cscorvid

[cscorvid]

butcher!simon that got both of you drunk on the date and kissing at the table, his hand on your ass, lifting up your dress

butcher!simon that guided you to his place from the restaurant not even thinking about getting you laid, before you "accidentally" brushed his crotch with your hand multiple times

butcher!simon who was rough, oh so rough with meat but so caring and gentle with you, his little bird, pinning you down on his bed and kissing you passionately

butcher!simon who chuckled when your tiny hands drunkly tried to undo his belt but failed every time so he murmured "Don't worry princess, I'll serve you this cock tonight. Myself."

[cscorvid]

Putty in Your Hands

Pairing: Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Fem!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Tags: Public fingering, edging, degradation praise kink, possessiveness, voyeur tension, desperate Johnny, smug reader, soft dom/sub dynamics, danger kink part one

You hadn’t expected revenge to come so quickly.

A few days had passed since you’d sucked Johnny off under the desk while Price stood less than two feet away, rattling off mission reports like he wasn’t moments from witnessing a felony-level HR violation. You figured Johnny would get you back eventually. He was patient like that. Liked to play the long game, especially when it meant dragging pleasure out until you were trembling.

But you didn’t expect it to come at the bar.

The whole team had gone out that night, Price’s idea, a rare reprieve between missions. Somewhere off-base and half-civilized. A cozy pub tucked into a corner of Manchester, dimly lit and musky with old beer and something vaguely floral. You’d tucked yourself into a booth between Ghost and Johnny, the rest of the 141 scattering around you with drinks in hand.

You should’ve known something was up when Johnny had that look in his eye. The same one he got when he was about to blow something up or come apart in your mouth. That sharp, electric mischief that never led to anything wholesome.

The first touch came like a whisper.

Johnny’s hand slipped under the booth table, his knuckles brushing your thigh as he leaned in to murmur something to Price. It was innocent enough at first. Just a stroke down the inside of your leg, featherlight, the barest graze. His fingers paused just beneath the hem of your jeans, pinky resting against the edge of your panties.

You tensed. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t move.

That was the game.

"Everything alright?" Ghost asked casually, sipping his pint.

You nodded. "Fine. Just warm in here."

Johnny’s hand pressed firmer, stroking his fingertips along your slit through your underwear. Just once. Just enough to make your thighs twitch.

"You okay, lass?" he asked, turning to you with the fakest fucking concern you’d ever seen on his face. The smug bastard.

Your eyes cut to him. His were sparkling with restrained laughter.

“I’m fine,” you bit out, smile tight. “Peachy.”

It escalated fast.

As Price and Ghost fell into conversation, Johnny's finger slipped beneath the elastic of your panties, the pad circling slow, devastating rings over your clit.

He was barely moving. Barely touching you. Just enough to make you ache.

You bit the inside of your cheek, one hand gripping the edge of the table like a lifeline. Every muscle in your body locked tight. If you moved wrong, Price would notice. If you breathed wrong, Ghost would ask questions.

And Johnny? Johnny just kept talking. Kept laughing. Kept pretending like he wasn’t wrecking you with a single fucking finger.

Then Gaz stood with a grin and wandered off toward a group of girls by the jukebox.

One down.

Ghost lingered a few more minutes before grunting something about needing to piss and vanishing into the crowd.

Two.

And then it was just you, Johnny, and Price, who’d wandered towards the bar to chat with someone, nursing his scotch like it held the secrets of the universe.

Johnny moved fast.

One finger slipped into you, slow and steady, crooking upward like he had all the time in the world. His thumb stayed at your clit, rubbing lazy little circles that never quite hit the right pressure. Your breath hitched, and Johnny leaned in like he was whispering something sweet.

“Bet you regret teasin’ me under the desk now, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your jaw was clenched so tight your teeth hurt, your whole body flushed from heat and tension and the unbearable humiliation of being this close to coming in a fucking bar booth.

Johnny added a second finger, stretching you just enough to make your walls flutter.

Then he stopped. Froze completely.

You almost whimpered. Almost turned to him and begged.

But then he started again. Slow. Torturous. Just enough friction to drag you right to the edge.

And he stopped again.

You saw stars.

The cycle repeated, again and again, until your thighs were trembling, your eyes glazed, and your voice cracked when you leaned into him and whispered:

“Please.”

Johnny’s breath hitched. You felt the shift in him immediately, the way his cock throbbed against your thigh, the way his fingers twitched inside you like they were hungry. He loved when you begged. Loved making you work for it.

“Please what, bonnie?” he asked sweetly, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Your head lolled toward his shoulder. You could barely think.

“Let me cum.”

“Mmm. You sound so pretty like this,” he murmured, curling his fingers just right. “One more edge, yeah? Just one—”

You grabbed his wrist.

“Johnny.”

And that was it. The way you said his name, raw, ruined, half-wild, flipped something inside him.

“Fuckin’ hell, alright, love.”

His pace changed instantly. Faster now, deeper. His palm ground against your clit with just enough pressure, just the right angle, dragging you toward release with expert precision.

You broke in seconds.

The orgasm hit like a freight train, tearing through you so hard your vision blurred. You bit your lip so hard it split, hips twitching, your body clenching tight around his fingers. Johnny kept going, working you through it, one hand holding your thigh open under the table so no one would see your legs shaking.

You slumped against him, half-conscious, breathing hard.

And that’s when you looked up, and locked eyes with Price.

He was standing at the end of the bar. Glass in hand. Brows raised.

Watching.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Johnny stiffened beside you, clearly realizing at the same moment.

You didn’t move.

Neither did Price.

He took a sip of his drink. Held your gaze for one long, loaded moment. Then turned, nodded at someone across the bar, and walked away like nothing happened.

Silence.

Then, Johnny leaned in, voice barely audible.

“...We’re dead.”

[cscorvid]

Paper Can Wait

Pairing: John Price x GN!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Tags: Established relationship, office sex, desk sex, dominance, rough sex, soft aftercare, late-night setting, overstimulation, praise kink, GN!Reader very fast pace, hardly any plot

The clock ticks past midnight, the base dead quiet aside from the soft hum of the overhead fluorescents and the occasional creak from the pipes. You should be in bed, hell, he should be in bed. But Price is still at his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw working around a barely lit cigar that he hasn’t touched in over an hour.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with tired eyes.

“Still at it?” you murmur.

He grunts, not looking up. “Paperwork doesn’t sign itself.”

You take a slow step in, your boots nearly silent on the concrete. “No one’s gonna crucify you for leaving it ‘til morning.”

Price sighs, tossing the pen down with a little too much force. “Can’t sleep knowing it’s there. Figure I might as well finish it.”

You walk behind his chair, hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders. Tense, as always. He lives in a constant state of half-readiness, like even paperwork might explode on him if he looks away too long.

Your thumbs dig gently into the knots between his shoulders. He exhales slowly.

“Thought you’d gone to bed.”

“Tried,” you say, leaning in close so your breath brushes his ear. “Bed’s cold without you.”

Price stiffens under your touch, not out of rejection, but tension of a different kind. You know that silence, know the way his jaw ticks when he’s weighing options in his head.

You press a kiss to the back of his neck, just below his hairline.

“Let it wait, John.”

He turns then, slow and deliberate. His eyes, blue steel, dark with exhaustion and want, lock with yours. “You’re playing a dangerous game, love.”

You smirk, fingers trailing down the front of his shirt. “You gonna punish me for it?”

Something shifts in his gaze. A spark catches. The chair scrapes against the concrete as he rises, and you’re backed against the desk before you can blink. It groans beneath your hips as he lifts you like you weigh nothing, sweeping the mess of papers aside with a forearm.

