, Simon." And then he smirks 'round his ciggie. Big mistake on your part. HUGE.

You were in a daze the next day, couldn't walk straight he fucked you so good.

As for Price, he thinks it's the funniest shit ever, grin wide, and those chonky quokka cheeks are out in full force. You're giving it your all but he's been around the block a couple times, has been told things worse than your very best, and you're positively radiant when you're passionate, sweetheart.

So very radiant that he can't help but want to bask in it. From between your legs.

Which is what Price does exactly.

[ficmashup]

recruit: where do you believe a woman's place is?

141: my face.

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dbf!john price fucking you in your childhood bed, one hand over your mouth to muffle the pathetic whines and moans you can’t help but make each time his cock hits exactly the right spot, the other cradling the back of your head so gently to keep you as close as possible to him. your parents and their friends are gathered in the living room, the impending cheer for the new year seconds away as they count down to the stroke of midnight, voices getting louder as the seconds get smaller.

but all you can think and see and hear are him — the way his body weight presses down on you so perfectly, your legs cradled high up on his hips; the glassy look in his eyes that’s been there ever since he first slid into your warm cunt, drooling and begging for him the moment he stepped over the threshold of your parents’ home, mistletoe still tacked above the door; the way he pants and groans into your damp skin with each thrust, praises smeared against your neck at how good you take him, how he’s been wanting to fuck you like this for ages now.

the fireworks sparkle outside just as you cum helplessly around his cock, shattering you from the inside out as his hand clamps down harder. tha’s a good girl, he slurs into your neck, teeth scraping along the sensitive skin, breaking skin as he buries himself deep to cum inside you, a stuttered breath on his lips as his hips rock into you, the pleasure needling into the edge of pain.

he stays buried inside as he collapses on top of you, the full weight of him a comfort among the celebration chaos outside the four walls of your room. your fingers thread through his sweaty hair gently, scraping at the nape of his neck as you can feel the tension seep out of him.

happy new year, dove, you feel more than you hear over your frantically beating heart, a scared, shy thing caged beneath your ribs.

happy new year, you whisper back against his forehead, your lipstick clinging to his skin like a brand, a promise of something more.

[ficmashup]

Filthy Dog

MMA au -> pro!Soap x PR team!reader

Series CW: 18+ MDNI, possessive behaviour, spitplay, oral oneshot - 2K words - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

“-I'LL HAVE YER’ HEAD ON A STICK!”

You heard him before you saw him- the blur of a man who was truly more bull than human, and the scraping of chairs. Another headache for you. 

You knew this was coming, you knew he wouldn't be happy with this sponsor. You tried to warn them.

“Johnny.” Soap’s manager, Mitch, tried to reason, eyes widening when the fighter’s massive wrapped hands flexed around his freshly-pressed white button down, untucking the bottom from his pants in the process. “-John.” he corrected, coughing awkwardly. When Soap snarled at him, Mitch looked to you with that ‘help clean this mess up’ look.

“No.” Soap bit, jamming a blunt finger into the man’s chest before you could respond to his plea. “This is yer’ problem.”

“We don’t have a problem.” Mitch assured. “Talk to me John, what's up?” 

Soap’s eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. “Ye’ know damn well. Told you I'd sooner quit than work with Max Energy.”

Mitch’s lips pursed, You were unsure what he expected as the outcome of his greed- probably that he would be able to talk his way out of it. “I don’t remember you saying that." he scoffed. "Come on now, Max is great, don't blow this out of-”

Soap growled in frustration, his fist careening into the folding table beside him; a deadly weapon- a warning shot. 

“Tell me, Mitch- why was I-” he snatched the cloth hanging out the pocket of his sweatpants and pushed it into the wiry man’s chest. “-just handed shorts with Max Energy big and bold ‘cross my fucking bits?” 

he leaned in, jaw tense. “Ah’m a joke to ye’? I’ll quit right here, right now.” 

Mitch called your name like he was summoning a maid and you could only sigh in response. “Soap-” “You say one more word for him and ah’ll knock his fucking teeth in.” he warned, not even turning to look in your direction. Your mouth closed, locked tight. 

“John, you quit and all those paying fans out there waiting for you will make sure you never get another damn title again.” Mitch threatened. “They’re not here for some still wet-behind-the-ears openers. They’re sure as shit not here for Kozlov.” he laughed sardonically. “They’re here for you. Don’t ruin this.” ‘-for me’ he seemed to leave out.

