owls-spice-cabinet

[owls-spice-cabinet]

pov: you are charles xavier and you have been invited onto asteroid m

bonus:

[owls-spice-cabinet]

They're fooling around drunk, Simon's hand stroking the Scotsman's cock as his other hand holds him firmly at the back of his neck. Scuffing him like a mutt. He doesn't think much about what he's saying, attention focused on Johnny as the sergeant tries to keep his moaning quiet.

"If you cum on my hand, I'll make you lick it clean, pup."

The downright pathetic groan that leaves Johnny's lips as his hips buck up to meet Simon's hand, coating his hand in cum is music to his fucking ears.

The next time he gets his hand on Johnny's cock, he isn't stopping until he yips like the brainless puppy he is.

[owls-spice-cabinet]

John and Nikolai finally have time to spend an evening together, but John came back exhausted from an op and is now fighting to stay awake for Nikolai's sake, while Nik really only wants him to rest.

(Just a little bit nsfw at the beginning)

...

"Are you sure you are up for this, John?"

Nikolai wasn't a fool, he could see the exhaustion on John's face, the way his eyelids felt heavier than the dumbbells he was used to pulling almost every day, the heavy bags under his tired eyes. It was a good sight, a more vulnerable side of John he wasn’t used to showing to the world. To allow himself to drop his guard enough to fall asleep by someone’s side, well, Nik certainly felt like the luckiest man in the world. 

“I am… want to make you feel good….”

Those last words were barely coherent, John’s speech getting worse and worse with each passing minute he was fighting to stay awake. It was adorable. 

“Right. So if I asked for your lips around my cock, you would do it?”

Nik was teasing him, a wide smile on his face as he observed John’s reaction, or lack thereof, as the captain stared vacantly at him, his eyes barely open. For a second, Nik assumed that John had finally fallen asleep, until his hand moved, brushing his tired face with the back of it. 

“Just fuck me, Nik, c’mon.”

A gentle and quiet laugh was Nik’s response. If there was one thing John Price was, it was stubborn. Unless he physically restrained him and tightly tucked him under a blanket, this wasn’t a fight he had a chance to win. There were, however, many ways to win a fight. 

“Da, let me get to it then.” 

It was getting difficult for Nikolai to stop himself from laughing. John was laying on their bed, absorbed by the pillows and the blankets, like he was floating above a cloud. Nik stood on his knees between John’s legs, hands gently brushing the inside of his thigh. 

Spending time together was always a difficult task when both John and Nikolai spent their days on different sides of the world, dodging bullets and risking their lives. It was rare for them to be on the same continent, let alone the same room, despite how much they wanted it. 

When the two finally had some free time to spend together, Nikolai always wanted to do something special for John: taking him on dates, making him try food he knew he would love, fly him to a secluded place and make love to him under the stars. He wanted to make up for lost time, of course, and John knew that, a slight leftover of guilt left in the captain’s heart over the years he had wasted being too scared of this relationship. 

But, sometimes, all they got was a single night together, shared after John came back from an op. Often times, he was exhausted, bruised, and needed rest more than he needed any more adventures. This was such a case, as Gaz had informed Nikolai earlier that no one in the team had been able to get any shut eyes in the past forty hours. John was exhausted, but he was as stubborn as they came and had assured Nik that he was up for this. Right. 

A soft smile still on his lips, Nikolai bent down, kissing the naked skin of his lover’s hips, while his hands kept wandering around the lower parts of his body, his thighs so perfect under his fingers. A low groan escaped John’s throat, a quick glance confirming that his eyes were now fully closed. Not yet asleep, however, and so Nik continued, leaving kisses on his belly and ribs, hands still massaging him as best he could, soft sounds coming from John until eventually, his breathing changed, slowing down, limbs going limp. 

Nikolai smiled softly as he pulled himself up, resting next to John as he dragged a blanket on top of their naked bodies. He allowed himself, for a moment, to just observe the now asleep man next to him.

There was a sternness to John that immediately disappeared when he was sleeping, his brow relaxing, his jaw less tense, at peace, finally. Nikolai knew that his dreams wouldn’t be comforting, they never had been and probably never would be, but he was here, for him, ready to pull him closer when needed, ready to kiss the nape of his neck as his arms wrapped themselves around his shape. 