“Jesus,” you laugh breathlessly. “That was at least half a report.”

“Shouldn’t’ve come in here dressed like that,” he mutters, voice rough, cracking with desire.

“I’m in sweats.”

“Still distracting.”

His mouth crashes into yours, hungry, impatient, claiming. You moan into him, fingers threading into his hair. He tastes like tobacco and something darker, something him.

Your legs spread instinctively as he presses between them. The desk is cold under you, but his hands are burning where they grip your thighs.

“This what you wanted?” he growls against your lips.

You nod, breath catching. “Wanted you. Not this desk.”

“Desk’s part of the deal now.”

He pulls back just enough to yank your shirt over your head, mouth following the path of exposed skin down your chest, sucking marks like territorial brands. You tilt your head back with a moan, arching into him, desperate for more.

One hand slips under the waistband of your sweats. You gasp as calloused fingers find you, touch firm but teasing.

“So fucking needy,” he mutters, voice low, reverent.

You whimper. “Been thinking about this all night.”

Price groans, hand tightening on your hip. “Gonna ruin you, sweetheart.”

You hope he means it.

He works your sweats and underwear down just enough, exposing you to the cold air and the hot stare of a man who looks ready to devour you. You’re already slick, throbbing, aching, and the desk only adds to the thrill, exposed, spread out for him, paperwork forgotten and mission reports scattered like fallen leaves.

Price pushes his own pants down just far enough to free his cock, thick and already dripping. He strokes himself slowly, watching you squirm, then catches your gaze with his and raises a brow.

“Need to hear it.”

“Please,” you whisper, wrecked already. “I need you, John.”

The first thrust knocks the breath from your lungs.

He sinks into you in one smooth, brutal motion, and you cry out, hands scrambling for purchase on the polished wood.

“Fuck,” he hisses, head dropping to your shoulder. “Always so fucking tight.”

He pulls back and drives in again, harder. You gasp, back arching. The desk creaks dangerously beneath you, but you barely notice. All you can feel is him, his cock stretching you open, his chest pressing you down, his breath hot on your throat as he fucks you into the grain of the desk like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

The angle is perfect, deep and punishing. Each thrust rocks your body, your thighs trembling as he keeps a bruising grip on your hips, keeping you locked in place.

“You’re mine,” he growls, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Mine to fuck. Mine to keep.”

“Yes...fuck...yes, yours,” you cry, overwhelmed by the sheer force of him.

One hand slips between your legs, fingers stroking you in time with his thrusts. Your legs shake, vision blurring.

“Gonna come for me?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Come on my cock while I split you open?”

You nod frantically, unable to form words. You’re close...too close. The edge rushes up on you like a tidal wave, and then you’re falling, clenching around him as your orgasm crashes through you in white-hot waves.

You scream his name, and that does him in. He groans, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, heat flooding your core. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight as he rides out his high with a few more lazy thrusts.

The room is silent save for your heavy breathing, the soft clink of papers still sliding off the desk’s edge.

You cling to him, dizzy, legs still trembling. He kisses your temple, then your jaw, then your lips...softer now, slower.

“Alright?” he murmurs.

You nod against him, still catching your breath. “More than alright.”

He chuckles, rubbing slow circles into your back. “Desk didn’t break. That’s something.”

You huff a laugh. “But you did ruin that report.”

“Worth it.”

You sit there for a moment, tangled together, sweat cooling on your skin. Then Price shifts, slipping out of you gently, cleaning you up with the folded sleeve of his discarded shirt.

“You’re sleeping in tomorrow,” he says, voice gruff with affection. “No arguments.”

You smile lazily, already half-dozing against his chest. “Only if you stay too.”

His lips press against your forehead. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

[cscorvid]

John Price sleeps naked, and I will not have anyone tell me otherwise.

When the two of you were dating, he toned it down a little and at least kept his boxers on, but the minute he had a ring securely on your finger and your vows in place, he refused to wear even a single thing to bed.

“Too hot,” he’d complain daily, pulling you into his chest and causing your ass to settle on top of his fast-chubbing cock (unintentionally, of course). “S’not comfy. Besides, can’t feel you as well.”

He’d regularly try to get you to join him, too — and you don’t think you’d ever seen him happier than on the one instance you finally gave in, only because you were ovulating and you wanted him even more than he wanted you, which was impressive considering his… general consistent need.

And even on the cold winter nights when you could quite literally hear him shivering from the frigid air, he’d shrug off the temperature and pull you even closer. “Who needs clothes when I have you, huh? Like my own little hot water bottle, you are. You give good kisses, too.” His praise was never-ending, if only to keep you from playfully scolding him about his preference.

You never really meant it, though. How could you, when your husband was always so clearly hot and needy for you?

[cscorvid]

Hear me out...

Simon was hand picked by Price, his captain.

Now imagine, Simon finds himself a little birdie.

You.

And Simon has never had one, not truly. Sure he's had plenty of one nights and meaningless sex. But he doesn't know how to take care of you or love you or treat you right. He wants so badly to do right by you.

Who else would he turn to besides Price?

Especially when he finds out his birdie has never been with anyone else, Simon wouldn't want to hurt her :( so the obvious choice would be to ask for Price to help and take your virginity.

You were skeptical, it lead to a couple small arguments but his sweet honey brown eyes filled of adoration told you what you all you needed to know.

So you agreed to meet this john price fella, but nothing explicit.

That's why you're a little confused how you ended up like this, you really didn't mean to. If was just a dinner, invite him in and be a good host.

So why is John lying on his back on yours and Simons shared bed? Why are you sitting on his face like a good girl? :(

His large hands digging into the plush of your hips, his mutton chops rubbing your sweet thighs raw. But God, his tongue feels so good, the way he slurps at your sweet soppy cunny like he genuinely enjoys it.

It doesn't help that Simon is standing right by the bed, mask off as he smiles ever so slightly yet sweetly. Carefully brushing your hair out of your face as you ride his captains face. He's so proud of his girl.

And Price? He's fucking loving how you're getting so into it, good fucking birdie. The way you begin mindlessly riding his mouth, smearing your pussy juices all over. The way you occasionally bounced.

He'll have to thank Simon properly later for finding them such a cute little birdie.

[cscorvid]

i've been thinking a lot about somnophilia with the 141, so bear with me here. minors and ageless blogs, DNI.

i think they would all be – romantically – freaks about it. like the perverted type of thoughts that come around when you're deeply in love. some say that we become our most transparent selves when in love and that sums it up pretty well, how they just want to do everything and anything as long as it's with you.

both simon and johnny like to do it at night, mostly to help them fall asleep. john and kyle like to do it in the morning, it's more productive for them.

kyle likes to wake you up by eating you out, and then getting his sweet reward after. he leaves kisses all over your body, licking some part and biting others. he takes his time to mark you up in the most unexpected places, but his favorite is your inner thighs. he laps on you calmly not to startle you, but with enough intention so it'll wake you slowly. so when you're awake enough, you return the favor.

johnny touches your clit until your wet enough for him to slip inside you. he brushes his index and middle finger on it before pushing them down your slit and into your entrance. he stretches you out carefully, scissoring his fingers inside to prep you up. he does it just so he can to fall asleep buried deep inside you, cuddling you from behind. he's all about the cockwarming.

simon relishes on lubing your thighs up and fucking them calmly. he's a mess of small, contained sounds whilst he's holding your sleepy body in his big arms. he humps in you all the way to his orgasm. he definitely feels bad for getting you dirty and sticky with his cum but he'll make up for it with a bath after you wake up. he cleans you up with a wet cloth before falling asleep himself.

john, experienced man that he is, likes to work you up little by little. touching your nipples and squeezing your chest and then down to the edges of your panties, toying with it. he makes you horny enough so when you wake up your mind is still fogged with sleep, asking softly for him to fuck you. it has you getting cockdrunk so easily, and he loves it. he loves fucking you dumb.