You couldn’t help but wonder if Mitch was doing this on purpose, or if he was just flat out stupid.

A deep, rumbling noise echoed around the depths of Soap’s expansive chest, lips curling back like a dog. “I do this fight- then I’m done, Mitch.” Mitch beamed, seemingly only hearing the confirmation he’d be fighting tonight. “-Not for yer’ sorry ass and not for those Max Energy bastards either. For the fans.” Soap grit out.

You could see the gears inside the manager’s head turning as he processed the financial hit he would inevitably take if his golden boy were to leave. “John-” Mitch practically whined.

 “Not up for debate.” Soap snapped, shooting him a venomous look- and like a tornado on a storm path, he chucked the shorts in the bin and left, dipping back into his locker room.

Mitch sighed, rubbing at his temples before setting his eyes on you.

“Do something. You’re Personal Relations- go relate personally.” Mitch snapped at you as he began digging into the trash to retrieve the shorts.

“Public Relations.” you corrected, earning a frustrated hiss and a dismissive hand wave. 

“Don’t change the subject. Get in there.”

You grimaced. “He’ll kill me!” 

“Don't be dramatic and hurry up, he's on soon.” Mitch urged, shooing you off. You made a sour face, heaving yourself up off the padded bench before Mitch could find something else to complain about. “-Wait.” Mitch ordered, as if he was telling a dog to heel. “-Second thought," he hummed "scratch that, let him be pissed for the fight. It’ll do numbers.”

-

Loathe as you were to admit, Mitch was correct- all three rounds had been polished off like they were light meals. You were next, surely. Your knee bounced anxiously as you awaited the full oncoming force of Soap’s post-cage high. “Fantastic! MacTavish v Kozlov-” Mitch barked out a laugh. “What a joke Kozlov was, does his team think it's amateur hour?” 

“Mitch.” you interrupted, knee falling still. “This isn’t really time for celebrations, you're about to lose your current biggest fighter.” He mowed you down with an eye roll “John just needs time to come to his senses, Max Energy contracts like this are once in a lifetime.”

“He’s not-”

The Locker room door nearly flew off its hinges, a beast coated in sweat and blood emerging. “John!” Mitch grinned with outstretched arms that faltered as the big man stormed straight past him.

God. Good god. He was hurtling towards you. Avert your gaze downwards, you coached yourself, you wouldn’t sit well in the stomach of a dog like him. 

Bare feet stopped before you. “You.” he chuffed out around the rubber guard in his mouth, drawing your gaze upwards. “Let’s go.” You looked around, not fully processing the situation. Mitch regained his composure. “Y-yes! Go talk with John.” he urged, desperately latching on to any inch of leeway Soap would give. “Get the fuck out, Mitch.” Soap barked, voice distorted by the EVA covering his teeth.”’Fore I rip yer’ head clean off.”

“R-right! We’ll talk later.” he laughed out nervously and tucked tail as Soap stared you down through the eyes of a starving street dog; getting the hell out of dodge. He kept his eyes on Soap as he left- a survival instinct not to show your back to a hungry predator.

”I tried to warn them about the Max deal.” you pressed once alone, hoping to avoid an argument. “Ah’know, bonnie.” he hummed lowly, a sweaty, gloved hand coming to graze your cheek. His sudden, loose tenderness came as a shock to your system. “Yer’ not like those vultures- Ye’ don’t see me as an asset.” His empty blue eyes relaxed, pupils dilating as his other hand raised to cradle the other side of your face, both thumbs brushing the corners of your lashlines. “Aye, Yer’ the good one. So patient with a daft bastard like me.” Your eyelids trembled slightly, his gaze zeroing in on the movement. “You want me like I want you?” 

Your eyes darted to your lap, urging Soap to tap at your cheek. “Eyes up- On me.” 

“You give the word and ah’ll treat you better than any man ever could. Ah’ll set ye’ right.” his voice dropped to a low boom. “Yer’ the only good thing ‘round me, have been since the moment we met.” You could still remember why you were hired. Soap was on the come up, but couldn't seem to figure out why getting into random scuffs with strangers over little annoyances was a bad thing. Especially for a man with a body that was essentially a lethal dose of muscle and bulk he had been specially trained in how to throw around. Possible fatal outcomes aside, it wasn't making him a man to root for. Every fight needed tension, but Soap wasn't a man built for pyrrhic victories- he was an underdog, biting and gnashing his way through cage after cage; man after man. He was meant to enjoy his hard-earned glory, and because of your work- MMA fans absolutely adored him. 