Perhaps Nik was a selfish man. He had pondered this thought many, many times in the past. To want something as much as he wanted John, to crave him like he was the only thing that mattered, it had been maddening, and still he waited. Now that John finally was his, there was nothing in this world that could pull him away from him. He had waited for so many years, that spending some time watching the other half of his heart slowly drift to sleep as they laid in bed together felt like a well-earned reward. And if that made him a selfish man, well then to hell with it. 

“Good night, John.” 

His voice was barely a whisper as his fingers brushed his lover’s hair, gently kissing his cheek. There were no reactions from John, and Nikolai allowed himself to close his eyes as well, a hand resting against John’s chest, right above his heart. There, in the quiet intimacy of the night, he could almost feel it beat under his palm, the perfect lullaby to lure him to sleep.

[owls-spice-cabinet]

YOU'RE SO CORRECT 😂😂 listen Graves knows what he wants and he knows how to get it, I cannot fault him for this.

And thank you for further supporting my favorite dynamic between Graves and Price, which is 100% brat and tamer 👀

Actually I just reminded myself that in the blurb you wrote with Graves in those homemade Daisy Dukes (the tiny jorts), Price told him to wear something fit for the public

Like he'd had to ask that before....

And Owlie is soooo curious to know what other incidents there have been.... like we know he makes an incredible dress-up doll, Owlie has discovered this many times.

I'm thinking custom-made ShadCo cheerleader outfit for the annual party for the start of football season 🤔

how many times did John Price have to ask the shadow commander to dress alright for the public eye??

countless. ever since he, Nik, and Graves have started dating/hooking-up, he's had to tell Graves off bout his outfit countless times.

Once, he even wore a fucking FEMALE'S bikini JUST to get some of that British dick. And John? He secretly loves to tell Graves off, sometimes he threaten to dress him. Graves lets him, so John dresses him in HIS chlothes instead of the outfits Phillip wears. bc outside of work? That wannabe cowboy twink dont have ANYTHING fit for the public eye.

and yes-Phillip taught himself how to sew JUST so he could make skimpy little outfits for his boyfriends to tear off him. he supports any team texan. so the Texas Longhorns? best BET he made himself a skimpy little crop top in team colors. and those jorts? yeah those go with it. Dallas Cowboys? HA HA! he's made himself a wee bikini to wear.

"the fuck are ya? Fuckin' dancer?"

"You wish i was, John."

"Ugh, like hell i do."

[owls-spice-cabinet]

~out for a drink~

Nik, thinking: Why charge by the hour?

Price: What?

Nik: Why charge by the hour when charging by the orgasm would be much more interesting?

Price:

Nik:

Graves, pulling out his wallet: How much?

Price: Phillip--

Nik: €1000 multiplied by the numbered sequence of the orgasm, added in sum total.

Price: Why did you have that answer ready?

Graves: I'm still interested.

Price: WE'RE DATING, DON'T PAY HIM FOR SEX!

[owls-spice-cabinet]

Cuddles 🧸​🌟​

[owls-spice-cabinet]

Thought it only fair Ghost too experiences some workplace hazards..

[owls-spice-cabinet]

[owls-spice-cabinet]

From Scratch

Nutrition Info: Johnny/Reader; 4k; a meetcute launched by Reader's inability to cook reasonable portions, and Johnny's... well, just Johnny

No matter how long you live alone, you can’t get the hang of cooking for one person. Even when you try to make a single-serving meal instead of batch cooking, somehow it balloons out of control. Wasting food makes you feel awful, but you can only freeze so much.

One evening, desperate and utterly fed up, you go kick gently at a neighbor’s door, both hands full, trying to mimic a knock with your shoe. Jason, you think his name was? Striking blue eyes, big frame, a cute cropped mohawk, amazing brogue, and he’s always been cordial when you’ve run into him around the building. Friendly, but not too friendly.

He’s understandably confused by your request at first, but seems happy enough for the food, and takes it around your repeated apologies–for bothering him, for existing, for anything you can find, really.

Unfortunately, not even forcing yourself to go and do all of that manages to pierce your shite sense of volume. Your trips to his door do get less awkward over time, though. And Johnny, his name is, always has sparklingly clean dishes and containers to return in exchange for the full ones. 

Eventually he just starts showing up at your place instead and eats with you at your bar counter. He didn’t really ask, and you definitely didn’t, but there he is all the same, and… if you're honest? He’s just so easy to be around, it quickly feels natural having him there. He puts you off your guard, puts you at ease and makes you smile, like those are somehow the most natural things in the world.