[cscorvid]

price and his cigars. cw. shotgunning, inappropriate work dynamics (?).

john price is an expensive man.

he doesn’t flaunt his wealth, nor is he one to invest in things. no sports cars, or limited edition furniture. only one house. his simplicity is often misconstrued as stinginess- but this assumption is put out when he lights a cigar.

it smells like a paycheck. a big one.

so smoking with him, especially if he offers you one from his own pack, is like the initiation into his close circle. what’s his is yours. breathing the same air, the same vice. the closest you can get to equality with a man of his caliber.

but that’s not what gave it away for you, was it?

your hips stutter, legs weak from their kneeling position and slipping off the edge of his office chair as you ride him. the folds of his pants, which were lazily unzipped, brush up against the cool flanks of your ass.

he places a hand on your waist, “hm. all tired out birdie?”

you nod pathetically. he reaches for his drawer while you lean up against his chest, and grabs out a lighter and a cigar.

pulls you off him by the back of your neck, before his fingers return to the cigar and light it. takes a drag, and then grips your jaw with one fat, large hand.

“open f’me.”

you do as your told because it’s gotten you this far, and he blows the smoke against your tongue. mahogany, just as rich as his back pocket, boils the roof of your mouth until your eyes water

“would y’look at that?”

didn’t even notice you had begun to hump him again, puffy clit desperate for any friction as he force feeds you tobacco.

takes your hips and guides you up and down his cock, occasionally taking a slow drag of the cigar and blowing it in your face, as a reward.

and you get it. you get exactly why this is such a big deal. beyond him being inside you. beyond him buying your skirt only so he could take it off.

because nothing compares to inhaling his worth, and exhaling it just as quickly. the intimacy of his lingering.

just like his spend, when he buries himself to the hilt and cums after giving you a second orgasm.

you breathe out, and smoke peels around his shoulder. he laughs. “didn’t pin you as a smoker, doll.”

neither did you. must have something to do with his influence. he has a way with it.

[cscorvid]

fem!afab!reader

wandering into a cave to seek shelter from the storm only to come across a slumbering dragon!price. he’s massive with radiant golden scales. you freeze, adrenaline shooting through your chest and piercing your ears. you slowly back away, trying not to wake the beast, when your back crashes into a thick wall of flesh. you look up to see another dragon!gaz blocking your exit.

“hmm, what do we have here?”

you face him, stepping backwards to make some distance. gaz isn’t as large as price, but his red scales still intimidate you to no end.

“i-i’m sorry, i didn’t know this cave was occupied. i was just cold and needed a place to hide! i-i can leave and never come back!”

a grumbling resounds from behind you. it shakes the ground you stand on, making you shake from more than just the frigidness. a third dragon!soap appears, picking you up in claws and bringing you to his piercing yellow eyes and green-scaled maw. “poor li’l sapphire. didnae know this was a dragon’s nest?”

you curl in on yourself. “n-no! i swear! please don’t eat me! i promise i meant no harm!”

gaz laughs, stomping forward to look at you closer. his maw is so close—just one sharp exhale, and you’d be a pile of ash. “trinket, we won’t hurt you. you’re too cute to eat.”

“ye. we only want tae play with you a bit,” soap adds, using his other paw to ‘gently’ pat your head. it jolts your whole body.

you sniffle. “what do you mean?”

“mating season.” from the darkness, a fourth dragon!ghost appears. he’s taller than the two, all black scales and authority. you gasp, eyes widening.

“si!” soap scolds.

at the same time, gaz says, “don’t scare her even more than she already is!”

the former huffs. “why waste time when we can get to the point?”

gaz pulls away slightly to give you space, but his gaze still holds yours with intensity. “look, trinket. we dragons mate in autumn, and you caught us at the right time. if you help us, we’ll reward you handsomely.”

“john has quite the hoard,” soap continues, “and he’d be willing to give ye whatever ye need to live comfortably for the rest of your life.”

“all we ask is that you let us breed you,” gaz finishes.

you gulp, the adrenaline now pooling somewhere else. somewhere wet and hot. the idea of four dragons fucking you makes you keen, thighs pressing together unconsciously.

“but how would this work?” you ask, looking over at ghost’s underbelly. from a slit on his abdomen, you can see two large cocks starting to poke out, and from the heads alone, they each look just as big as you.

the three chuckle, and soon a fourth voice joins in on the laugh. price finally makes a move, standing up and walking over to fully cage you in soap’s palm.

“oh, treasure,” he rumbles amusedly, “dragons can shapeshift. we wouldn’t want to break you, would we, boys?”

the three grunt in response.

you feel awed by their power, and when you don’t respond, price barks out an order. “kyle. simon. johnny. show my treasure what i mean.”

soap places you back on the rocky floor. suddenly, the sound of cracking and contorting echoes through the cave. and before you know it, three massive humanlike men stand before you. sharp horns protrude from their heads, human flesh surrounds random patched of scales, and their backs sport gigantic wings and a tail. most importantly, however, they are naked and proudly presenting two scaly cocks between their legs, tips weeping with seed.

in that moment, any doubts or reasoning went out the window. drool ran past your lips, and your tongue quickly followed to lap it up.

soap laughed, crouching in front of you to caress your face. “li’l sapphire likes what she sees.”

“does that mean we can ‘ave ‘er?” ghost grumbled, claws moving to fist his aching cocks.

gaz sneaks behind you and whispers in your ear, “it’s up to her.”

you take them in, lustful eyes raking over their faces, their bodies, their everything, desperate to find out what pleasure they’ll give you. craning your neck up to where price still towers over you all as a dragon, you call, “can i see you, too?”

a contented sound leaves price’s throat as he shifts into a burly man just as aching as his pack mates. he stalks to you, those eyes still gleaming like the apex predator he very much is, and he turns you to face him. “well? are you pleased with your mates?”

you nod.

the four of them purr, finally putting their hands on you.

“good treasure. now just sit there and look pretty for us. we’ll take good care of you.”

writing smút is hard >_< maybe i’ll continue this one day but for now enjoy dragons bc they hot asf

[cscorvid]

Headcanon: Captain Price’s Pathetic Pillow

Captain price x fem! reader, suggestive theme, 18+, mentions of uterus and cum, and the whole team clowning price.

Everyone thinks Captain John Price is a hardened man of taste—cigars, whiskey, and tactical brilliance.

Cigars? Expensive.

Whiskey? Aged and neat.

Tactics? Lethal.

Beard? National treasure.

And yet… behind closed doors… lies a secret so devastating, so shameful, so soul-flattening…the single most disturbing artifact known to Task Force 141.

His pillow is the saddest object in the entire United Kingdom. Possible Europe. Maybe the entire NATO alliance.

And not just any pillow.

No.

It’s not just flat. It’s deflated. Like it gave up sometime in 80s and never recovered.

This pillow has seen wars, sweat, spit, cigar crumbs, cum, and the weight of an emotionally repressed British forehead night after night. It’s yellowed. It crunches a bit when you press it. There’s one suspicious bullet hole no one asks about.

The first sighting

Gaz stumbled on it once and physically recoiled like it bit him.

“Cap— what the hell is that?”

“My pillow.”

“…Is it… alive?”

“It’s broken in.”

“IT’S BROKEN DOWN.”

Soap tried to surprise him with a brand-new orthopedic memory foam one. Price took one look at it, gave it one half hearted squeeze it, and muttered

“Too soft. Doesn’t smell like mine.”

