saeish

[saeish]

Reader and price who bicker alot and one day you say "okay, dad" in that over dramatic voice, but prices face totally flushes and he makes a strangled noise.

You raise a brow, amused and very much surprised "really? Thats what does it? A daddy kink?" He looks absolutely mortified at being called out, but you just enjoy finally being able to get under the captains skin.

Suddenly it becomes a thing with you. Whenever u can, you lean in to prices space and whisper something along the lines of "sure thing, daddy." Or "please, daddy?" And absolutely relish in the way he shifts uncomfortably, pants suddenly tight. You pointedly dont aknowledge how his blush makes him look all the more appealing and does nothing to abate ur crush.

Anyways, one of these days hes gonna break and just bend u over his desk. Stop teasing the old man :(

[saeish]

HONEYMOONERS ♡

Devotion consummated—how they cherish and claim you once the ring is on your finger.

ft. satoru, suguru, kento, toji, sukuna, choso

wc: 4.8k (i didn't mean to yap so much)

content: fem!reader, p in v sex, unprotected intercourse, est. relationships/marriage, possessiveness, praise kink, light bondage & restraint (sukuna), oral, creampies/breeding kink, pregnancy mentions, some emotional sex (crying, reverent language), overstimulation, marking, semi-public sex (gojo, nanami), gojo eats you out on a jet ski, mild voyeurism/exhibitionism (gojo, sukuna), just men in love

SATORU

Satoru doesn’t even bother to say good morning. Instead, he rolls over, pushes your robe open, and hums against your skin, “How many times can I make my wife cum before breakfast?”

It’s not even a question, it’s a challenge. He acts like you have all the time in the world, because you do. Satoru insisted on a month-long honeymoon. Thirty indulgent, jet-setting, skin-worshipping days where the world slows down and everything bends around his touch.

Week One: Maldives

It starts in an overwater villa with glass floors and no neighbors in sight. The sheets barely stay dry, the windows never stay closed, and Satoru’s face is basically glued between your thighs. He eats you out like it’s his first meal of the day and you’re also dessert. 

Always slow at first—kissing down your inner thighs, teasing your folds, whispering, “You sound so cute like this,” whenever you whimper for more.

Satoru doesn’t even touch himself most mornings. He just grinds his hard cock into the mattress while he makes you cum again and again, like edging himself for you is his favorite act of worship.

“One more, sweetheart. Look at me when you let go, mhm, there she is. That’s my wife.”

By the time you’re finally eating breakfast—sore, glowing, and satisfied—he’s already planning round two.

He eats you out from the back on a jet ski while you’re in the middle of the ocean. The salt spray mixes with your slick, and he comes in his swim trunks without even touching himself because you sobbed his name so sweetly.

Satoru takes you to a private island and fucks you against a palm tree while the tide rolls in.

“Told you I’d give you the world,” he whispers, biting your neck, “but it’s not enough. I need the world to see you’re mine.”

Week Two: Amalfi Coast

In Italy, Satoru doesn’t let you wear any of the underwear you packed. 

“No need,” he insists, slipping his hand between your thighs at dinner like you’re just a toy for him to play with. And you are. His favorite toy, his one and only. 

You ride him on the balcony of your hotel as the sunset casts a golden halo around your silhouettes. The Mediterranean breeze is warm, and he’s got your sundress bunched around your waist while Satoru leans back like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Come on, baby. Let ‘em hear how good I fuck you. You married a god, remember?”

You do almost get caught. An elderly couple walking by glances up, and Gojo just tilts his head, grinning lazily as your pace stutters. He slaps your ass to keep you moving. “Shy now? Thought you liked putting on a show.” 

The whiniest moans spill out of your mouth when you cum, body quaking with pleasure as Satoru smiles.

Later, he buys you gelato with the same fingers he fucked you with. Still sticky. Still smug. He licks the melting treat off your lips and says, “Sweet, but not as sweet as you taste when you cum for me.”

Week Three: Dubrovnik

You walk the city hand in hand. He’s smiling, chatting with locals, but his sunglasses hide the way his eyes stay on you—obsessed. Starving. The same man who bought the plane tickets mid-orgasm because you moaned that you’d never been to Croatia before.

In the mornings, he kisses your ring finger like it’s sacred. At night, he spoons you on satin sheets and plays with your pussy like he’s drunk off it. 

Says things like, “I could live in this moment forever. You and me, just like this. You’d let me ruin you every night, wouldn’t you, baby? It’s what you signed up for.”

Sometimes it’s slow. Reverent. Sometimes he’s unhinged—pushing your face into the hotel balcony railing and fucking you like he owns you. 

You try to protest, and he just laughs, “Shouldn’t have said ‘I do’ if you couldn’t handle the strongest.”

Before he comes, he pulls out and brings you to your knees. Satoru lets his cum paint your face, moaning how pretty you are, all for him.

Week Four: Macau

A high-rise suite, blackout curtains, and mirrors on the ceiling—because Satoru insisted. You stay in all day and only go out to enjoy the nightlife.

These days are more intense. Less playful. There’s a fever in his touch, a new kind of obsession brewing under the luxury. He fucks you with your legs thrown over his shoulders, watching your face contort in the mirror above. Presses a hand to your lower stomach and groans when he feels himself through you. 

“Would ya look at that. So deep in this pussy that was made for me.”

He ties your hands with silk and takes his time. Sometimes, you ride him with a hand around his neck, watching his pretty blue eyes gloss over. There’s one night he lends you his blindfold and teases you all night. Touch and go, kiss and retreat, until you’re crying from how badly you need him. 

He coos, kissing your tears away, “I just love how much you need me. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

By the end of most nights, all you can say is “Toru!” and “I love you.” 

And he always finishes inside. Always. Satoru never fails to hold you after, whispering, “I love every part of you. All I am is yours.”

By the end of the month, your body aches in the best ways. Your skin’s tanned, your throat sore from laughter and moaning, and your heart is full.

Satoru tucks you under his arm on the flight home and tells you, “If we don’t find out you’re pregnant soon, we’re going on another honeymoon.” 

You laugh against his chest, legs stretched across the plush leather seat, cozy in one of his hoodies. “I think you just like an excuse to keep me locked away.”

“Bingo,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “You’re so smart, baby. That’s why you’re my wife.”

He’s so warm. So calm. But there’s a shift in his voice, low and coaxing, and you know that tone—it always means he’s about to do something. His hand slides up your bare thigh, pushing your hoodie higher, knuckles grazing your inner skin like he’s testing just how much you’ll let him get away with.

“Satoru,” you murmur, quiet, warning, a little breathless already. “There’s a pilot—”

“Who knows not to disturb me,” he cuts you off, grinning as he kisses down your jaw. “And a privacy button.” He presses something on the side of the seat. The glass partition between the cockpit and the cabin begins to slide up.

“Oh my God.”

“Oh my husband,” he corrects smugly, slipping between your legs as he kisses you. “C’mon, baby. We didn’t break in the plane yet.”

You’re already melting by the time he tugs your panties aside, fingers teasing your folds. The low hum of the engines masks your gasp as he rubs slow circles over your clit, thumb firm, knowing. He watches your face like it’s his favorite movie, lips parted when he sinks two fingers inside you.