Soap huffed out, head tilting. “Y-yeah- yes, okay.” you whispered, trying not to psych yourself out. Your lips creased, head nodding before you could chicken out. 

Pulled into an blurred vortex, it took you an embarrassing amount of time to realize you were hiked over his shoulder as he lumbered towards his private locker room for the fight, locking the door behind him. Setting you gently on the luxurious industrial sink counter was his last mercy as he ripped off his gloves and clawed at your bottoms and underwear, yanking them off your legs. A freshly-bare and clammy hand braced itself under each thigh as he jacked your legs up and over his broad shoulders, a pleased grunt passing his lips. 

He lowered down before cursing and pushing your legs back up against your chest. 

You made a small noise, worried you had somehow fucked something up for him which earned you a growl and a headshake as he grunted and spat his mouthguard onto your tummy, sticky saliva coating your skin as it found its resting place before he dove back in, not caring where the plastic ended up. 

He pressed open-mouthed kisses at the apex of your thighs, sucking and biting at the skin like he was underfed and hungry. You whined as his teeth kept digging into the sensitive flesh, earning satisfied hums from the man in response, stubble not helping your case. You flexed, legs caging in his head which had seemed to guide him towards your waiting cunt.

The noises he emitted as he lapped at your folds made you feel nauseated and lightheaded, a blushing mess.

A shoulder jerked upwards to support your leg so he could explore the messy folds with a newly-unoccupied hand, but didnt pull his mouth back to give himself the space needed to do so; leaving you reeling at the feeling of such a concentrated area of stimulation.

As if sensing your limits, he bullied his way deeper, growling into your pussy in a way that left black spots at the corner of your vision.

Brutish fingers began to dip into the spot they had been searching for and you could feel his body tense and flex as he practically humped into the space beneath the counter, hips desperately chasing contact it wasn't receiving. He cursed against your flesh, mouth covered in drool and slick as he rose upwards, reminding you of a hulking behemoth as you were forced to accommodate the new position. He gazed down with hazy eyes and a glistening jaw as he focused on jamming whatever he could of his finger into your cunt, twitching and thrusting the digit inside you. As if the stretch wasnt enough to satisfy that itch in the back of his skull, he stuffed in his ring finger next to it, pinky and index bracing his hand as he fucked the fingers into you, transfixed. 

You were going to pass out at this rate, his knuckles, malformed from years of improper training and injury- kissed at your inner walls, sending you out of body. 

His lids lowered, pace easing as a thought passed his mind. He paused, stretching open the hole as his throat bobbed a few times. Your head clumsily lolled to the side just in time to watch a fat wad of spit drip from his mouth, directly into your slicked pussy. He smiled, happy with himself and savoring the sight for a moment before continuing his ministrations- slower this time, deeper. He angled his hand, thumb massaging at your clit just to see the way you would react. 

You didn't disappoint him, the sight of you causing his mouth to part, drool still hanging from his chin. “Fuuuck.” he breathed, drawing the word out. "-What a sight ye' are." His eyes darted back to your cunt, thick brows quirking as he experimentally ground his thumb deeper into your nub, urging a cry to push its way out of your lungs. His teeth glinted as he huffed out a small laugh. “Yer’ being so good to me too, huh?” he rumbled happily, eyes coasting along your stretched folds and it took you a moment to realize he wasn't talking to you. He pulled his fingers out slowly, scooping the mixed fluids up and popping them into his mouth. “Mmh-” he groaned, diving back in to gather more, this time digging deep. the movement finally pushed you over the edge. “Tha’s it.” he praised, dipping his head low to lap his mess beneath your flexing thighs.  -

You spent the following half hour under a steaming waterfall shower head with a looming mass tucked against your back, cleaning you up and rutting against you in random incriments- his skin surely emitting steam at a higher rate than the water. He bowed his head into your neck, bunting against you and inhaling the smell of his favourite body wash on your skin. “-Got an offer from 141 Athletics a bit ago, they could take care of it all for us, y'know.” he mumbled, pausing and dragging his nose along your nape. “Yer' coming-" he breathed out. “You work for me, not Mitch- You're coming with me.” you could feel his lips drag up in a sneer against your skin when the man's name left his mouth. In an attempt to comfort him, you tried to turn and face him, but thick arms stopped you, curling under your arms and around your chest, sneaking a feel before pulling you into him, the fatty layer coating his pecs molding against your back like a dream.