Then flopped face-first back onto his tattered parchment of despair.. the war-torn crêpe he calls a pillow with the weight of a thousand suppressed emotions and let out a groan so guttural it summoned ghosts from WWI.

Laswell once compared it to a flattened Yorkshire pudding left out in the rain.

Ghost swears it whispered something to him once. He won’t say what.

That pillow has no bounce. It’s a sock filled with despair.

But he won’t replace it.

Because in his heart, Price believes if his pillow can survive everything it’s been through…

So can he.

You

You tried.

God knows you tried.

But after three nights of waking up with your spine curved like a question mark and your neck sounding like a glow stick every time you turned your head, you snapped. (Somehow all his pillows were deflated flat and soggy. His remarkable pillow is the worse one, the founder, the disease spreader)

Price, meanwhile, is sleeping like some half-naked forest bear—shirtless, sprawled on his war relic of a pillow, beard glinting like wet oak in the moonlight.

“John,” you hiss. “I swear on your beard—if I have to sleep on any more of this limp, moist rectangle one more night, I will summon God Himself to smite this pillow.”

Price rolls over, glowing in the moonlight like a Michelangelo statue who drinks whiskey and shaves with a knife, He shifts lazily, one thick arm draping over your waist, eyes half-lidded with that glint as he murmurs, voice deep and rough like thunder rolling through and just goes.

“Careful, love. That attitude’ll have you face-down ‘n beggin’ before you even touch the sheets.”

Sir. No.

Your uterus shrieked.

Your spine whimpered.

And the pillow—the goddamn pillow grinned.

The Battle Begins

You steal the pillow.

You tossed the pillow in the bin.

It crunched on the way down

You pray over its resting place like a sacrificial offering.

He came home. Sniffed the air once like a bloodhound.

He finds it. In the goddamn trash.

Washes it. Rescues it.

Holds it like a cradled child. Looks you dead in the eye and says,

“This pillow’s older than half the squad. Show some bloody respect.”

He sleeps like a WWII veteran with his hands gently gripping the corners like a parachute cord.

You’re convinced it’s not a pillow.

It’s a coping mechanism.

Eventually everyone started taking action

Soap starts a betting pool. He names it Operation Flat Bastard.

Gaz calls it Flatline. He salutes it sarcastically every time he passes the room.

Ghost adds it to a list of “Top 5 Unholy Objects I’ve Seen.” (It ranks above a haunted mask from Karachi.)

Laswell mails you a care package with six memory foam pillows. No note.

Price tries one of them once—after you begged. The next morning, he stares into space, grumbling:

“Had a vivid dream about paying council taxes. Didn’t like it.”

New plan

You surrender to fate.

But you plan.

One day, when he’s gone again, you’ll hold a funeral.

Full military honors.

You’ll bury Flatline under a crooked rock in the backyard. Light a cigar. Tap the gravestone twice. Whisper, “Rest now, soldier.”

And when he comes home?

He’ll lie down on a new pillow—one you’ve secretly been punching nightly, stomping with boots, smearing it with your cum, and ironing flat to simulate three decades of war.

He’ll grunt once.

Press his face into it. Inhales it.

And murmur:

“…Finally. Feels just right.”

[cscorvid]

i'll be his sin. he can have me on his alter.

HORNY PRIEST JOHN PRICE

breeding kink, sacrilege (?)

john joined the church after leaving the military, though he never spoke much about what led him there. some men left war and found peace in quiet towns, in family, in distance. john, meanwhile, found himself in the shadow of the cross, searching for something he couldn't name.

he knelt, prayed, studied scripture— not because he'd had a sudden divine vision, but because he’d needed something to tether himself to.

he's never been one to talk about faith in absolutes. the young priests, fresh out of seminary, speak with a certainty that makes him envious. they talk of god’s mercy like it’s a thing they’ve held in their hands, like they’ve never doubted it for a second.

john doesn’t have that luxury. his hands have held a rifle, pressed down on wounds, ended lives.

what right does he have to stand in the confessional and tell a man his sins are forgiven when his own are still heavy in his chest?

he doesn’t let it show. not when he stands before his congregation, not when he delivers the homily, and not even when he listens to the confessions of those who kneel before him.

the words come easy. “god is love. god is mercy.” he says them with the confidence of a man who believes them. perhaps if he says them enough, one day it'll drive home.

he's decently well-respected in his parish. john speaks in measured tones, and listens with the kind of patience that makes people trust him. he’s rarely if ever unkind, never raising his voice even when the children at sunday school test his patience or when the older priests debate doctrine with a stubbornness he doesn’t bother entertaining.

the congregation admires him for it.

he keeps a well-worn rosary in his pocket, fingers brushing over the beads when he’s deep in thought. it’s an old habit, one he never lost even when he stopped saying the prayers as often as he should. late at night, when he can’t sleep, he walks the empty church, the only light coming from the red glow of the tabernacle lamp.

he runs his fingers over the smooth wood of the pews, listens to the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, and exhales smoke into the dim air. it feels like a kind of penance, staying here long after everyone else has gone, keeping watch over something he’s still not sure he belongs to.

the first time you meet, it’s in the courtyard after sunday mass.

you’re new to the church. new to the neighborhood. moved in just a month ago, so he’s heard. he hadn't taken much notice at first— he rarely does. parishioners come and go, faces blending into one another over time.

but then he sees you. all wide eyes and bright smiles, the late-morning sun catching the warmth in your hair, laugh spilling out like a song. you shake hands with mrs. calloway, nod attentively as she chatters on about her garden, and there’s something about the way you tilt your head, the way your lips part in quiet amusement, that makes something ugly and raw twist in his gut.

john shouldn’t be looking. he knows he shouldn’t be looking.

and yet.

you catch sight of him, and your smile brightens, something open and eager in your face as you step forward. “father price.”

your voice is softer than he expects. sweeter. a fact not good for his health.

he nods. “you’ve settled in well, i see.”

“i have. everyone’s been so kind.” your hands clasp in front of you, fingers tangling. “i wanted to introduce myself properly. i should have done it sooner, but-” you shake your head, sheepish. “i guess i was nervous.”

nervous? of who— him?

he watches the way you glance down, the way your teeth catch the plump of your lower lip, the slight shift of your weight from foot to foot, and something slow and molten pools in his stomach.

and then, unbidden—

i want to fuck her mouth.

the thought slams into him. his fingers curl, blunt nails pressing into his palm. john's throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of his neck, shame dragging its claws down his spine.

he schools his expression, keeps his voice level. “there’s nothing to be nervous about.” a beat. his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. “i hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

your eyes meets his then. for a moment, he swears you see it. the crack in his composure, the way his restraint stretches thin around you like fraying rope.

but then you just smile again— so fucking gentle— and bid him a polite goodbye before slipping back into the crowd.

he exhales, tries to control his breathing, before turning on his heel and heading inside.

it doesn’t get better after that.

oh no. in fact, it only gets worse.

because you linger. you stay. you join the congregation, sit near the front every sunday, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your lips parted slightly in quiet reverence as you listen to the sermon. you bite your lip when you concentrate, tuck your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, shift in your seat just enough to make his mind wander places it has absolutely no right to go.

and it haunts him.

creeps into his thoughts when he thinks he's already run far away from it. slips into his head when he least expects it. a slow, insidious thing, winding around his ribs, sinking its teeth into the softest parts of him.

john finds himself getting lost in his imaginations more and more as the weeks pass by. it starts with something simple. something small.

you, in his kitchen.

the space is yours as much as it is his now— he hardly steps foot in it unless you usher him in, your hands on his arms, guiding him to sit, to rest. the scent of warm bread and roasted meat fills the house, seeping into the wooden beams, the stone walls. the windows are cracked open just enough to let the breeze in, carrying with it the scent of the fields, the distant bells of the church.

you hum as you work, a quiet little tune under your breath, flour dusting your fingers, smudging along the curve of your cheek. you’re barefoot, the hem of your dress skimming your ankles, your apron tied neatly at the back. domestic. wifely. His.