“You’re so wet,” he groans, fucking you slow with his fingers. “Is this ‘cause I said I’d get you pregnant? Or ‘cause you love my plane?”

“Shut up—”

He pulls back just enough to yank your panties down and get his cock out, already hard from the way you moan into his mouth. He flips you into his lap like you weigh nothing, settling you on top of him with your knees straddling the leather.

Your body sinks onto his with ease, and both of you groan at the feeling—tight, full, hot.

“Oh fuck,” he hisses into your neck. “You’re squeezing me so good. God, I missed this. Missed you.”

“We just fucked yesterday-”

“Still not enough,” he breathes, thrusting up into you with slow, decadent strokes. “Never is.”

His grip tightens on your hips, grounding you as he moves. The cabin lights are low, the sky outside an endless blur, and you’re bouncing in his lap with your hoodie still on and nothing else. His hands push it up to see your chest, and he latches his mouth onto your nipple, groaning against your skin.

“You’re gonna get me pregnant right now, on this stupid plane,” you pant, forehead pressed to his.

“Damn right I am,” he growls, kissing you again, his pace getting rougher. “My baby—our baby, fuck. I want that. I want you.”

You come with a desperate cry, gripping his shoulders as your whole body locks up, then shudders. Gojo doesn’t stop—he never does—fucking you through it until he’s right there with you, choking on a moan as gives you all his cum.

After, he holds you in his lap, still inside you, stroking your back and pressing kisses to your shoulder.

“Think it worked?” he mumbles against your skin.

“I think you’re crazy.”

“Let’s call it obsessed.”

You’re too blissed out to answer. Eyes heavy, body boneless, you drift off right there in his arms, lulled by the hum of the jet and the warmth of him around you.

Later, you’ll wake to find he’s buckled you into the seat, blanket tucked around you, and his hand on your belly like he’s already claiming it.

SUGURU

The destination was decided the moment he proposed—Bali. A peaceful escape carved into jungle hills, rice terraces, and the low hum of nature. Suguru secures a private villa with an infinity pool and open-air living space, where the warm breeze slips through sheer curtains and time seems to slow just for the two of you.

Every morning, he wakes you with soft kisses along your shoulder and collarbone before handing you a tray of fresh fruit and warm tea. He lets you eat in bed, sprawled beneath linen sheets, your legs tangled, the birds singing just outside. It’s a rhythm he could live in forever.

You walk barefoot through ancient temple grounds, explore artisan markets hand-in-hand, pausing to buy incense or admire a painter stroking the sea into canvas. He takes you to museums tucked behind hidden sanctuaries, and you spend lazy hours in quiet cafés, reading and people-watching in shared silence.

At night, you stroll dimly-lit paths lined with shrines and lanterns, his hand wrapped securely around yours. Then he brings you home to candlelit baths filled with flower petals. He sinks in behind you, warm water lapping at your skin as he kisses the back of your neck and hums something soft into your ear.

Suguru treats the honeymoon like a sacred ritual—a spiritual bond renewed night after night. Every touch deliberate, every glance a promise. At every opportunity, he worships your body like a temple.

He spends hours between your thighs, murmuring praises into your skin, taking his time until your voice breaks from moaning. His eyes stay locked to yours, even when your head tries to loll back—he catches your chin, kisses your temple, and whispers, “Eyes on me. Say it. You’re mine, wife.”

And when you do? He groans like he’s praying.

Some nights he undresses you like it’s holy. Like baring your skin is an act of devotion. He kisses every inch from your ankles to your knees and ribs until you’re flushed and trembling, body arching off the bed, mind going soft.

When he moves over you, it’s not just physical. It’s weight. His presence sinks into you like gravity. Suguru’s hands roam but never rush. He cups your jaw and makes you look at him as he slides his fingers between your thighs, working slow, steady circles over your clit.

“Forever, right?” he asks, even though he already knows.

It’s the easiest confession you’ve ever made. “Yours, Suguru. Always.”

And he leans in to kiss you—deep, sweet, all tongue and soft groans—before lining himself up and pressing into you with intention. Slowly. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you around him.

He doesn’t move right away. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot on your lips. You clench around him and his eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck… you’re so warm like this. Let me stay, just for a second.”

Then he starts to move. Deep, rolling thrusts that steals the air from your lungs. His body never leaves yours, his hands never let go. He laces your fingers with his beside your head, and when your wedding rings touch, they catch the lantern light and gleam like another promise.

Suguru fucks you like it’s a vow. Like he’s carving your name into every part of himself. When you cry out, his pace falters—not from hesitation, but awe. He kisses the tears before they fall. Cups your cheek as your back arches and you come around him, full and aching and utterly undone.

Only then does he let go. His thrusts grow erratic, voice breaking on your name as he fills you, sweat slicking the space where your skin meets his. Even afterward, he doesn’t leave you. Just stays inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, breath warm against your neck like he’s afraid this could end.

With your legs tangled and your bodies warm, all he says is “don’t fall asleep yet. I’m not done loving you.”

KENTO

Kento goes all out with his honeymoon, as he does with everything involving you. Your honeymoon is a blend of both your dreams and his—an elegant, slow-moving escape across three countries that feel like a glimpse of the life he’s always wanted to give you.

It begins in Switzerland, your shared dream destination. You stay in a chalet nestled in the Alps, snow dusting the windows while a fire crackles beside you. Most evenings are spent curled up under thick wool blankets, sipping wine while he reads aloud from an antique book he found in a tucked-away shop.

Kento keeps you close, fingers intertwined, murmuring, “This is how life should always be.”

You take day trips to Lake Geneva, boarding private boats that glide across the still, glassy water, the mountains rising around you like ancient guardians. One morning, you ask, half-teasing, why he even rented the boat when neither of you has any experience. Kento quietly admits he got a boating license months in advance.

And that’s how you end up riding him under the Swiss sun, legs shaking as he grips your hips from beneath. He’s still wearing his captain’s hat. You try to laugh, but his cock is so deep and steady that all you can do is moan as he holds you flush against him.

“Keep your balance, sweetheart,” he says, breath ragged, voice low against your ear. “If you fall, I’ll follow you in and fuck you stupid right here in open water.”

Then comes the Côte d’Azur, France—your pick. A glamorous, sun-drenched stretch of paradise. You stroll Nice’s Promenade des Anglais at sunset, heels in your hand, his jacket draped over your shoulders. In Saint-Tropez, he watches you glow beneath the harbor lights, mingling with people as if you were born for it. And you were. 

He books five-star hotels, treats you to Michelin-star meals, but he’s never more satisfied than when your eyes sparkle across a candlelit table and you call him husband. That word, husband, undoes him every time.

And later, when he has you pinned against the glass window of your hotel suite, overlooking the Riviera, it’s the only word you can remember—gasping it into the crook of his neck as he rocks into you, slow and deep.

“Say it again,” he whispers. “Say it until you forget everything else.”

Finally, you land in Kuantan, Malaysia, Kento’s dream vacation. No itinerary, no pressure. Just quiet mornings and indulgent nights. He lets you sleep in every day, but the second you stir, he’s on you—kissing your neck, sliding his hand between your thighs, waking you up with slow, sleepy thrusts until your fingers are tangled in his hair and you’re breathlessly grinding back.