From that first night, Johnny has insisted on helping with dishes. Starting the second, he’s always got groceries with him. Even manages to talk you out of your discomfort over accepting them, so well that on his fourth night, you’ve got a small shopping list ready. He’s cheeky, you don’t think he’ll mind. And he is right, after all: you're probably feeding him at least three or four nights out of the week, what with all the leftovers.

You start eating better, and trying new things you'd always planned on “getting around to,” now that you've got a reason to cook beyond not starving. Everything comes out fine the first time you make it, when you’re closely following a recipe, and Johnny has no qualms about trying anything you put in front of him. You’ve never met someone so genuinely un-fussy when it comes to food.

A couple months after he’s started eating at your place, he disappears for a while. “Work trip,” is all he'll say, and you don’t pry, even though you really want to. 

Once he’s back, he starts coming over weekend afternoons sometimes. You do brunch with beer or fancy drinks in champagne flutes, or occasional breakfast on the roof before other people are awake, him in a big hoodie or jumper, and you wearing a thick blanket like it's trying to digest you, looking like a half-drowned cat because no living being is meant to be awake at such an hour. 

You cut fruit into mangled flowers and vague geometric shapes for the brunches, usually while just spending time with him. He tries his hand at it once, with you pulling up videos, laughing the whole time you’re explaining how it’s supposed to work, and the utter bastard is better at it on his first go than you were after weeks. His hands are confoundingly steady, and his hand-eye coordination borders on the unnatural.

That’s probably the official start of his sous chef arc. And that’s what has him spending a night judging your knives and marveling, repeatedly and loudly, that you still have all your fingers.

You might put a piece of eggshell into his omelet that night in retaliation, and he might not even have the decency to react to it.

“...Johnny I can hear it crunching, oh my God would you spit it out!” You manage between laughter that’s got your face hurting.

That happens a lot around him. Smiling so much it hurts.

“Nah, i’s nice texture,” he says around the mouthful, then starts enunciating the longer words. “Very advanced technique. Shows a great awareness of the culinary experience–”

“You’re being such a prat. Why are you being such a prat!”

He talks over you as if he can’t hear you, as if he’s doing some mockingly posh review. “And honestly, the crunching–” he pauses and chomps down on the shell for effect, and how is it still intact, “it really engages the senses. Keeps me immersed in my dining experience.”

You regret loaning him your cooking books. Never again.

After that, though, he steals your knives, takes them home, and they come back so sharp you can cut windowpane slices of potato. He offers to teach you how to do it yourself–after stipulating with heart-clenching thoroughness that he’s happy to come over and do it for you any time.

Johnny gets weirdly into shopping farmer’s markets, walking around discovering new produce and varieties of things he’s never seen before. “Fuck would I know tomatoes come in this color? Look at this thing, it’s like a feckin’... it’s a wee lumpy sunset, isn’t it? And this! Like someone took the heart of a dragon,” his voice had gone terribly dramatic, and you definitely hadn’t covered your face, “and stuck it on a bush somewhere.”

“Baby how are you so huge, but so adorable?” You don't know when the pet names started, but you know he started them; sometimes it feels like you two grew up together. 

You like the challenge of the new and unexpected ingredients that come from his trips, and by this point, he’s keeping your kitchen pretty stocked with whatever oddball pantry items you ask for, so you're set up to deal with almost anything. But on rare occasions he’ll call you with a question, too. You’ve had each other’s numbers for a while, it just made coordinating easier. 

“Oi can you make sommat with uh… fiddlehead ferns?”

You always can, whatever he asks about. It just takes a quick internet search to find out if you can tackle it that same night, or if it needs to wait for another day. Sometimes it ends up disastrous, but like a shot, Johnny has you laughing or throwing something at him (usually-but-not-always also while laughing) before guilt or shame can get a proper foothold.

There was a night when he was too excited about something to wait for you to answer the door when he knocked, and since then, he just sort of comes in on his own after he announces himself—at least when you know to expect him. That feels right, too, just like having him at your counter had.

You’re feeding the both of you almost every night of the week by now, even if you’re still not cooking often. You like being around him so much, you can’t imagine doing it less, not even when cooking is the last thing you want to be doing. It’s like there’s a bubbly little sun in your chest when he’s around.

Johnny makes you so happy, in fact, and you’re so afraid of losing your time with him, it’s nearly six months before the first time you have to tap out of a dinner, too knackered to make yourself even casually presentable, nevermind cook so much as instant noodles.