You nodded.

“Good.” he sighed.

[ficmashup]

Pianist! Reader ft. Ghost "what the fuck is that infernal racket" (it's Reader practising Rimsy-Korsakoff) and Soap "play Flower of Scotland!!! Play Scotland the Brave!!!!!!" and Gaz "I have good fingers, can you teach me"

The only one who behaves is Price and that's because he's busy trying to find reader to fuck them on top of the bloody piano. Yes yes, he'll pay for another if it breaks or something

I just made a post the other day about Simon’s hand size vs. Johnny’s but the piano is so hand-focused (and I’m such a slut for hands) it’s hard not to think of it.

I see this piano being in a bar, and while playing it usually isn’t in your job description, everyone including the owner knows you’ve got the training to put on a little show during slow nights or special occasions (like that year there was a snowstorm on Christmas Eve and you made a grown man cry with your rendition of O Holy Night).

The 141 are the only newcomers in the bar, and the night is incredibly slow. You play one little tune as you pass the piano, pecking at the keys with a single finger, and it’s enough to attract their attention.

Johnny and Kyle crowd around the piano flirting obscenely with you (almost as much as they’re flirting with each other). They ask you to play something, so you do. Half the time your eyes are on the keys but the other half of the time they’re watching the large man who’s refused to leave the booth, the mask over his mouth doing nothing to disguise the way he’s watching your hands.

“Can you teach me?” Kyle asks, leaning against the piano lightly. “I’ve been told I have very good hands.”

You ignore that for the bait it is and shift over. “Depends. What’s your hand span?”

“My what?” he asks, laughing, sitting on the bench beside you.

“Your hand span! From your thumb to your pinky, how far can you reach on the piano.” You demonstrate, dextrous enough to span a ninth. Genetics keep you from reaching any further. It doesn’t bother you; Chopin could only reach a ninth after all.

Kyle’s hands can stretch to a tenth. Johnny insists on having his turn next, and the both of them begin arguing over whose hands are larger and more dextrous. They might as well have their dicks out, you think, rolling your eyes.

You stand and get back to your duties, leaving them to you with the piano a while longer. You’re busy pouring drinks when a sound rings out that catches your attention, clear as a bell over the quiet din of the bar. Your head snaps to the piano.

The man in the mask stands there—fingers easily spanning a twelfth.

Your mouth goes dry, imaging the size difference if you were to hold your hands up palm to palm. Satisfied, he turns away from the piano and accidentally catches your eye. He raises both his brows once in a jaunty little motion before sitting back down at the booth with his friends, something about his slumped posture registering as distinctly smug.

Rightfully so. You’re scrambling for a napkin to write your number on, that note still ringing in your ears.

[ficmashup]

hii

can I ask for more scent kink soap? ugh just something about that nasty nasty man GETS me.

So first of all this is inspired by this post that I’m fucking obsessed with so. Omegaverse be upon ye

Freak Soap who finds a pair of used panties on the floor of the communal laundry room in his flat building. So, like the animal he is, he lifts it to his face to sniff.

And like. He’s never really believed in being able to smell someone and just know that they’re a perfect match. Like, that’s nonsense. But right now? If he had a tail it’d be thumping. Like, he whines when he pushes the gusset of your panties right up to his nose, that’s how amazing it smells to him.

He ends up waiting in the laundry room all night to see if the owner will show. No luck. Sulks back to his flat, keeps the panties bunched up in his face while he fists his cock more than a few times.

Every so often he’ll catch little whiffs of it. It’s actually a very subtle scent— it’s probably why he’s never noticed, not till it was concentrated in that slick-soaked fabric. Sort of like how there are some things you’d never find unless you already knew what they looked like. People tell all kinds of stories about scents. That their mates smelled of bergamot and lemongrass, teakwood and honeycomb candy, peppermint and vanilla— all sorts of bath and bodyworks style shite. God knows he’s heard the word petrichor enough for one lifetime.

Gaz told Soap that he smelled like salt and single malt whiskey. Also dirt, but they all smelled like dirt at the time.

This scent was fascinatingly, infuriatingly simple and yet it smelled like the embodiment of home, of comfort—

You smelled like wheat. Warm wheat. It wasn’t spicy, herbaceous, sweet, earthy. Just… wheat.