“I need you like this,” Kento groans, “every morning for the rest of my life.”

At night, he runs you a bath and massages your shoulders while you sit on his lap, water sloshing out of the tub as you sink down on him. You moan into his mouth, and he exhales like it’s a relief, whispering your name like a vow.

But when he takes you to bed—that’s when he falls apart.

Kento lays you out like you’re something sacred. Kisses your stomach, your inner thighs, the backs of your knees. His hands never stop moving, brushing over your skin like he’s memorizing every inch. He goes down on you with slow, thorough focus, eyes never leaving your face as you fall apart.

He holds your hips down when you squirm, murmuring, “Look at you. So beautiful… made to be mine.”

And then, when you’re breathless—wrecked—he presses into you with reverent force. One hand grips the headboard; the other anchors your thigh open. He fucks you slowly, deliberately, until your eyes are glassy and your voice is gone.

“Be still,” he murmurs, voice ragged with restraint. “Let me take care of you.”

But then you call him husband again, and the dam breaks. His rhythm shifts—rough, deep, urgent. His control slips with every thrust, every gasp, every whimper you make.

“So pretty like this,” he groans into your neck. “Mine. My wife. Don’t you dare forget it.”

Your honeymoon isn’t just a trip. It’s the beginning of a life where Kento, after years of restraint and duty, finally chooses joy and pleasure. And he chooses to pursue it with you.

TOJI

Three marriages later, Toji still doesn’t understand the concept of a honeymoon. What he does get is this: a week off the grid, your thighs spread across his lap, the adrenaline of almost dying on a hike, and your throat stuffed full by nightfall. So naturally, he books a wild trip to New Zealand, filled with rugged trails, volcanic springs, and as little clothing as possible. But by the end of the week? He sees the appeal. 

The second you check into the room, he’s got you pinned. Your luggage is thrown around haphazardly as Toji latches onto your neck. 

“Been waiting all day to fuck my wife,” he growls.

You swear he’s trying to breed you every time. His hands on your hips, his voice low and growling, “Gonna keep it in this time. Want you round and full, just like that.”

And everytime, you take it.

Day 1: You’re constantly on the move: Hell’s Gate, Rotorua. Steaming sulfur pools, mud baths, hikes through volcanic terrain that make your thighs burn. Toji’s behind you the whole time, watching the way your ass bounces with each step, palms itching like he's desperate for a handful.

That night, you're soaking together in a geothermal spring, steam curling around your shoulders like fog.

His voice cuts through it, low and smug. “Bet no one’s ever fucked you in a place like this.”

And then he proves it. He’s got you bent over a slippery rock, the mineral water scalding around your calves and his cock even hotter inside you. One hand on your hip, the other covering your mouth when you whimper his name. His wedding ring flashes in the moonlight, pressed to your skin.

“Don’t run from it, sweetheart. You married this. You married me.”

Day 3: You're mid-way through a remote hiking trail, stopping for water when a passing guide gives you one too many glances. Toji notices. He always notices.

His arm snakes around your waist, pulling you in close. He doesn’t say anything—just stares the guy down until he stumbles off, red-faced and muttering. 

Later, when you ask him if he’s jealous, Toji just scoffs. “Jealous? Nah. I just don’t like when people don't realize you’re fuckin’ mine.”

He ruins you in your cramped little camping tent, the zipper barely holding back your cries. He’s got your knees pressed to your chest, his body heavy over yours, fucking into you like he wants to brand the memory into your bones. You fall asleep sore all over, pinned under the weight of his chest.

Day 5: The ATV tour was your idea. Toji speeds through the jungle paths with a devilish grin. You’re screaming and laughing behind him, clinging to his waist while he yells back:

“Don’t fall off, wife. I’m not pulling over!”

You don’t fall, but your composure does. Later, you’re in the backseat of the rental car, thighs sticky with sweat, your pulse still racing. He’s sprawled out like a king—shirtless, cock heavy on his thigh—when you climb over and drop to your knees.

You’re slobbering all over him. Lips messy. Hands trembling. Spit sliding down to his balls. He groans, fingers in your hair, watching you with the kind of reverence that makes your gut twist.

“So fuckin’ good,” he pants. “What’d I do to deserve this?”

You pull off with a smirk, a string of drool clinging between your lips and his cock. Voice sweet, lethal.

“You took my last name.”

It wrecks him. You feel it in the twitch of his cock, the way his jaw flexes, the almost-growl he lets out as he yanks you back onto him—throat first, this time deeper, filthier, until you’re choking on his praise.

The rest of the trip is a blur of tangled limbs, high altitudes, low moans in high places. He fucks you in waterfalls. In a cave. On top of a cliff. Sometimes slow, mostly not. He’s rough, reverent, and definitely addicted.

And when the week’s finally winding down—your lips puffy, your thighs bruised, your whole body humming with the aftermath—he tugs you into his lap, zips his hoodie around your naked frame, and presses a kiss to your jaw.

“Next honeymoon, we’re doing Antarctica,” he mutters. “I wanna see you ride me in the snow.”

You blink at him, dazed. “That’s—oh!—not how honeymoons work…”

To which he just grins, sharp and smug. “Yeah? Well good thing this marriage will.”

SUKUNA

He chooses somewhere ancient. Alive. A place with heat in the air and thrumming under your skin. It’s sensual without trying—like him. There’s a sprawling riad with carved archways and silk-canopied beds, and he books the entire place out so you won’t be disturbed. 

The bed is a California king, but you never sleep apart. You’re wrapped around each other every night—his hand gripping your thigh, your face pressed to his chest.He likes the size for two reasons: so he can toss you around and still have room to avoid the stains you two leave behind.

Silk robes. Hand-fed fruit. Gold jewelry he bought for you but only puts on himself. He refuses to let you carry your own bags—growls if you even try. And he inspects every outfit you pack, every hem and button.

“You don’t wear anything unless I’ve seen how fast I can take it off you.”

He lets you be looked at. Adored. Worshipped by strangers, because they’ll never touch. He wants you seen—because they’ll never know what it’s like to hear you beg.

And whenever you get back to your room, he fucks you like it’s a rite. Not just sex—a ritual. A claim. A bond carved again and again into your trembling body.

“I could destroy everything,” he says one night, voice low, “but I’d rather build a world just for you. And set it on fire when I die.”

Sukuna leaves bite marks all over you and bruises on your hips. Smirks down at you, red eyes glowing, like he’s seen your soul and made a home in it.

He fucks you until your voice breaks, until you forget your name and only remember his. Then he makes you ask for more.

“What’s that, wife? Use your words. Or should I teach you again?”

One night, he pulls a collar from his suitcase. Thick leather. Heavy. He buckles it around your neck and drags his thumb over the tag. 

“This is how you should look every day. My pretty pet, my wife.”

You cum hard that night—so hard you cry—and he only shushes you, kissing your wet cheeks, licking tears from your skin like it’s nothing.

He makes you beg to cum, then pulls out  just to hear you sob. Cruel, yes. But when it’s over? The way he holds you afterward? That’s what ruins you more than anything.