He reacts like it’s no problem at all, which of course he’d do, because he’s wonderful, but you don’t manage to keep your heart from dropping that he’s not at least a little sad. That he doesn’t, maybe, look forward to the nights like you do. You know your arrangement is practical, and he’s never been over unless there was food involved, but… well… seeing him seems to have become rather… vital to you.

Which means it’s better to put it away, anyhow, right?

So when, an hour after you’d texted him and basically all he’d said was No problem, thinking takeout, any votes?, he’s coming through your front door with delivery bags and talking a mile a minute like it’s just another night, you're left with your mouth open and your hand on the knob, because… because he's here.

You're not cooking, but he's still here.

You just stand there gobsmacked as he sits on the couch, nattering away, half the food out before he even realizes you’re still playing doorstop. He asks if you’re having the time of your life or if you’re going to come sit down, those horrible (wonderful) crinkles at the sides of his eyes, brows pulled up in the middle.

He looks confused when you say you want to freshen up, like he can’t see that your hair might’ve lost a row with a feral rodent, or that you’re wearing clothes that shouldn’t even be outside of a bin, nevermind on a person. He just tells you the food will get cold, and that it’ll be no good that way.

So you run your hands through your hair and sit, subdued and uncertain like you haven’t been around him in ages, as he amiably fills the silence. You know he can tell you’re not right, but he’s just… acting like it’s ok that you aren’t.

Midway through the meal, he reaches forward to grab a container and put it in front of you, and it makes his knee come up against yours. 

It doesn’t move away when he sits back.

Then, as the night wears on and the very most jagged edges of your weariness have eased, he makes a joke and you bump your shoulder into him in retaliation. It pushes your legs flush… and neither of you do anything to separate them. He just keeps on being Johnny like nothing is different, like nothing strange is happening, like he can’t see how bloody flushed you must be, like the room hasn't turned to glass and burst, leaving the both of you toppling through the air.

You're not stupid, so you have to tell yourself repeatedly that he’s just trying to comfort you. He’s acting completely normal otherwise—for Johnny—and you look like a person in need of a friend tonight. And same as him, you’re at all your meal nights instead of off with friends or dates. At least for him, it’s because of his career. You haven’t even seen him bringing up a new fling in ages.

…You’re not stupid. Right?

After the food is finished, Johnny putters about cleaning up, working his way around your kitchen like he knows it exactly as well as he does. He puts all but one container of leftovers in your fridge. 

You hug your knees comfortably, just sort of watching him, too full of static to be paranoid about it, and he either doesn’t realize or isn’t bothered by it. Not being a complete creep, you don’t keep it up for too long, anyhow. You’ve got plenty to occupy your thoughts.

He surprises you on his way out by casually setting a mug in front of you. He’d made you something hot to drink while he was cleaning up, and you were so spaced you hadn’t realized. He just gives you a little smile, a gentle squeeze on the shoulder with a stroke of his thumb, says, “Wednesday, yeah?” (the night of your next normal get-together), and moves on toward the door. All normal. But there’s some metal in your chest painfully bending itself into unaccustomed shapes, jabbing places that aren’t used to the pressure, pushing into your windpipe until it’s hard to breathe, and you can’t stop yourself from telling him that you made up a new seasoning blend for popcorn, if he’d maybe like to watch a movie before he goes.

He stands there by the door looking at you just for a split second too long, opens his mouth, closes it, then settles right back onto the couch up next to you. He reaches out an arm and pulls you gently into his side, moving in a way that makes it an invitation and not a demand, while he’s talking about what to watch.

You fall asleep there. So does he.

Things turn a bit funny after that in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. At the surface, everything is the same. But nothing feels the same. Every time there’s a tease, casual touches, close quarters, you have to chant not stupid not stupid not stupid on repeat in your head. He’s just Johnny, that’s all. The guy you could have grown up with.

You keep up the dinners and the weekends, and eventually, finally realize that with him around to take all your extras, you can bake. It’s something you’ve wanted to try forever, but recipes don’t really make single servings, and you never had anyone to pawn off the other 22 muffins or ¾ of the cake onto, or the sheet of croissants, because you absolutely want to try the most fussy, difficult things. And it turns out, when at last he tells you what he does, that Johnny works at the local military base–which at least explains his size–so if he can’t polish something off, well, he knows some blokes.

You’re so excited after that, things almost seem to return to normal. He even comes over and hangs out while you’re baking sometimes. Just knocking about, licking the beaters and the spoons and the bowls, doing dishes as you go, fidgeting with this or that, all while knowing you’re equally as likely to produce something inedible as you are a treat.