"you’re spoiling me, love."

you laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him where he sits at the table, his elbows braced against the wood, his chin resting on his hand. john hasn’t even touched the sermon notes laid out before him, hasn’t even opened the book he’d planned to read. no, his attention has been on you— watching you move, watching the light catch on your hair, watching the way you fit so perfectly in his home.

"you work too hard," you murmur, turning back to the stove. "someone has to take care of you."

the words sink into him, low and warm, wrapping around something deep in his chest.

you do take care of him.

you set a plate before him, still warm from your hands, and press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips soft against his hair.

you fold his robes neatly after they’ve dried in the sun, pressing your hands over the fabric like a prayer. you pluck a stray thread from his collar before mass, your fingers deft and careful, your brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

you brush his hair back from his forehead when he sits too long at his desk, rubbing slow circles at his temple, your fingers easing away the weight of his work.

and in the evenings, after the dishes have been washed and the fire burns low, you climb into his lap with a soft sigh, tucking yourself against his chest.

"long day?" you ask, your fingers smoothing over the front of his shirt.

"mm." john presses a kiss to your hair, lets his hands settle at your waist, palms warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress. "better now."

and it is better, with you here, with your warmth seeping into his, your breath brushing his throat.

he wants all of it. the soft, easy domesticity. the routine of waking to you curled beside him, of pressing sleepy kisses to your bare shoulder before dragging himself out of bed. of watching you move through his home with the comfort of a woman who belongs there.

and, god help him—

john wants to fuck you too.

until you leaked him, until his seed dripped down your thighs, making a mess of soft, perfect skin. wants to bend you over his desk, press your face into the worn wood, break you open on his cock until you sobbed for him, begged him to fill you. he’d grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

he wants to whisper filth into your ear, his breath hot— gonna fill you up, love. gonna fuck you so full of me you’ll be dripping for days. you want that, don’t you? want me to breed you like the needy little thing you are?

he wants to press his fingers into your mouth, make you suck them clean before shoving them between your legs, fucking them into the soft clutch of your pussy until you cried for him.

and when he finally sinks his swollen cock inside you— he’d make you feel it.

john wants to fuck you raw, grind his hips against yours, keep you pinned beneath his weight, stuffed full of his cock. he’d press a hand to your belly, feel himself inside you, make you watch as you take a cock too big for you.

and when he’d spill inside you he wouldn't stop. oh no— he’d fuck it deeper, press his fingers to your swollen clit, make you come with him, make your body take every last drop of his seed.

because he wouldn't just fill you. he’d breed you. over and over, until you couldn't keep yourself up, too boneless to thrust back into him, too full to take any more.

but he was a man of god.

and men of god did not shove their sweet, willing parishioners over their desks, did not drag their teeth down soft skin, did not slap needy little cunts until they were wet and dripping.

they did not fuck desperate little things in church pews, in quiet confessionals, did not fist their hands in soft hair and shove pretty mouths onto their cocks, did not whisper filth between gasped-out prayers.

they did not spend their nights with their heads buried between trembling thighs, devouring the taste of sin, holding squirming bodies still as they licked deep, sucked hard, forced sweet, innocent things to come against their tongues.

they did not rut into them like beasts, gripping soft wrists, pinning them down, owning them with every brutal thrust. they did not press their hands to swollen bellies, fill their women over and over until their bodies were wrecked, too full of come to take another drop.

men of god did not fuck.

but god forgive him, he would.

all those thoughts come to this moment, this night—

john finds himself alone under the dim glow of candlelight, sitting on the pews, head tilted to the cross.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, like penance for the filth curdling in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks, far too loud in the sacred silence, but he doesn’t stop.

can’t.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale feels like it scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, as though the very air is punishing him for the thoughts festering in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks softly in the quiet, a sound far too loud in the sanctity of this space.

the leather gives way, and his cassock feels suffocating now, the fabric too heavy against skin flushed with heat. his fingers slip lower, dragging the waistband of his pants down his hips with shaky, desperate movements until he’s free— finally free— from the painful confines of his underwear.

his cock springs forward, already hard in his hand, flushed dark at the tip, the skin tight and aching. a bead of precum glistens there, catching in the flicker of candlelight like something obscene in the house of god. he wraps his hand around the base, his grip firm but not enough to ease the pressure coiled in his gut. the heat of his palm sends a shudder rolling down his spine, breath hitching as his thumb swipes over the sensitive head, smearing the slick wetness down the length.

his cock is long, veins pulsing along the shaft, the kind of thick that demands attention. his foreskin still covers the swollen head, slick with the evidence of his own arousal, precum smearing against the soft skin of his lower stomach. he hisses through his teeth as he wraps his hand around the base, fingers barely closing around the girth, feeling the steady throb of blood pulsing beneath his grip.

his balls hang full and tight, pulled close with need, the skin sensitive to the faintest brush of fabric. every movement is torment, the soft rub of his cassock against his bare thighs sending a shudder through him, making his hips jerk forward, seeking relief.

he strokes himself slowly, dragging his foreskin back to expose the flushed, leaking head, then rolling it forward again, savoring the sensitivity. his thumb swipes through the slick wetness pooling at the tip, smearing it down the length, adding just enough glide to make his fist slip easier over his cock.

his grip tightens, dragging the pleasure out like a prayer he’s too ashamed to speak aloud. the church is silent around him, the air thick with the scent of burning wax and old stone, but all he can think about is you.

on your knees before him.

john sees it so clearly, feels it like it’s already happened. the way you’d sink down, your eyes looking up at him through thick lashes, expectant. your soft lips parted just enough for your tongue to wet them before stretching around his cock. the thought makes his stomach clench, his fingers twitching as he strokes himself tighter, his foreskin gliding over the swollen head before he pulls it back again.

you wouldn’t be able to take all of him at once. he knows that much. He’s too thick, too long— your jaw would ache just trying, your tongue pressing firm against the heavy weight of him, struggling to make space. the first inch would be easy, maybe even the second. but when he pushes deeper, when his tip nudges the back of your throat and you gag, just a little, he knows he’d lose whatever control he has left.

he swears he can see it— your fingers curling against his thighs, the little choked noise you’d make when he holds you there, when his cock throbs against your tongue. your throat would flutter, swallowing around him, trying to adjust to the stretch. and oh, god, the way your lips would look wrapped around him, swollen with abuse and slick with spit and precum. john nearly loses himself at the image alone.

his hips jerk forward into his own grip, chasing the fantasy, breath coming through the vaulted ceilings of the church. he’d guide you through it, hand buried in your hair, tilting your head just the way he likes. gentle, at first. Letting you set the pace. But then when you get too comfortable, when you start to tease, pulling back just to trail soft kisses along his length— he’d snap.

he’d pull you down, bury himself deep in the hot sleeve of your mouth until your throat clenched around him and you whimpered against his balls. his other hand would cup your jaw, feeling the bulge of himself pressing against your cheek, watching as tears bead at the corners of your eyes, shuddering from the effort of taking him.

he wonders if you’d try to pull away, fingers gripping his thighs in a silent plea. would you struggle? would you whine? would you let him break you like this?

john groans, his grip tightening almost painfully. he pumps himself faster now, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the empty church. his balls are drawn tight, aching with the need to spill, and in his mind, he’s not coming into his own palm.

he’s coming down your throat.

you’d swallow, wouldn’t you? just for him. he can see it— his cum thick on your tongue, your lips parting to show him before you close your mouth and swallow it down. maybe a little would escape, dripping down your chin, and he’d swipe his thumb through it, pressing it back to your lips.