He doesn’t talk much. But his love speaks through the way he kisses the back of your neck. Through the way he threads your fingers together when you sleep. Through the way he watches you like you’re the only thing he didn’t take by force.

And every night ends the same way, his voice against your skin: “Say thank you. Loud enough for the heavens to hear. You’re blessed to be mine.”

CHOSO

Your honeymoon is tucked away in a remote part of Iceland—just the two of you, wrapped in warmth while the world outside glows cold and otherworldly. You stay in a heated glass igloo, skin-to-skin beneath thick blankets, with the Northern Lights dancing above you in ribbons of green and gold. It’s quiet, sacred. Every night feels like a dream suspended in frost.

The first time he sees the aurora borealis reflected in your eyes, Choso cries. Not loudly or in a way he wants you to see. But the tears come anyway, quiet and reverent, as he murmurs, “Nothing compares to this. Not even close.”

The honeymoon is low-key and peaceful. Cuddling by the fire, cooking simple meals together, watching old movies in bed with your fingers tangled. You hold hands in gloves during your long, scenic walks, and he blushes every single time you call him your husband.

He brings his film camera and takes soft, candid photos of you doing nothing—staring out the window, making tea, laughing at something dumb. He thinks you’re the most beautiful like that, unposed and fully his.

But the way you look when you’re sucking his dick like your life depends on it… it’s a close second. It’s late into the night, firelight flickering across the walls, your cheeks flushed from wine and the weight of his gaze. You crawl into his lap without a word, kneel between his legs, and pull his cock out of his sweats like it’s yours to take. 

Choso just watches you with hooded eyes and parted lips as you stroke him once, slow, like a tease. Then your mouth is on him, warm and wet, kissing his tip before dragging your lips down his shaft. His breath catches, low in his chest, and he grabs a fistful of your hair as you sink deeper.

You’re filthy with it. Drooling all over him, moaning around his cock, looking up at him with glassy eyes while you choke just to take him further. He lets out a broken groan when you swallow around him, one hand tightening in your hair as the other strokes your jaw. 

He doesn’t last long—not with you like this, looking up at him like you’d die happy with him on your tongue. When Choso cums, it’s with a grunt and your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You swallow every drop and then kiss him sweetly, already getting him hard again.

The way Choso makes love is like saying thank you. He’s so gentle at first, overwhelmed by how much he loves you. But the second you moan his name like you need him? Something in him unravels. His mouth gets filthy, and his rhythm deepens. You’ll end up in his lap, bouncing on his cock as he grips your hips and growls about how pretty your wedding dress was, how perfect you looked saying “I do.”

He fucks you all through the night, stroking your thighs every time you cum and shake on his cock. But Choso never stops, like he’s starved for you. 

“So good,” you tell him on the brink of tears. “Always so good to me.”

His voice roughens as he holds you down, eyes wild with love and possession.

“Mine. My wife. My everything,” Choso moans. “You don’t get to walk tomorrow.”

“Won’t need to,” you reply. 

And you don’t—because he carries you everywhere. Holds you close like he’s never letting go. Both of you know he never intends to. 

a/n: interactions are appreciated :') lmk what you thought/if you have any requests! thank you for reading mwah

All rights reserved © curseluvr. Do not repost, copy, translate, or plagiarize my work.

[saeish]

„What’s your type, Simon?“

“My type?”

He tilts his head, voice low and steady.

“Someone who doesn’t run when things get dark. Sharp mind, steady hands. Not afraid of ghosts, real or metaphorical.“

He pauses.

“Trust is rare. You earn it. You keep it. That’s what matters to me. You sure you wanna play this game, Sergeant? I don’t bluff easy.“

You give a faint smile.

„No, I meant more like physically…“

He chuckles, a quiet, dry sound beneath the mask.

“Physically, huh? Thought you’d never ask.”

He leans back slightly, arms crossed, voice low and deliberate.

“Don’t care much for the Barbie-doll types. I notice presence more than polish. Strong posture, focused eyes, someone who looks like they’ve been through hell and didn’t break.

Scars don’t scare me. Neither does muscle. I don’t need perfect, I need real.”

He pauses.

“That what you wanted to hear, or were you hopin’ I’d say ‘tall, blonde, and gym-fit’ so you could judge me for it? Go on then… your turn. What’s your type, love?“

„You.“

He goes quiet for a second, just the sound of his slow exhale through the mask.

“…Careful.”

His voice drops, serious now, but not cold.

“You don’t say that unless you mean it.”

He steps closer, gaze locked, unreadable behind the mask but steady.

“I’ve been through enough to know when someone’s just playing games. But if you’re not… if you’re serious…”

He tilts his head slightly.

“…then you’ve got my attention. Say it again, without flinching.“

„I want you.“

The silence stretches, thick enough to cut with a knife. Then he leans in, close enough for his voice to hit like a secret, low and raw.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re askin’ for.”

His tone isn’t warning… it’s a promise.

“I don’t do half-measures. If I want someone, I keep them.”

He pauses, voice softer, but firm.

“And if you want me… then you’d better be ready to handle the weight that comes with it. All of it. Still want me, love? Or just the mask?“

„All of you, Simon.“

He stands still for a moment, like time itself took a breath. When he speaks again, there’s a roughness to it, something unguarded beneath the steel.

“Then you’re braver than most.”

He takes a step closer, slow and deliberate.

“You want all of me? The soldier, the scars, the silence at 3am? The loyalty that cuts deeper than any blade?”

His voice lowers, a vow hidden in gravel and restraint.

“You have me. No masks, no shadows, just the man beneath.”

Then, after a long pause:

“Don’t run. ‘Cause if you stay, I stay.”

[saeish]

The apartment smells like warm chocolate and something faintly fruity. The soft hum of your voice floats out from the kitchen. Simon steps inside, his gear slung over one shoulder and his keys catching faintly on the hook as he hangs them up without even glancing up. His tired feet carry him toward the source of the sound before his mind fully catches up when he sees you.

You're wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, your hair is pulled up messily, your hips swaying a little as you move barefoot between the oven and the counter. You're humming a melody under your breath he can't quite make out.

He freezes in the doorway for a second, his hand still resting on the frame, the weight of the day slipping from his shoulders.

“Christ,” he mutters, mostly to himself, a small smirk playing at his lips. “You tryna kill me?”

You turn with a surprised grin, cheeks glowing with warmth. “You’re home early.”

“Not early enough,” he says, his voice low but teasing. “Should’ve been here hours ago if I’d known this was waiting.”

You giggle, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear and holding out a muffin on a little plate. “I saved one just for you, Lieutenant Riley.”

His eyes flick from the muffin to your face, then back to the muffin. The way you said his name like that... playful, yet intimate. He doesn't say a word about how it makes his chest twist pleasantly. He just moves toward you. For a second you think he goes in for the plate, but he just places it on the counter next to you.

Without warning, he wraps his arms firmly around your waist and lifts you off the ground. You let out a squeal of laughter as he flings you gently over his shoulder.

“Simon!” you laugh, half-kicking, half-laughing as you hang over his back. “What are you doing?”