Johnny tells you a little about his career one evening. He says that it means he’s in real danger often, there’s a lot of secrecy with people in his personal life, long absences and surprise ones, shit pay, and likely a brief expiration date. (You don’t really let that last one in). He’s got a bit of a funny look in his eyes when he shares about all of it. Quite focused on you, in a way? It makes your cheeks heat. It isn’t as if it’s on you to approve of his life.

But at least now you understand why he’s on his own. And you suppose you’re a bit small, because while you’re incredibly sad for him, part of you is thrilled that it means he’s not likely soon going to be swept away by someone else too soon.

You just gather yourself up, smile, and tell him that at least he’s spending the time he has as best he can, which is a hell of a lot more than a lot of people do–although you personally hope there’s a lot more of it. And that… at the end, you're glad for all the times you're involved.

Johnny’s leaning against the counter while you fold nuts and rum-soaked fruit into a thick batter, his normally busy hands jammed into his pockets, posture a bit off, and so close you almost keep elbowing him on accident, the two of you just bantering back and forth. 

You turn your head toward him to fire back, and–

–his mouth is just there, on yours.

He lingers, but doesn’t move otherwise. It’s… testing, you think. You feel his lips shake against yours, in fact, just once. 

Your shock dies fast and your eyes slip closed, and while it’s a brief kiss, when he pulls away, you don’t open them. You can’t. Because if you’re honest, you’ve probably been gone for him since the first time you gave him a friendly hug goodnight, and it’s only ever gotten worse. If you open your eyes, this won’t be real, or it won’t have happened, or it will shatter somehow.

After a pause, he runs the back of a finger down your temple, trailing the side of your face to your jaw. You still won’t open your eyes, so he just toys with your face until you do.

He’s got a soul-crushing smile at the corners of his eyes.

“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he admits into the quiet.

“...Oh?” Your voice is embarrassingly, unhelpfully breathy. It’d probably be mortifying, if you had the mental capacity to fully register embarrassment at the moment.

He pauses, smile making its way to his lips, and curling them up at the corners, bit by bit. He cants his head, just a little, like he wants to see you from another angle. “Aye. …Might’ve been since the first time I saw you at the mailboxes.”

“Oh?” 

That had been one of the first times you remember ever seeing him. He never said a word to you other than, “Mornin’” or “Evenin’,” if he said anything at all.

His smile blooms until you can see his teeth. “You were wearing this little shirt. Green, thin. Bit worn, like it was a favorite. Showed a wee spot of skin at your back.” His fingers brush the spot, soft and testing, near the base of your spine, and it jolts you from scalp to toes. “Might’ve… lost some time, thinking about what it’d feel like if I slid my hand up there.” He toys with the hem of your shirt and steps in, voice going deeper and rougher around the edges. “Might’ve imagined pushing it up, getting a bit closer. Really might’ve imagined putting your back up to the slots, mo–”

You kiss him this time, before he can go on, and it’s anything but testing.

And just like everything else about him, this fits. 

His mouth fits against yours. His body fits against yours. And as if some band of control snaps, so abruptly you swear you feel it jolt through his skin, he's got you up on the counter, his thighs between yours, both of you already breathing hard.

His hands on you are perfect, calloused, slipping up under the back of your shirt, smoothing and gripping, making your chest and your thighs feel molten. It's ravenous, like he just has to touch your skin, has to get you closer. You arch toward him, fingers running up through his hair, legs curling around his and pulling him nearer.

His hips are carefully, stubbornly, infuriatingly back from you, but the kiss is so full of need, so close, that some of his breaths sound hollow against your mouth. It's like he can't decide whether inhaling or devouring you is more important, so he just doesn't choose.

When you're at the point of moaning unintentionally, of hungry little sounds forcing their way out of your chest, of your hips moving against the counter in desperation, when you're moments from outright begging, Johnny pulls back, and goes further when you try to chase his mouth.

His lips are red and full, his face dark--much worse when he catches sight of how completely drunk you must look--and he's panting. His fingers dig into your hips like he's trying to keep one or both of you from drowning. He squeezes his eyes shut.

You don't mean to, you really don't, but you look down, and lord help you but–

“That looks painful,” you tell him. Your voice sounds like it's been run over a washboard. He's tented against his denim, and his size is… proportional.

…You can't seem to remember how to make yourself look up.