At the front door of the building. By the mail boxes. In the laundry room. Sometimes, in a cruel twist of fate— right by his own front door. Always weak— just traces. Never accompanied by the wearer. His unpredictable schedule of deployments and leave just make it harder to try to track.

Until one day he comes back. Long bloody mission, dragged through mud, run ragged. Just barely able to scrape through to the finish line before his rut started, thank god. And yet, he’s dreading it. That pair of panties has basically all but lost any traces of you, he’s had it and held it in desperation for so long.

When the lift door opens, he can feel his spine straighten in alert. Wheat. Abundant. Fertile. You’re so close, and so close to a heat.

He drops his duffel by his door as he loses the battle to think of anything but stuffing his knot in a soft, hot cunt. His cock is already painfully hard as the rut claws and pricks at his synapses, coiled and at the ready. But he doesn’t have to travel far.

The door across the hall from his.

He gets low to the ground, like he’s trying to squeeze himself under the door— trying to get closer and closer to the scent.

Knocking, introducing himself, and acting like a human being is far from the forefront of his mind. His first instinct is to jiggle the handle of the door, growling when he finds it locked.

His second instinct is to dig the picking tools from his duffle.

[ficmashup]

Well now I'm thinking about pegging Mr. Pretty Boy himself. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, how would he take it? I can see him becoming such the unexpected brat when taking your silicon cock.

Gaz takes it like it's his fucking job, forcing you down onto your back so he can bounce on your silicon cock. It's an odd power play feeling him grab your wrists off his hips and pin them by your head, looming over you and holding you in place as he pulls himself up and down your strap. He clicks his tongue and you go hot all over, his perfect, beautiful lips quirking into a sly smile that's almost immediately ruined by the way his eyes roll and his head drops against his chest.

"Mm, fuck" He hums, regaining some measure of control over himself before telling you: "Just as good a toy like this, eh doll?"

Because honestly what is a dom if not a brat that gets what they want? And pretty boy Gaz always gets what he wants, especially when what he wants is to show you the way his perfect cock smacks against his stomach when he leans back to press his palms to your thighs and give you a good view of your strap splitting him open.

[ficmashup]

Okay Pegging ghost is great, but hear me out-

Soap teaching you how to properly fuck Ghost.

Feeling Soap's hands slipping over your hips, toying with the straps of your harness as his voice purrs in your ear, "Just like that, not too rough" Soap kisses your shoulder, "wants to pretend ya like him." Ghost tries to glare over his shoulder at the comment but you thrust into him and it makes his lashes flutter. He keeps stuffing his face back into the pillows with a groan of pleasure.

Each stroke of your hips pushing into Ghost means Soap's cock is pulled out of you, and you keep pulling out too fast just to push your hips back onto Soap's thick length. Which means Ghost keeps making choked noises under you and you keep losing focus on what you're supposed to be doing. So Soap has to grip your hips and move you himself. Fucking Ghost with your strap while he fucks you. Pretty toy caught between the two of them, nothing but a dildo for one and a fleshlight for the other...

[ficmashup]

i’m drooling at ur older bf price (not much else to say except when/if u ever have more thots abt him please share 🙏)

previous

You curl in on yourself after sex, sometimes. It’s a pattern Price has noticed—you’ll finish, then he will, and in the humid moments after, the shutters in your eyes will close. You won’t meet his gaze.

He’s only asked once about it, and it had been so clear that the question disturbed you that he hadn’t pressed. You’d tell him, he reasoned, when you were ready—

(And he could nudge you in that direction in the meanwhile.)

The sink is put back together, cabinet door closed. Your sundress is wrapped and twisted around your midsection, naked breasts wet with his saliva and compressed against his chest as you lay panting on top of him. His shirt is in some far-off corner, thrown aside, and his jeans are around his knees.

“That was nice,” he murmurs in your ear, kissing your hair. He makes a home for his fingertips between your shoulder blades, walking the trail of your spine, up and down, slow as a tide.

“Mm-hm,” you say, out at sea. Far away.

He can’t deny that it disappoints him. But it isn’t about him, and he shouldn’t make it so. Even if it is about him, it isn’t actually about him—it’s about something else that has attached itself to him. Things are like that more often than not—deeper, older problems with hooks, the barbed kind that sink in and cling and won’t come out of their own accord.