He walks toward the bedroom like a man on a mission. “First ’m gonna have you,” he says teasingly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Then I’ll have a muffin.”

You laugh so hard your breath hitches. “That’s not the proper order of dessert!”

“Depends on who’s asking,” he says, giving your hip a small, playful squeeze as he carries you down the hall. “You baked them, didn’t ya? That makes you the main course.”

“Simon,” you giggle breathlessly now, voice warm with affection and mirth, “you’re completely insane.”

He drops you gently onto the bed, your hair fanning out on the pillows as you laugh up at him.

Simon leans over you, resting a hand beside your head and drinking in the sight of you: your flushed cheeks, your bare legs tangled in the soft cotton of your shirt and joy radiating from you like sunlight.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “And you’re the reason for that.”

[saeish]

"good girl," könig coos, his voice thick with praise as he watches your drool-slick lips struggle to form words. your thighs tremble around his waist, his cock so deep it feels like he’s rearranging your guts with every brutal thrust. "so full, huh? can’t even think straight with me stuffing you like this."

your answer is a broken, high-pitched whine, your fingers scrambling for purchase on his sweat-slicked chest. he’s huge—stretching you obscenely, the thick drag of him punching out little gasps and moans you didn’t even know you could make.

"shhh, i know," he murmurs, leaning down to lick a stripe up your throat. "just take it. gonna fill you up so good, make sure you remember who owns this pretty cunt."

your brain whites out when his hips snap forward, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room. könig groans, his hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head back. "look at you—fuck, made for this. made to take my cock, my cum. gonna breed you so deep you’ll feel it for days."

you babble something incoherent, tears pricking your eyes as he fucks you through the oversensitivity. his thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smearing spit. "such a dumb little thing now, aren’t you? just a hole for me to use."

he’s not wrong. your thoughts are liquid, your body his to ruin. and when he finally spills inside you with a guttural groan, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, you can only sob—overwhelmed, owned, perfectly fucked stupid.

"that’s it," he purrs, nuzzling your hair as his cock twitches inside you. "good girl."

[saeish]

Happy Father's Day!

Suguru geto x reader

Tw: breeding kink, smut (fingering/brief sex), aftercare, overstim, suguru just wants to be a daddy whether its to you or a baby :( what can I say. Mdni. Unedited.

Can’t tell me Suguru doesn’t press down on your tummy when he’s fucking you deep and slow. Doesn’t matter if it’s missionary or doggy, his palm finds that soft little spot low on your belly every time, pressing down just enough to make you feel it. To make sure you feel him. All of him. And he smiles when you gasp at the pressure, satisfied, his voice a low hum in your ear, “Right there, yeah? You feeling me right there, pretty girl?”

He’s always so casual about it, like it’s nothing. Like he’s not splitting you open on the thick drag of his cock. As if his pace is anything but cruel. He won't admit it, but he does get a kick watching you claw at his chest and back.

And it doesn't help that Suguru absolutely loves fingering you on his lap. Lets you slump against his chest, thighs spread wide over his, warm skin flushed and slick, his creamy, white cum still dribbling down from between your legs. He watches you fall apart with half-lidded eyes and a lazy smirk, one hand wrapped around your throat while the other dips between your folds, thick, veined fingers curling slow and steady as he tilts your chin down to look.

“Messy girl,” he murmurs, breath warm against your ear. “You’re leaking all over the floor, y’know. Such a pretty little waste, you're supposed to be keeping that inside you.”

He's one smug bastard when you cum, when your thighs tremble and your voice breaks into that sweet, gaspy cry, he gives your clit those gentle little taps, just to make you twitch. Just to remind you he’s still in control. Before diving those fingers back into your honey pot. It's not fun if you're not passed out in his arms by the end of it.

But when your voice starts to wobble, when your fingers dig into his arms and your breath hitches like it’s all just too much.

His whole demeanor shifts.

Suguru’s mouth finds your neck, then your jaw, then your lips, soft, adoring little kisses layered between apologies and praise. “Shhh, I know, baby. I know. You’re too sensitive now, huh? I shouldn’t have - ” He exhales against your cheek, voice thick with guilt and heat, “ - I shouldn't have kept going. I’m sorry.”

His tone drops to that rare, almost sheepish softness, and he curls you into his chest, arms tight around your waist, those same hands that ruined you now cradling you close. “You’re just so good for me. So perfect, I forget how much I can be at times. You did so good.”

He shifts slightly, tucking you closer, his thumb brushing soothing circles into the curve of your hip. And then, with that familiar Suguru charm - that rich, teasing drawl that always makes your heart flutter:

“Maybe this is the year you finally give me that Father’s Day present I’ve been asking for? A little baby for me? ” A kiss to your lips. Another to your nose. And then a grin against your skin, all warm breath and promise. Chuckling when you give him a sleepy whine

“No?”

You just nuzzle closer onto his chest, fingers finding purchase on his waist.

“Mm… that’s alright, princess. I can just keep taking care of you in the mean time." His voice dips lower, fingers stroking idly at your thighs again. “We’ve got plenty of time to keep trying.”

[saeish]

Simon likes when you worried about him

Simon was sick. God, he had to be.

Sick if it made his cock twitch every time he came home with a fresh bruise or a new cut and the first thing you did was drop everything, rushing to his side with furrowed brows and worried hands, little compared to his.

Always asking if he was okay, even when he already told you he was fine. Not that it was your fault, not when he made the stories sound worse than they were.

That shallow nick on his arm from Johnny slipping while cleaning his blade? No, sweetheart, that was from an enemy ambush. Caught him off guard, pushed him hard into a concrete wall and slashed his arm with a veryy sharp knife.

He might’ve even blacked out a bit, hard to say.

Sex was even better when he was hurt, because you slowed down, you were gentle, whispering are you okay? like it would stop the ache. You made love to him like he was breakable and fuck if that didn’t ruin him.

He, on the other hand, was a bastard.

His shoulder was barely healed, and here he was already flipping you on your stomach, ignoring your squeals of protest, “Simon— be careful!”

He nearly came just from that sound alone, the way you worried even while your body trembled beneath his.

Maybe he even started doing it on purpose.

Slowing down just enough to get clipped, a bruise here and there, sometimes a gash. Nothing fatal nor serious. Just enough to limp through the door and earn that panicked little gasp from you.

But you didn’t need to know that part, sweetheart.

Just keep fussing over him, cupping his face with worried hands, kissing the bruise on his jaw like it hurt you more than him.

Yeah, no he’d be fine

I have barely been active on tumbler recently so I apologize for that and the fact this is lowkey short lmao

[saeish]

Simon “if i was flirting, you’d know—you’d be flat on your back.” Riley.

[saeish]

John Price Feared Dead

AO3

The call wasn’t like anything you had been expecting.

You knew your husband’s job was dangerous. Of course you did. But you had never really known. Not until now.

The stuff you were aware of only scratched the surface of what his life was like — dinners with his team, listening in on Laswell’s briefings, being alone for months on end as he was send out of the country to fight the enemy and whatnot.

But it never seemed real. Never affected you, all that much, until you got the call.

“Hey, Mrs. Price.”

You would’ve recognised that Scottish accent anywhere. Only, today it didn’t hold its usual joy and cheek.