“Really rather not talk about my cock just now, love,” he gravels, fingers clenching briefly against you. His head tips forward onto your shoulder, breaths panting out against your collar bone, leaving you to pick up every bit of heat he's trying to get out of himself.

You hum, teasing. “Shame, because I can't think of anything I'd rather talk ab—”

His big paw covers your mouth. “For the love of every Saint, I’m beggi—”

You cut him off right back. By licking his palm.

He recoils in horror, but the moment your eyes meet, you both burst into laughter, made worse every time he tries to tell you how disgusting that is, something about his sisters as kids, you don't know what else.

You're the first to sober, breathing almost back to normal, thoughts already whirring on fast-forward. You look down, pulling your knees together, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Are we…. Will we be ok, after this?”

You peek up to see him looking at you like you're daft.

“‘S been the better part of a year,” he says softly, moving forward and running his thumbs over your knees. Asking your legs to make room again, to let him get close again. “Have you really not figured it out, all this time?” 

Your legs open hesitantly, and he steps in and, when you look up at him, kisses one corner of your mouth, then the other, slow and warm and so tender it feels like your chest is cracking right down the center.

Eyes closed, brows a little pinched, you murmur, “We can't all be SAS savants, Johnny.” Maybe you know. Maybe. But it has been all this time, so maybe you need to hear it, too.

He's still kissing, pace unhurried and savouring, making his way to your jaw and just beneath it. But it's calming now, somewhere between reverential and still trying to bring the both of you down. Himself especially, you think.

“Then let me spell it out for you. Gladly.” He noses up against the bottom of your ear and roughs, “You are fucking stuck with me. Glued. Bloody welded.” He huffs a laugh and leans back upright—but not all the way, not too far back. “This isnae a new thing for me. You know that, right? I just….” He shakes his head and abandons the thought, “Hell, my mates have already been asking when they can come over for dinner, the dobbers.”

Your brows shoot up. “You've talked about me at work?”

He looks down, and while his face is in half a scowl, you'd swear he does it to hide a slight flush, too. “Haven't shut up about you, more like. Should hear what my Lieutenant– Ach, nevermind that.”

You hurry to say that they're welcome any time, but it makes him scowl fully.

“Not exactly keen on the idea just yet.” He puts his arms around you, buries his face in your neck, and just stands there, breathing you in. He mutters into the crook of your shoulder, “Mind if I stay like this for a bit? Just while I, uh… calm down.”

His hips are still well back from you. You’re not sure you’ve ever adored and hated him so much at once.

“I’d really like that,” you tell him softly, arms going around his ribs, hands on his shoulders, chest to chest.

It's warm and resounding like this, so after a spell, without thinking, you bite his shoulder. Just sink your teeth in and leave them there. It’s not even entirely conscious, it's just so comfortable and comforting.

“All good, there, wee piranha?” he eventually asks, a smile in his voice.

You detach instantly. “Ah, sorry! I, uh, might have a tiny bit of an oral fixation.”

He groans. “Are ye trying to do me in?”

“I’m not the one who said we had to stop, Mr. Military Discipline.”

His eyes darken in a flash, but he tamps down on it just as quickly and gets that godawful cocky look on his face, instead. “Pardon me for not wanting to rush something that really matters.” His tone goes so soft at the end that you can’t even be mad at him--exactly as you know he intended, the great bastard.

“How did I not know what a sadist you are?”

And that look means he’s about to make you eat your words.

“Johnny I will happily kill you in your sleep.”

“I could handle that. Means you'd be in my bed, aye?”

He pulls your hands up from the death grip they've found on the edge of the counter and laces your fingers together. “I dinnae….” He clears his throat, frowns. “Just being away on deployment is shite now, and I love what I do. But I miss you while I'm gone, think about you back here all the bloody time, and we havnae even….”

When he doesn’t finish, you whisper, heart clenching with the realization, “You don't want to rush this.”

He laughs quietly like he wants to argue. But what he says is, “No. I don't. But while that's true….” He steps in, chin ducking, eyes darkening even as they shine, voice lowering. “What do you say we turn the oven off? I've a funny feeling you willnae be getting around to that bake today.”