“messy thing,” he’d murmur. “but you took it so well.”

the thought sends him over the edge.

his hips stutter, cock jerking in his grip as his orgasm crashes over him, hot and sudden. cum spills over his knuckles, , dripping onto the cold stone beneath him. his breath comes in harsh, broken gasps, his thighs trembling as he rides out the aftershocks, his vision hazy with the force of his release.

and when it’s over— when he finally stills, his body spent, his mind heavy with guilt— he drags his gaze upward.

The cross looms above him, watching.

if this is damnation, he’ll sin again.

[cscorvid]

im back and im back with Simon who deals weed

plug!simon who only responds to customers with a ‘👍’ and ‘outside’. makes them meet him halfway and doesn’t respond past a certain time unless you’re really making it worth his while. ballied up face, stone eyes striking a nervousness in every new customer. his regulars know he’s reliable and his shit is good

but then you pick up from him for the first time and suddenly he forgets his whole code of conduct. pretty thing picking up a few grams of weed to ‘help you sleep’

gives you the number he only gives to his most trusted number, dwarfing your phone in his giant hand as he taps a ghost emoji into the contact name (bc you’re pretty but he’s still a criminal babes) tells you to message him again here if you want more from him

drops you right where you request, different to his usual routine of dropping customers off on some random street to avoid the feds

actually responds to your messages with words

‘what do you need luv?” when you message at three in the morning

“downstairs darlin, don’t bring a jacket I’ll drop you back” when he arrives ten minutes later instead of just showing up when he feels like it, if he feels like it

if you actually weighed your stuff, you’d see he actually gave you more than what you ordered. don’t forget the samples of his new strains that he gave you, shoving the extra cash you tried to give him back into your hands

tattooed arm resting over the back of the passenger seat when he reverses out of wherever he picked you up, his aftershave heavy on your nostrils

[cscorvid]

Nikolai in that weird mafia alcoholic pose idk

[cscorvid]

Messaging people for the first time is so hard. What am I supposed to say? Like, "You seem really odd and your blog intrigues me. Do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters?" What! Whatever. I will just follow you back and stare at your blog with my big beautiful brown eyes.

[cscorvid]

Ooo thank you! What about if Johnny and Reader has to babysit, sprung on them out of nowhere. Maybe Captain’s toddler or baby? They’re frazzled but pull through just peachy. 😍 There are some hilarious mishaps though feat. precocious child thoughts that got them thinking of having a bairn of their own. Reader teases that Johnny needs to give her a ring first.

Week of leave

AFAB !Reader x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

You and Johnny were all set to head off for a proper week of leave — no drills, no alarms, no MREs. Just the two of you, a rental car, and plans to do absolutely nothing productive.

You were finishing up paperwork in the common room when Captain Price walked in, his little girl balanced on one hip, holding a worn elephant plush by the ear. She was looking around with sleepy curiosity, thumb in her mouth.

“Hey, Cap,” you greeted, raising an eyebrow.

“Got a favor to ask,” Price said and came straight up to you. His voice dropped to the kind of tone he usually reserved for classified ops. “I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option — but my sitter bailed, and I’ve got to be on a flight in two hours.”

You glanced between him and the toddler, already half-suspecting where this was going.

“She’s comfortable with you,” he said. “And you’ve got good instincts. More mature than most on base.”

There was a pause. Then, like an afterthought, he added, “MacTavish’ll be with you, right?”

Johnny, who had just walked in with a bag of chips and a look of betrayal, sputtered. “You sayin’ I’m not mature?”

Price gave him a flat look. “You once duct-taped a GoPro to a pigeon, Johnny.”

“That was science, mate.”

You bit back a laugh and looked down at the little girl, who was now trying to poke her tiny fingers into Johnny’s tactical boot.

“She’s good,” Price said softly. “Sweet. Just needs someone to keep her safe for a couple days while I’m out.”

You exhaled. “Yeah. We can do it.”

The next few days were a delightful disaster.

You’d been tackled at 6 a.m. by a giggling blur in dinosaur pajamas. Johnny had discovered that she would cry every time he stopped reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar — so he’d read it seven times in one morning. The living room was a graveyard of half-chewed snacks, scattered crayons, and one suspiciously sticky throw pillow.

At night, after she finally passed out in her makeshift cot, you and Johnny would collapse on the couch, exhausted but kind of glowing.

One evening, Johnny watched her sleep, arms tucked under her chin, that elephant plush beside her.

“She’s a handful,” he said quietly. “But she’s… I dunno. Makes things feel real.”

You looked over, heart thudding.

“She called me ‘MacFish’ again today,” he added after a beat.

“She likes you,” you said, smiling. “She trusts you.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I get why Price picked you, know. You’ve got this… steadiness about you. Like you already know what you’re doing.”

You tilted your head. “And what about you?”

He shrugged, then glanced at you. “I think I’d figure it out — if you were figuring it out with me.”

You smiled at that, but something in his voice made your stomach flip. It wasn’t a joke. Not this time.

You both fell quiet, watching the rise and fall of the toddler’s breathing, the peace of it — the weird, warm glow of the moment. For the first time, it wasn’t just funny or chaotic or sweet.

It felt... possible.

“You ever think about it?” he asked softly.

You blinked. “About what?”

“Having one. A kid.” He cleared his throat. “A family. With me.”

Your heart stuttered. He wasn’t looking at you, but you could tell he meant it — not some flippant joke or playful nudge. He was serious. Nervous, even.

“Yeah,” you said after a moment. “I do.”

He turned to look at you then — really looked — and you saw it: the hope. The longing. The love.

You reached over and took his hand. “But if we’re doing the whole family thing,” you teased gently, “you better start thinking about rings.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

Outside, the world was quiet. Inside, between the two of you, something new had quietly taken root — a future that felt more real than ever.

[cscorvid]

Three's a Pack

Pairing: Switch!Soap x Dom!Ghost x Sub/Pet!Reader (afab genitals, gn terms) Warnings: Pet play, D/s dynamic, degradation/praise kink, oral (reader receiving), leashing, collaring, marking, roughness, soft aftercare, use of “pet,” “good girl/boy/pup,” reader has a tail plug, minor possessiveness/jealousy themes, reader on all fours at times, use of muzzle (optional imagery), slight exhibitionism if you squint.

You knew what kind of night it would be the moment Ghost snapped the collar around your neck.

Thick leather, snug beneath your chin, the weight of the leash coiled in his fist. The cool drag of metal rings down your chest where he let it dangle, teasing you with its promise. Your knees hit the floor like instinct. Obedience wasn't just expected, it was demanded.

"That’s it," Ghost’s voice dropped, calm and lethal. "On your knees for your masters."

Soap leaned in behind you with a crooked grin, shirt already discarded, sweat shining at his collarbone. His hands smoothed over your sides, rough callouses tracing your ribs, hips, the small curve of your belly. He was the heat, the hunger, the ache between Ghost's steady dominance and your crumbling submission.

"Fuck, you're already panting." Soap chuckled, nipping at your shoulder. "Haven’t even touched that needy cunt yet, and you're droolin’ like a mutt in heat."

Ghost chuckled darkly behind the black of his mask, boot nudging between your knees to spread you wider. “They are in heat. Look at them, tail plug twitchin’, thighs stickin’ together. All that for us?”