“Good evening, Johnny. What can I do for you?” You replied cheerily, phone pressed against your ear as you worked on stirring the stew you had been making especially for your husband’s return after three weeks away.

The man didn't respond, which you considered strange, since he usually couldn’t shut up. “Johnny?” You repeated. “Hello?”

“…I’m sorry,” he suddenly said, voice breaking.

Immediately, your pulse quickened. “Sorry for what?”

There was a crackle of static over the line, before a new voice, deeper with a different accent, rang out.

“Last op didn’t go so well. Captain didn’t make it to evac with the rest of us. We need you to come to base as the… last effort to find him is sent out.”

You froze. “Repeat that, Simon?”

Ghost grunted quietly. He was a cold man, but a good man at heart. You trusted him — and the other two, for that matter — with your life. “Captain’s feared dead. Need you to come to base.”

The bowl you had been holding dropped like a dead weight, shattering across the tiled floor and slicing into your bare feet in jagged shards.

“What the hell was that?” Simon grunted. But his voice wasn’t as assertive as usual. He was genuinely concerned.

And for a man as stoic and uncaring as him…

“I’m coming,” you whispered into the speaker, before promptly ending the call, rushing outside uncaring of the mess you had left, and hailing the first taxi you saw.

•

On the ride to the base, you were silent.

Silent, but sobbing — thick tears completely blocking your vision and rolling down your cheeks as you stared at nothing, the roaring in your mind too loud to think about anything but Simon’s words. They reverberated over and over again, haunting and tormenting you.

Captain’s feared dead.

Fucking hell.

Even the driver had noticed — a poor man who had watched the young woman with bare, bleeding feet and puffy eyes jump into his car and not say a single word except for her destination, and could offer only the timid comfort of, “Everything okay?”

To which you didn’t respond. Not out of intention, but pure shock.

The world seemed to rush by at an odd pace, your vision zoning in and out as trees rushed by the window. Reality didn’t feel real. This was something out of your nightmares, and yet it was plaguing you in the waking world.

John hadn’t made it to exfil. They were sending out a last-ditch effort to collect him. But in his line of work?

People who didn’t make it back were rarely ever seen again.

He could have been dead. At that exact moment, as you sat rigidly, he could have been taking his final breaths before he left the world forever.

John. Your John. Gone.

And they didn’t even know where he was. It wasn’t like there was even a chance you would ever get to say goodbye, just to his unresponsive body. He could have been lying in a ditch, bleeding out, dying in the middle of nowhere — and that would be it. You wouldn’t even see him again at the funeral. He’d be food for the worms and nothing more, destroying you are everything you had built together.

The onslaught of tears came on again, flooding your face and wetting your flushed cheeks. This time, they didn’t subside.

The rest of the car ride was torture.

•

“Where’s Ghost?”

The security guard at the gate had let you in immediately — you weren’t exactly a stranger to everyone after all the years you had spent turning up to surprise your well-respected husband at work — but you hadn’t found anyone you recognised yet on base, and the Task Force’s usual quarters were all empty.

The poor rookie who you had hissed the question at trembled under your piercing gaze. At this point, all the sorrow that you felt had solidified into something sharper as your body strained to process the devastating onslaught without shutting down. Right now, all you could feel was rage. “I— I think he’s at the heli pad, m-m-miss…”

You were striding off before he even finished his sentence.

Every step hurt. Every step thrummed in your head like a gong, blurring your vision and deafening your ears.

Heli pad.

Was it good news that the team was waiting on a heli to return? Bad? There were only a handful of possible things that could be brought with a chopper’s arrival — John alive, John dead, or no John at all.

You still weren’t sure, out of the latter, which would be worse. And you couldn’t bring yourself to hope for the former.

Couldn’t bring yourself to think of much more than the pain. Physical, mental, it all seemed to ebb and flow into one vessel of agony that tormented you endlessly.

Cold air bit your skin as you left the main quarters and stepped outside into the yard, where most machinery and vehicles were kept. You spotted them immediately — three 300-pound-men were hard to miss, even in camouflage gear — but their backs were facing you, and their heads were upturned to the sky.

Again, you spotted the reason why immediately— because a helicopter was descending.

You could feel your heart stop in your chest. Freeze into a screeching halt, because this was all too soon. You didn’t want to find out the answer. It was too soon for you to reach the final conclusion. You had only found out mere hours ago, and now came the final reckoning?

The hulking metal beast touched down, whirring propellers slowing and humming engine quieting. So quiet.

Too quiet.

Then the front door opened, and—

“John?”

Oh God. He was there, in the flesh, right in front of you — a stupidly confused expression on his stupidly handsome face as he stood there stupidly casually…

He was alive. Oh God. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…

Rough beard, soft blue eyes, and rugged physique as he stumbled out from the helicopter. Beaten and bruised, but alive.

The tears came back in tenfold, rolling down your flushed cheeks uncontrollably as your numb legs propelled themselves forwards, pushing past the surprised team in front of you, and flung you into his chest, sobbing.

“John,” you whimpered, ignoring the calls from Soap.

“I— hey, sweetheart,” he rumbled, voice unsteady.

You trembled violently. “They told me— I thought— thought you were—“

“I know, love, I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m here.” His voice was so thick and raspy, as if he still couldn’t believe it himself. “I don’t know how, but I’m here. Hey, don’t cry…”

You kept crying, salty tears soaking though his vest and gear. He made no move to stop you.

After a good while, you finally managed to pull your gaze up to meet his baby blues, and you swore you could’ve seen heaven reflected in those glassy, gorgeous irises.

“I love you, John,” you whimpered quietly, body still trembling. You weren’t sure if it was ever going to stop, after the fright you had experienced.

Even those words, once full of so much meaning and love, seemed weak and void of the substance you wanted to convey as you uttered them to the man you would give your own life for. Three words did nothing to describe the way you felt.

But then again, what else was there to say? You didn’t need metaphors or meticulous poetry to express yourself, because loving him wasn’t a story but a fact, a part of you — plain and simple.

And when he repeated them back to you, you knew he understood.

“Love you too, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip on your arms tightening. He didn’t let go until much, much later.

•

Later that evening, John was sat on the couch, you curled up in his lap and gripping him firmly even in sleep. A few medics and recruits he knew were there too, but he had one question meant for one specific person.

“She was really that bad?” He asked Simon lowly, pulling you a little closer to him.

The man only grunted. "A'most hysterical. Johnny thought she was close to jumping off the roof."

John shuddered, before sighing thickly and looking down at you. Peaceful in sleep, chest rising and falling evenly, but… the way you clung onto him and the way your eyebrows furrowed suggested more stress in you than he would've ever wanted.

God. This had always been his fear when you two first became official. It had been why he always distanced himself from partners in the past, and why it had taken him so long to let you in.

John didn’t know what to say. Because whilst his role in the military was vital, the sleeping angel on his chest was… everything. And he knew he’d give up everyone else he’d ever worked for just to keep her for a little longer than the universe set out to allow.

He looked up at Simon, and nodded once. In understanding, but also in communication. The other man understood.

Understood that from now on, no matter what happened, he would always choose you.

[saeish]

Simon isn't the man with words. He won't say it — but he'll do it.