Masterlist

[owls-spice-cabinet]

- Part One - Part Two - Part Three -

Price x Nikolai - Omegaverse - 1.3k words

CW : A/B/O, heat cycle mentions, suppressants (mentioned as pills), smoking, eventual smut, 18+

AN : Don't worry guys, the last part is better. Will possibly upload that tomorrow! But hey Nik's here-

His gear felt too heavy as he made his way out to the yards. The sun is both too bright, and the sky too dull. Nothing felt right like he wasn’t even supposed to be here. Really, he wasn't supposed to be here at all right now. His boots were too heavy, making every step out towards his team feel like a failure. He felt like one. He wasn’t a strong alpha that his team needed, a natural leader, to be fierce and protect. All he is was a fake, something he had built himself out of sticks and stones, instead of logs and boulders. It wasn’t stable enough, what he had built for himself was not enough to hold him up forever.

His heart was frantic, beating faster than ever. Even in the middle of a firefight, he was calmer than this. He was used to that, he knew how to navigate those situations. He was lost in this, caged in without a light to guide him.

“Sir, you alright? You seem a bit out of it.” Kyle’s voice broke his train of thought, yanking him back into the present. Soft and soothing, something to pull him out of the darkness and back into just a small glimpse of light. 

He remains silent for a few moments, words getting caught in his mouth as he struggles with what he should say. What he could say. He settles with an “I’m fine, Garrick,” and picks up his pace, desperate to get this training over and done with.

Kyle stumbles after him, his concern evident in his face. John’s nose twitched as a soft coconut scent washed over him, Kyle’s signature scent. Something made to soothe, the soft coconut scent with a slight mist of jasmine. It was trying to crawl into his chest, hold and soothe the ache in his heart. Kyle knew something was off, he just didn’t know what.

The hallway seemed to continue on for eternity, more plastered grey walls everywhere he looked, holding him hostage to a place he didn’t want to be in right now. Not as himself. He almost stumbles out of the double doors to the yards, letting what little warmth the British sky would allow him, letting the cool breeze blow his worries away, even just for a moment. His eyes followed the clouds overhead for a moment, watching as the birds danced through the miserable weather.

A few meters in front was the rest of his team, Ghost and Soap. They were wrapping their hands, Ghost with his signature mask on as always and Soap with a grin on his face, probably teasing his Luietenant as he usually does. As John trudges towards them with Kyle following behind, they both perk up, rising to their feet. 

“Morning cap!” Soap says, his grin widening and his voice too cheery for this time of the morning, nor the situation that John was drowning in right now. 

“Mornin’... we’re doing… hand to hand?” he mutters in response, trying his hardest to hide the growing hole in his chest. He listens in as the team banters with each other, remarks and teasing get thrown around as they grapple with each other. It ends with Soap getting held in a headlock by Ghost in most cases, Gaz laughing a little too loud, and then joining Soap on the floor.

John stands and watches, for the most part, barking out corrections with his arms folded across his chest. He could feel his heart burying deeper into his chest with each laugh and grin. What will he do when they find out? Surely they wouldn’t be able to look at him the same. He’s no alpha, not even a beta. He’s an omega, he sits at the bottom of the chain, tangled in his own biology, and he can’t move up. No one can pull him up. This is where he is, and that’s where he will stay. 

“Oi, cap! C’mon, join us! Have a brawl!” Johnny’s voice cuts through his thoughts, dragging him back to reality. He was here, now. No one knew yet, that’s all that mattered. 

He chuckles, stepping forward and wrapping his own hands, eyeing Johnny up as he stalks towards him. “You sure about that, yer muppet?”

Johnny just grins in response, adjusting his stance and raising his fists in front of his face. John takes this as his chance to strike, launching forward and kneeling him in the stomach, watching with pride as he stumbles back with a grunt.

Johnny recovers quickly, already launching forward to try and take him by surprise. A warm feeling of pride spreads through his chest, that his man was a part of his team. He had helped him perfect these skills, becoming one of the best. 

He jumps to the side just in time, one of Johnny’s hands connecting with his ribs and causing them to spin and face each other again. He throws a few punches, watching as Johnny ducks and swerves between each one.

He didn’t want to lose this.

He lets out a muffled grunt as Johnny’s foot suddenly hits his ankles, sending him down onto the mats with a thump. Johnny barks out a laugh in triumph, taking a moment to bask in his glory before holding out his hand to help him back up. John shakes his head, taking his hand and letting him pull him back to his feet. 

“Yer missed yer footing, sir?” he chuckles, watching as John brushes himself down.

“Was a long night, I let yer win, you muppet,” John chuckles, trying his hardest to hold the lump down that was forming in his throat.

“Getting a bit sloppy, cap!” Kyle chimes in, obviously amused from watching their practice.

“Now you watcher yer mouth, Kyle. I’m getting old, but not that old. I can still drop you on your ass.”