You whimpered. You couldn’t help it. You were wet, the plug shifting with every movement, furred tail flicking behind you. The sensation kept you grounded, reminded you what you were tonight: their pretty little pet.

Ghost crouched in front of you, gloved fingers gripping your chin. “Speak.”

“Y-Yes, sir. It’s for you.”

His eyes crinkled with amusement above the mask. “You gonna be a good pup tonight?”

You nodded frantically.

“Use your words,” he snapped, a slap to your cheek not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make your mouth fall open.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be your good pup. I promise.”

“Atta thing,” Soap purred, sliding down to straddle your thighs from behind. You felt the weight of his cock hard against your ass, the way his fingers traced the base of the plug. “Want me to pull this out, Ghost? Get a look at what our pet’s been hiding?”

Ghost ran a thumb along your lower lip. “Not yet. They haven’t earned it.”

A low growl escaped Soap, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned forward, nuzzling behind your ear. “Guess we gotta break 'em in first, yeah?”

You whimpered again, arching your back, pressing your ass against Soap’s pelvis. You were desperate, already dripping. But Ghost wasn’t finished making you beg.

“On all fours,” he ordered, and you obeyed instantly.

The leash snapped taut as you moved, neck pulled back just enough to remind you who owned you. Your thighs trembled as you spread them wide, ass up, muzzle down, the way they liked. Soap hummed approvingly, kneeling behind you while Ghost stood and stepped back to watch.

“Look at that,” Ghost drawled. “Our perfect little bitch.”

Soap leaned down to bite your shoulder, not hard, just enough to make you squeak. “Bet they’d cum from just bein’ watched, the filthy thing.”

Your breath stuttered when Soap’s fingers dipped between your legs, gathering slick and spreading it over your folds. His voice was low, laced with awe and cruelty in equal measure. “You’re soaked. Bet this pussy’s been beggin’ for us all fuckin’ day.”

You moaned, hips pushing back, trying to grind down on him.

“Nuh-uh,” Ghost warned. “Pets don’t fuck back.”

A sharp tug on the leash made your throat tighten. You froze.

“Sorry, sir,” you gasped.

Soap grinned. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

He slid two fingers inside you slowly, curling them to find that spot that made your legs shake. “God, you’re squeezin’ me so tight already. You close, pet?”

You nodded, whining, body strung tight with need.

“Hold it,” Ghost ordered.

You whimpered, shaking under the weight of your denied orgasm, fingers digging into the floor. Every muscle in your body burned, desperate for release.

Soap licked a stripe up your spine, then laughed. “They’re shakin’ already.”

Ghost crouched again in front of you, tugging the leash until your eyes met his. “Do you want to cum?”

“Yes, sir. Please.”

“You wanna cum like a good pet? Be fucked full and marked?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes, sir. Please—please mark me.”

Ghost’s hand wrapped around your throat, holding you there while Soap removed the plug. You cried out at the sudden emptiness, the way the stretch left you hollow and aching.

Ghost leaned close, voice low. “Then beg for it.”

You broke.

“Please fuck me, please fill me up, I need it—I need to be used, need your cum, please—”

Soap growled behind you, and you felt the blunt press of his cock at your entrance. “Fuckin’ hell, Ghost, they’re beggin’ like a bitch in heat.”

Ghost didn’t respond. He just held your gaze and said, “Take them.”

And Soap did.

He pushed inside with a groan, thick and hot, stretching you open until your arms gave out and you collapsed onto your elbows. You keened, body spasming, tears welling in your eyes from the stretch and the fullness.

“Goddamn,” Soap hissed. “So fuckin’ tight around me. You’re squeezin’ like your cunt knows who owns it.”

Ghost let the leash go slack, walking behind you now, watching as Soap started to thrust. Slow at first. Measured. But it didn’t stay that way.

Soap was feral, grunting and snarling above you, one hand on your hip, the other slapping your ass until you sobbed. “So loud, pet. So fuckin’ messy.”

Your body jolted with every thrust, slick dripping down your thighs, tail bouncing with the force of it. You were half-conscious from the pleasure, only kept tethered to the world by the sound of their voices and the cruel burn of your denial.

Ghost knelt beside you, stroking your face, brushing tears from your cheeks. “You want my cock too?”

You nodded, sobbing.

“You think you can take both?”

“I can,” you gasped. “Please, sir, I can.”

Soap’s rhythm didn’t falter when Ghost moved in front of you, unzipping his pants, guiding his cock to your mouth. “Open.”

You obeyed, lips parted, tongue out.

Ghost slid in slow, letting you feel the weight of him on your tongue. “No teeth, pet. Show me how well you can take it.”

You choked as he pushed deeper, eyes rolling back. Behind you, Soap grabbed your hair, using it to brace himself as he rutted into you harder. You were caught between them, body bouncing, spit dripping down your chin, and you couldn’t stop the whimpers that filled the room.

It was overwhelming. The pressure. The stretch. The sounds of their pleasure, the slap of skin on skin, the choked praise and filth that poured from their mouths like molten gold.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” Soap growled. “Like a real fuckin’ pet.”

Ghost groaned as you hollowed your cheeks around him. “Such a good little whore. Look at them, Johnny. Taking both cocks like they were made for it.”

You moaned around him, throat spasming as you tried not to gag. You loved it. Every second of it.

Soap’s thrusts turned erratic. “Gonna cum—fuck, Ghost, I’m gonna fill them up.”

“Do it,” Ghost commanded, voice strained. “Cum in our pet.”

Soap roared as he slammed in deep, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you. The heat filled you instantly, triggering your own release. You screamed around Ghost’s cock, legs giving out entirely, body shaking as the orgasm tore through you.

Ghost growled above you, fucking your throat a little harder now that you were distracted, but he didn’t push you far, he always knew your limits. He came with a low groan, spilling down your throat, hand tangled in your hair.

They didn’t move for a long moment. Just breathing. Letting you twitch and shake between them.

Then Ghost pulled out, cradling your jaw, making sure you swallowed.

“Good pet.”

Soap collapsed beside you, panting. “Fuckin’ hell.”

You lay trembling, utterly wrecked.

Ghost was the first to move, pulling you gently up into his lap, wrapping a blanket around you. Soap joined moments later, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your shoulders, your collar.

They cleaned you up together, hands soft and quiet, voices low murmurs of praise.

“You were perfect,” Soap whispered.

“So good for us,” Ghost said, brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead.

You curled into them, tail flicking lazily behind you, leash still hanging, collar snug.

You were theirs. Marked. Loved. Owned.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[cscorvid]

Permission to Burn

Pairing: John Price x gn!afab!Reader x Johnny “Soap” MacTavish Tags: cuckolding, voyeurism, light angst, dirty talk, established relationship, consent, reader insecurity, alcohol mention, dom!Price, playful!Soap, inexperience kink, soft degradation, praise kink, aftercare

It starts with the whiskey. Or maybe it starts with the look Johnny throws across the table, lip curled in a grin, tongue tucked behind his teeth like he knows something you don’t.

You laugh too fast at a joke you didn’t hear.

Price watches. Always watching.

It’s not often 141 goes out, but after a successful mission and a string of good luck, Laswell insisted they deserve to celebrate. Someone booked out a low-key club just outside base, private enough to keep the uniforms quiet and the music loud.

You’re tucked beside Price on the plush couch in the VIP section, the scent of cigar smoke and leather thick around you. His arm is heavy over your shoulder. Protective. Comforting. But tonight, that possessiveness is tempered with something else, something older and hungrier that has you squirming in your seat before anyone’s even touched you.