Naked, with his arm snaked around your waist and head tucked under his chin, you blinked your crusty eyes to locate your things, which were clumsily tossed around between shared mouths, hot breaths, and rushed hands.

Nothing. Not even the underwear Simon teared off with his teeth last night.

After relentless Simon, Simon, Simon, and one almost-successful attempt to slide out from under his hold, he pulled you back in—eyes still closed.

“Ya’ flutter too much, birdie,” he breathed against your shoulder.

“I need to pee.” So he got up gruffly, his mouth tugging slightly—something you hoped was a smile.

Now, with your back straight, you could see the whole room had none of the things you came with last night—except this hot, big, muscled, nerdy-talks-about-guns-and-whiskey-too-much type of guy.

It felt like his apartment was robbed last night, with only your stuff stolen.

“Can’t see my stuff,” you muttered.

“I can.” Simon said casually, with his eyes fixated over your tits.

After blushing for more time than you should, and recovering for a pointed look at him that finally got him moving.

“Dunno,” Simon said curtly, staring at you before reaching down, abs folding, to pick up a black, curled-up t-shirt.

“Ya’ can have dat.” He shrugged, a grin in his eyes.

Over the morning, you realized you were actually wrong. Not all your things were gone. Just half.

One earring. One footwear. You found your shirt—but with no damn buttons.

You were damn sure there were at least three left, but then again, Simon's mouth hadn’t left you coherent enough to count or claim.

And Simon. God. Fuck him. Literally, metaphorically, now, and ever.

Simon was no help. He had that mischievous glint in his eyes—sexy and annoying.

He was aggravating.

The big boy claimed he was making breakfast, so you shouldn't disturb him with silly things like I know something is fishy and Where's the other shoe? and Return them it's not your size ! But somehow, he had plenty of time to rake his gaze over you as you chicken-legged your way through his house in his black tee, muttering a madness-streaked:

Found it!

Simon, you're sus.

It was only at breakfast—between dodging your suspicious, snoopy glare—that he smugly suggested buying some clothes for you in the evening.

Something casual for everyday...something you’d like while going out with him on coffees etcetera...or something you want to get because “his house ate your things”—your claim, not his.

Simon only had to say, stay.

He only had to ask you on a date.

But Simon isn't the man with words, so for now, he'll just do it this way.

⚝ Masterlist ⚝

[saeish]

"si."

"doll."

"what's this flower called?"

simon looked at the billionth flower you showed in just twenty minutes, sighing. "im a soldier love, not a gardener." though he took the pink colored flower from your hands, and placed it in the small box you bringed, just to turn them into a sticker later and put it in your notebook.

"makes sense," you murmured. "though i thought you'd knew since you guys are always on the forests or mountains."

"we don't really have time to search which flower is which doll." he said softly, moving everything that was sharp in front of you, in the small forest you two discovered in your hike. you liked getting lost in nature walks with your husband, who was as useful as a swiss army knife in your eyes.

"shame." you murmured, holding his hand when you felt like you were stumbling. though you liked to be a little dramatic sometimes. as you both continued to hike, and pick flowers, you occasionally liked to touch big tree's. "how fast you can climb this?" you asked curiously, looking up at the big oak tree.

"three minutes, max." he said with a casual confidence that made you remember why you falled for this man. he could do anything, and it was impressing you embaressingly enough.

"wanna test it out?" you asked with a mischief smirk on your face. simon mirrored.

"what do i get in return?"

"a big kiss."

he started climbing that moment, finding bumps to step on or using his big knife to help him climb, going all in for a kiss. you chuckled as he sat on one of the sticks, looking at the time. "two minutes and a half, lieutenant!"

as if it was nothing, he jumped down from that tree, landing on his feet with a loud thud. "my reward." his hands immediatly reached out and you happily hugged his neck, giving him the biggest smooch.

the next time he returns from a deployment, he has a bunch of squished mountain flowers on his gear pocket, a few of them losing their leaves but it mattered to you nonetheless. because he thought the weird and rare flowers would look great on your little notebook, and you felt special that he remembered that while fighting for his life.

[saeish]

soft target — john price

john price x teacher!fem!reader

warnings: some patronizing behavior from john

a/n: i may make a part two

you’re in early, like always. lights on, coffee half-finished, cardigan sleeves pushed to your elbows as you tidy the desks just so. your sundress floats gently with each step—soft blue today, the one with the little flowers on the hem. the school hasn’t quite woken up yet. the hallway’s still quiet.

so when there’s a knock at your door, it startles you.

you turn—and there he is.

john price, standing in your doorway like he owns the place. cap low, beard trimmed, fatigues neat but somehow still menacing. he nods once, slow. confident.

“mornin’, love.”

you blink. smile automatically, polite.

“captain price. you’re early.”

“mm. wanted a look at the battlefield before the troops show up.”

he steps in without waiting for permission, eyes dragging across your classroom like he’s assessing a threat. your posters. your bookshelf. the string of fairy lights along the board. all of it feels suddenly... childish under his gaze.

“cosy,” he says, tone unreadable.

“i try to make it welcoming,” you murmur, shifting your clipboard to the other hand.

he steps closer. slow, measured. eyes on yours.

“bet they love you in here.”

you glance away. “the students?”

“mm,” he hums. “them too.”

you pretend not to hear the implication. instead, you start gathering the stack of forms from your desk, fussing with the edges to avoid looking at him too long.

“you’ll be speaking during second period. i’ll introduce you to my class before that, if that’s alright.”

“more than alright, sweetheart.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t leave. just leans one hip against a desk and watches you work like he’s got all the time in the world.

“what do you teach again? history, was it?”

“yes.”

“so you tell ‘em the truth, do you? or just what’s in the books?”

you look up. his eyes are sharp, curious, but there’s a challenge there too.

“i tell them what matters,” you say quietly. “what they’re old enough to understand.”

he nods slowly. “fair enough. still think you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“why’s that?”

he smirks. closer.

“‘cause you’re soft,” he says, like it’s a compliment. “kind. got that voice that makes people want to sit still and listen. but that don’t mean they will, yeah?”

you feel heat crawl up your neck. “i manage.”

“m’not sayin’ you don’t. just sayin’... wouldn’t last long on a base lookin’ like that.”

your breath catches. “like what?”

he shrugs, lazy. unconcerned.

“floaty dress. bare legs. that sweet little voice. no wonder the boys don’t give you trouble. probably all got bloody crushes.”

you stare at him.

he just grins.

before you can answer, the bell rings.

you’re saved. for now.

your students filter in, loud and chatty, and john shifts back into professional mode—if only barely. he stands by the board with his arms crossed, watching as you gently quiet the class.

“alright, everyone, we have a guest today,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “this is captain price. he’s here to speak about military recruitment.”

a few of the boys sit up straighter. one of the girls whispers something and giggles.

price gives you a nod, then scans the room.

“pleasure. won’t waste your time—unless you’re lookin’ to waste mine.”

the class actually listens. not out of respect, but curiosity. fear. maybe both.

you stand off to the side while he talks—sharp, clean delivery, his voice made for command. but every so often, his gaze flicks back to you. quick. deliberate.

and you feel it. like a brand, every time.

when the bell rings again, you thank him quietly. he waves off the compliment like it’s nothing. but then—then he lingers.

offers to help you tidy up. again.

and as you reach for a stray folder on the desk, his hand brushes your waist.