So he keeps kissing your hair, and he keeps stroking your back. His softened cock hasn’t slipped from you yet, and he makes no move to dislodge it. You nestle closer to him; shift your body over his, a little, just for the feeling of it. He waits for the sigh—the long, steady breath you take after the act, after you’ve found yourself again in wherever it is you go after moments like this.

“This is probably weird to talk about after sex,” you say, and Price’s ears perk up.

“Nothing weird between us, dove,” he encourages. “What’s on your mind?”

You play with his chest hair a little, twirling it around with the manicured ends of your nails. (A manicure he happily paid for.)

“You’re the first man who’s ever given a damn about me,” you mumble into his neck.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says honestly. He kisses you again, because he wants to, and because he wants it to comfort you.

“You don’t make me feel stupid for not being able to do stuff on my own,” you continue. “My step—my mom’s husband. He used to make fun of me for, for getting confused about changing my car’s oil. Or he’d get annoyed at me. Or I’d need him to change my tires because I can’t do it on my own, and I’d call him for help, and he wouldn’t pick up the phone.”

“He sounds like a piece of work,” Price comments.

A younger version of himself would have offered to beat the shit out of the asshole. That self’s anger on your behalf sits radioactive in his chest even now—corrosive, roiling, righteous fury, ready to carve your name on whatever offal is left over after Price gets through with him.

But that would be for his own ego, not for you. That has no place here.

“Do you know—” and your voice breaks a little, “do you know how bad it feels when a man who’s supposed to look out for you treats you like you’re an idiot? Like you’re not smart enough to be worth helping?”

“Some,” he says. “It’s an awful feeling. I wish you didn’t know how it felt, dove. I’m sorry.”

He feels something warm and wet drip onto his chest, and your shoulders begin to shake.

It’s not the full-body, wracking cry of catharsis. Just an episode of something longer, something tired. A problem dealt with, over and over again—a wound that reopens sometimes, if it’s pulled the wrong way.

Price gathers you closer, wraps his arms around you tighter. He cups the back of your neck with one hand and murmurs “shhh” into your hair, soothing and quiet, squeezing you against him.

“I’m okay,” you say, a little watery. “Really, I am.”

“I know you are,” he says.

He tilts your face toward his, and kisses the center of your forehead. You meet his eyes with your own, wide and glistening with your tears.

“I’m always gonna help you, dove,” he promises, catching one that falls with the edge of his thumb. “And you can always ask.”

-

No I don’t have daddy issues why do you ask

[ficmashup]

the way I start sweating reading about Knight!Ghost and Princess!Reader. Like I need this fic to survive. Gruff Ghost who can’t let his little wife disrespect him in public but never does more than put her over his knee and spank her?? And is so sweet to her otherwise, spoiling the shit out of her???

But like…what about Knight!Ghost and a bride gifted to him after a neighboring kingdom was defeated? He got to choose from a lineup and went with this little spitfire that stared defiantly at him and he was just like “yes this is mine now”

I’m sorry, I go just a little bit feral every time you post and grace us with your thoughts about all these different AUs

Knight!Ghost who’s never wanted a thing in his life, who’s worked and served since he was just a boy, maybe found wandering in the woods after the village he was raised in was burned to the ground and he was the only survivor, rescued by a nearby kingdom’s cavalry.

All he’s ever known is servitude and loyalty and his own internal code that he’s been following since he was a boy. Ghost has carved into something menacing and tough so that he would never have to endure what he did as a child. He’s become something nameless (maybe he doesn’t even remember Simon Riley, wouldn’t recognize that name if someone said it to his face because that was a lifetime and a family ago that was all burned to the ground).

All he knows is loam and dirt and blood and the smell of sweat behind his helmet. Up until his king magnanimously decides he’s worthy of a bride. And Ghost fiercely does not want to be responsible for a wife - he doesn’t want anyone apart from his king to feel like they have sovereignty over him, he doesn’t want someone to wait for him at home, he doesn’t want to disappoint someone when they find out he’s nothing but a cold hard shell of man that’s only good for fighting and killing.

And then he sees your face in the lineup, pretty and delicate. There’s a cut on your cheek from where someone threw you to the ground and it lights a fire in his belly. Suddenly all he can think about is being tied to you, keeping you warm and safe by the fire in his manor, pulling you into his chest at night under the heavy furs draped over his bed, twisting his fingers in your hair until he can pull you gently by the roots up onto your tiptoes so you can meet his lips.

“That one,” he grunts, nodding to where you’re standing still in the lineup, staring at him with distrust. “Her or no one.”