Maybe it’s the heat of Soap’s gaze. Maybe it’s the way Price leans in and murmurs, “You alright, love?” in that low, gravel-thick voice when your thighs rub together for the fifth time in as many minutes.

You nod, biting your lip. But he sees you. You’ve never been able to hide from him.

He pulls you in, hand sliding low over your spine. You feel the weight of his lips near your ear.

“Been watchin’ you fidget. You wet, bird?”

Your breath stutters. “Johnny’s… flirty.”

Price hums. “He’s always flirty.”

“I know, it’s just—” You hesitate. “He’s… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You hate how small your voice sounds. You’re not a virgin, but compared to John Price, seasoned, confident, devastatingly in control, you feel like a match next to wildfire. Johnny makes you laugh, makes you blush, but you’ve never let yourself think beyond that. Not seriously.

Price’s fingers skim your hip. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him?”

Your heart kicks up.

“I… haven’t—”

He chuckles darkly. “You have. You just didn’t know you had permission.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“P-permission?”

He shifts, cupping your jaw to make you face him. His eyes are blue steel under the club lights. “You’re mine. But I know you want more. I want you to have it. Let me watch while he breaks you in a little. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

The whimper that slips out of you isn’t intentional. Price grins like the devil himself and presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Go on, then. Go ask him.”

Your stomach flips. You turn slowly, finding Johnny mid-laugh, beer bottle dangling from one tattooed hand. As if he feels you looking, he glances your way, then blinks when he sees you standing in front of him.

“Hey, bonnie,” he says, smiling. “You alright?”

You don’t answer with words. Just reach for his hand and lead him to the private lounge behind the VIP section.

Johnny’s brows raise. “Is this—”

“Price said I could.”

He stops. “Price… what?”

You glance over your shoulder. “He wants to watch.”

Johnny’s quiet for a beat. Then...“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

But he’s grinning. That manic glint in his eye lights up, and he follows you the rest of the way like a dog off-leash.

Inside, Price takes a seat on the long leather chaise. Spreads his legs. Lights a cigar like it’s just another briefing. Like this is normal.

You’re already trembling when Johnny pulls you in close.

“He always this generous?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Just don’t tease me.”

Johnny smirks. “No promises.”

Clothes are a blur. His mouth is fire. He kisses you like he’s wanted to for years, hands rough on your hips as he walks you back toward the wall. You moan into him, and somewhere behind the haze of your arousal, you hear Price’s low voice:

“Nice and slow, Johnny. Don’t wanna ruin ’em.”

Johnny groans. “Fuckin’ hell, this is surreal.”

He drops to his knees.

Your thighs shake as he licks into you, fast and wet and filthy. He moans into your cunt like he means it, eating you out with no patience. Fingers digging into your hips to hold you steady while your knees threaten to buckle.

Price watches with his jaw tight. You can feel the heat of his stare.

“There you go, bird,” he rumbles. “Ride his tongue. That’s it. Let him learn what you sound like.”

Johnny chuckles against you. “Didn’t know you were such a fuckin’ tease, Cap.”

Price blows a slow stream of smoke. “Didn’t know you were such a good dog.”

You gasp, clenching around nothing.

Johnny grins. “They like that.”

And he goes back in.

When he finally stands and shoves his jeans down, your eyes go wide. He’s thick, flushed dark, already slick with precome. You falter, unsure, nerves flaring. He must see it in your face, because his hand cups your cheek.

“Hey,” he says, soft for once. “We go slow. We stop if you say so. Alright?”

You nod.

Price leans forward. “Use ’em right, MacTavish.”

Johnny pushes in slow. You stretch around him inch by inch, biting your lip so hard you taste blood. You don’t look away from Price. His eyes burn into yours, his fist curled tight around his cock, slowly stroking as he watches you get filled.

“Goddamn,” Johnny groans. “So fuckin’ tight. You sure you’re not a virgin?”

You squeak a laugh. “Feels like it.”

“That’s alright,” Price says. “Johnny’ll help with that.”

Johnny fucks you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, but it’s Price’s voice that keeps you grounded. He praises you between growls, talking you through every thrust.

“Look at you. My sweet thing takin’ cock so well. Didn’t know you had this in you.”

You whimper. “I wanna be good—”

“You are, bird. You’re perfect. Look how desperate you are, fuckin’ yourself on his cock just for me.”

Johnny’s panting, hand gripping your waist tight.

“Fuck, Cap, if you keep talkin’ like that I’m gonna blow—”

Price hums. “Not inside.”

Johnny pulls out and finishes over your stomach, chest heaving, curses falling like rain.

You’re gasping, legs trembling. It’s messy and overwhelming and so, so much, but when Price pulls you into his lap and kisses your temple, you melt against him like you’ve come home.

He murmurs, “You did so well for me, bird,” and you finally let yourself cry.

Not from pain. Not even from pleasure.

But from love. And the way he lets you be everything, sweet and filthy, insecure and wanted. A little less inexperienced. A little more his.

And God help you, you want more.

[cscorvid]

Manhandled (18+)

GN!Reader x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish Day 29: Manhandling with Soap

Soap’s eyes dragged down your body, his hands following, strong and sure. He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your thighs, pulled you to the edge of the bed like you weighed nothing, then spread your legs wide with a roughness that made it clear: this wasn’t a request.

“You know how long I’ve waited for this?” he said, hands gripping your hips tight, fingers digging into your skin. “How long I’ve thought about having you like this — laid out, mine?”

You could barely answer — your breath was stuck somewhere between a gasp and a moan. His body was pressed between your legs now, heavy and hot, and his hands were everywhere — sliding down your sides, gripping, dragging, claiming.

There was no hesitation in him. No second-guessing. Just heat, and you — completely at his mercy.

Soap’s hands gripped your hips so tight you knew you’d feel it tomorrow — and you wanted to.

“Say it,” he growled, voice low, breath heavy. He ground down against you slowly, deliberately, with just enough pressure to make your back arch. “Tell me you want this.”

Your fingers twisted in the sheets, head tilted back. “Yes,” you breathed, eyes locking with his. “Please.”

That was all he needed.

He let out a low curse under his breath, then hooked his arms under your thighs and pulled you flush against him. Your body jolted from the strength of it — no warning, no gentleness. Just pure, hungry force.

You barely had time to process before he was inside you, filling you completely with one deep, claiming thrust. Your mouth fell open, no sound coming out at first — just the sensation of being taken, fully and without hesitation.

“Fucking hell,” Soap muttered, voice strained, hands bracing on either side of your hips as he started moving. He didn’t ease into it. He took — fast, hard, and rough — the bed frame knocking rhythmically against the wall with every powerful thrust.

You held on for dear life, hands fisting in the sheets, legs shaking where he held them up. He was relentless, his body slamming into yours over and over, hips snapping with precision. Each thrust knocked the air out of you, leaving you breathless and gasping his name.

“Look at you,” he growled, leaning down, chest pressing into yours. One hand slid up your side, pinning your wrists above your head hard. “Taking me so damn well.” Your breath hitched, a moan catching in your throat. “Don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

He shifted, changed his angle — deeper, harder — and your whole body reacted. Your back arched, eyes fluttering shut, the pleasure flooding through you too fast, too much. You felt wrecked and used, and you couldn’t get enough of it.

Soap’s pace stayed brutal, his grip on your wrists tightening just enough to remind you who was in control. You could feel how close he was — every muscle in his body tight, jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temples.

“You’re mine,” he muttered, his voice low and desperate now. “You fucking know that, don’t you?”

You nodded, the only sound coming out a broken, blissed-out “Yes—God, yes.”

And he pushed you straight over the edge.