“steady there, love.”

you freeze.

his hand stays just a second too long.

“wouldn’t want you to twist an ankle in those little shoes, would we?”

you clear your throat. try to step away, but he’s already one step ahead, bending to grab the folder for you.

“s’nothing, sweetheart. happy to help.”

he hands it to you with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“i’ll be back next week. same class, yeah?”

you nod.

“good. maybe i’ll get a proper tour next time.”

and then he’s gone, just like that.

but you know—you know—this isn’t the last time you’ll see captain price in your classroom.

[saeish]

Trying to break simon out of his smoking habit by not kissing him after he's had a smoke. Just straight up dodging him if he goes in for a kiss. And you keep doing it until he stops smoking 🥰

Simon gets in his feelings until he catches on to what you're doing. Look at you trying to help him, sweetheart. Made of good stuff, you are.

He has another, perhaps more helpful idea.

Every time he's around and he gets the urge to smoke, he'll just make you sit on his face. He gets his fix and you get your cum, and look at you two, killing two birds with one stone. Or something like that. Fuck if he knows.

But it sucks (pun intended) that he's a bit of a chain smoker, eh?

Oh well. Happy cunt, happy grunt and all that fuckin' jazz.

[saeish]

it’s hard for simon to focus on anything other than the way water glides down the expanse of your softened hips, your curves swaying with each move you make.

the man is literally drooling when you bend over to place your bar of soap back where it belongs, breasts bouncing, glistening in the lights of the bathroom when you straighten. residual soap drifts down your arms, legs, the top of your chest, down the planes of your round tummy.

and it’s when you turn that simon realizes you’ll be the death of him.

he knew this from the beginning of course, honeyed eyes watching the curl of your lips when you first graced him with your smile, the sun peaking out from behind the darkest of clouds.

but it’s now, you standing here swollen with his child, that he feels those rain clouds disperse. the final puzzle piece sliding into place.

you turned, eyebrows raised in question as simon looks down at you, his eyes mimicking that of a man starved.

“si? is everything alright?”

he was sure he looked like an idiot, smirking down at you in such a boyish way while he placed his hands at the dip of your hips, one hand snaking down to squeeze the plump of your ass. he was met with a squeak and a playful smack to his arm as you leaned into him, breasts flattening against his chest.

he didn’t mean for his voice to sound so full of hunger, but it was hard when you looked up at him under those fluttering lashes of yours.

“s’nothin’, mama. just thinkin’ ‘bout what i want for dinner tonight.”

[saeish]

thinking about daddy issues (into kink) from price’s perspective that’s like. vocal but not. and it’s not your thing but it’s his, and it’s slipping out in subtle ways.

price won’t call himself it (‘daddy’) out loud, that’s not what does it for him, but the desire to nurture you and to provide for you and to take care of you—that’s what gets him going. and he knows that the torch that is thrumming beneath his skin isn’t just a measly kink, but the pulsing desire is a tangled ball of hunger that is tugged at every time you find him.

the way you curl up beside him, rumbling in a quiet voice like you’re sharing a secret with him. the way you will always hold his hand in a crowded street. the way he is the first person you look for in every happy moment—you can be with mutual friends but you will always meet each other’s eyes in your laughter. the way you rely on him. the way you know that john has the answers for everything.

it leaves him breathless, undone by your devotion.

it makes him pull you close to dazedly rumble in your ear, “c’mere, baby. won’t you give this ol’ man a kiss?”

[saeish]

Just a very short word vomit as I have spent far too long thinking about Captain Price faking an injury just to see his favourite doctor.

————————-

John Price has got years on him.

Enough to know how to play the game. Enough to know how to work the system just a little in his favour. Life experience has given him knowledge, skill, but it’s also given him something a little worse — something that creeps out into the lines around his eyes, the grey peppering his beard, the way he carries himself like he’s lived through every war this world has to offer — lets him move like he’s still in the trenches, like he hasn’t left them even when the fight is over.

Assurance.

It’s practically pouring out of his pores as you rush in — frantic as ever given the late hour and the way your assistant was practically sobbing over the supposed state of him — all to find the man sitting on the stretcher, looking right as rain save for the crimson coating his chest.

At first glance you gather it’s not all his, or at least, not much of it. The dark stain coats his sleeve, a cranberry smear streaking up his neck, lost in the shadow of his collar. You hardly realize you’re just silently staring until he exhales through his nose, amusement seeping somewhere between the showcased exhaustion.

“Y’alright, love?”

You blink. Then scoff. He’s asking you if you’re alright?

“You’re the one bleeding on my floor.”

Price hums, pushing off the stretcher to stand, shrugging off his vest with a wince that looks a little like it’s more for show than anything else.

“Y’gonna patch me up, or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”

That gets your attention. Assured. Typical Price but unusual given the circumstances. You’ve seen enough shot soldiers to know the last thing he should be doing right now is dotting.

Your eyes narrow as you grab for the med kit, pulling it open with a snap. “You actually get shot, or just feeling homesick?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he just watches, waves rocking in the depths of his eyes as you reach for his sleeve, steady fingers brushing blood-stiff fabric. Somewhere between searching for the wound and noticing the lack of bloodshed, you falter — because something isn’t adding up, because you’ve treated enough wounds to know when someone is worse off than they let on, and Price — despite the mess of him, isn’t nearly as injured as he’d told your team he was.

And judging by the way he smiles, he knows you’ve figured it out.

“John.” You wish you sounded more stern, but that cursed thing on his lips is contagious, and he’s given it to you like the plague. “You’re not hurt.”

A beat. Then, he tilts his head, meeting your eyes.

“No,” he admits. “M’not.”

[saeish]

Simon Riley and Sleeping

Simon had always been an insomniac.

Going through nights having not slept in days, tinkering around with his guns and knives, bloodying up his knuckles at the gym just to drown out his restless mind.

Safe to say, the habit was so deeply ingrained in his mind that it didn’t change even when you came into the picture.

But though the overall lack of sleep never went away, he did have to make some adjustments to his routine — because now every night he had you tucked up against his chest and breathing quietly, out cold. Your head nestled against his warm chest, eyelashes fluttering with sleep. A nightly treasure that he had once been certain he would never experience in his lifetime.

And as gorgeous as this you were, he had learnt the hard way that the moment he tried to move to go to the bathroom or otherwise, you were immediate blinking up at him with bleary and confused eyes, an adorable concerned frown pulling your eyebrows downwards.

Moving whilst you were asleep on him — an action which took up a surprisingly large part of most days — became out of the question. So, his nights became… calmer. Less full of panic and throbbing migraines, and more of a peaceful serenity as he listened to your soft breathing, smoothing the hair on your forehead with his big hand as he did so. Just being.

It calmed his racing thoughts. Slowed the painful beating of his heart when he got too worked up, and dulled any unpleasant thoughts, to the point where sometimes — just sometimes — he nodded off right next to you, almost instantly, even after a lifetime of turmoil.