His remark earns a chuckle from the entire team until his ears pick up on a chuckle a few feet behind him. “Well done, captain. I’m sure you can always win a fight with a good night's sleep, no?”

He whirls around to find himself a few feet away to find himself standing in front of Nikolai. He wore his signature charming smile, clothes stained with grease and hands engraved with years of hard work. A smile had crept its way onto his lips as he greeted the burly Russian.

“Nik! good to see you,”

“Ah, good to see you too, captain.” his eyes flick up to the team, who had all gone back to their training. “Is training going well?”

John nods, turning back around to watch them. He wipes at a sudden buildup of sweat along his forehead. “Yeah, yeah. They’re doing well.” As he watches his team, he has to wipe sweat from his brow continuously. His body was warming up, his breathing becoming pants as he tried to battle he sudden heat. “Fuck… gettin’ a bit hot out here,” he murmurs.

Nikolai raises a brow, watching him for a moment before speaking. “Hot? No… its quite cold out here…” he replies softly, studying John with increasing worry. His breathing was becoming choppy and fast, the sweat soaking his hairline and shirt. “Are you feeling alright, John?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, Nik. Probably just from training,” he mutters, trying to keep his eye on his team. His vision is blurring around the edges, and his body suddenly feels weak. He rolls his neck back to try to itch the sudden tickle at the back of his neck. 

Then he caught a sudden scent in the air. It was overbearingly sweet, making him recoil as dread started to flood his body. That was the scent of an omega—an omega in heat.

[owls-spice-cabinet]

Stretch! 🪦

[owls-spice-cabinet]

Bro that's your boyfriend don't be a freak

[owls-spice-cabinet]

Someone asked for Nikolai in a jockstrap, and I had to provide 🚁​🐻​

Lineart bellow ⬇️​

[owls-spice-cabinet]

Alerudy who comes back from a mission, Rudy sits down and Ale buries his head between Rudy's thighs, leaving bites, hickeys, and hand bruises in his wake. Rudy just lets it happen because that mission was so adrenaline filled that they need a way to calm down somehow

At first, Rodolfo just lets him do whatever he wants. He remains unbothered and flopped back on the bed. His eyes are glued to the ceiling as he tries to regulate his breathing with the reminder that they are no longer on the field and it's rather unlikely that anyone is about to burst down the door, gun in hand.

And then Alejandro forces him to raise his hips, slipping his hands under Rodolfo's ass and kneading at his ass cheek as he nibbles at the inside of his thigh.

It tests his self-restraint but Rudy has been through far worse and he isn't going to lose track of how many dots are on the ceiling, he's at thirty-six now and he has to beat his track record of sixty-seven.

When Alejandro starts mouthing at his cock over his boxers, nuzzling his face against the spit-soaked fabric and using his grip on Rodolfo's hips to grind him up against the colonel's mouth, slobbering on him like a needy puppy?

Rudy makes it to forty-two dots before he's fucking Alejandro's throat.

[owls-spice-cabinet]

YEAH!!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!!!! EXACTLY!!!!!!!!!!

*flies in thru the window* I HAVE A NEED TO YELL ABOUT YOUR WRITING

"Nik, the usual one to start things, and let John finish them."

HI HELLO I AM... I am obsessed.... OBSESSED I TELL YOU 👁v👁

Like it just fits so well.... Nik has nothing to lose. He'll grab Price any day of the week and has no shame in doing so (yeah friends don't fuck in the janitorial closets, that line also made me crack up). Price is far less interested in springing the trap as he is making sure Graves is a whining whimpering mess by the end and begging them for mercy.

And I for one support these endeavors wholeheartedly.

HAHA!!

omg thank you!!

i for once, support these three acting the way they act too, (disgusting but alas, love is love...live and let live, yk?)

just, Nik balls deep inside of Graves, and john ordering them both around. Sure, he's got power over Nikolai, but NOT GRAVES. and yet here he is.....ordering him around.

Graves loves it.

Nik does too, thinks it makes John look hot asf.

Nik's hips are pistoning away and towards from Phil's and Graves is slobbering and john just groans and "If ye'v got that much slobber in ya, use it to lube up my cock, yeah, Love?" and forced his head down on his dick ahdfuihifegvhifuehfshgf

ANYWAYS--

[owls-spice-cabinet]

EATING THIS WITH A SHOVEL, THANK YOU 🤩

[owls-spice-cabinet]

I read nikpricegraves and blacked out and slammed reblog