saeish

[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.

[saeish]

Thinking about Simon accidentally scaring the shit out of reader who has never seen him in his mask/gear

Simon has done everything he can to separate his home from his work. He can’t let you see the side of him that they call Ghost.

It’s around 10:30pm when you first hear something in the kitchen. You’re reading your most recent book in bed when your ears pick up the quiet *thump* across the house.

You ignore it at first. It’s probably just the foundations of the old house settling, or maybe even a book falling over in Simon’s study. As it’s not unusual to hear small noises at night, you pay it no mind as you go about your business, locating the right spot on your page.

It’s not until you hear the third thump when you become suspicious of the strange noises. You bookmark your page and roll out of bed, padding over to your bedroom door to investigate the noise. It’s probably a fox outside trying to get in the rubbish, or maybe a branch hitting a window.

As soon as you open your door, you notice a soft glow coming from down the hallway. Strange, you must’ve forgotten to turn off the kitchen light. No biggie, it happens every now and then.

As you turn the corner to the living room/kitchen space, you stop dead in your tracks as you stare at the large figure behind the kitchen counter.

No. No, no no. This can’t be happening. Fuck, who is this? How’d he get in?

You gasp as you step back, bumping into the wall. The figure quickly turns around right before you run back down the hallway.

“Shit-“ you hear the voice in the kitchen curse as he thumps after you. He calls your name right as you trip on the carpet. How the fuck does he know your name?

You scramble on the floor, pressing yourself up against a wall and shutting your eyes. Fuck this is it. This is what Simon warned you about. He’s going to take you and torture you for information and you couldn’t even get to Simon’s gun in the study in time.

He turns the corner, calling your name again.

“No, no please! I don’t-“

“Love! It’s me! It’s me.” He cradles your face, forcing you to look towards him. You thrash, turning your face away from the man. “Look, look at me.” He says softly, trying to calm you down.

You know that voice. Slowly, you open your eyes to see him kneeling in front of you on the floor. You know those eyes.

“Simon?” You breathe softly, scanning the hard shell of his skull mask.

“Yeah, love. It’s just me. I’m here.” He slips off his mask, wiping away a stray tear that falls from your eye. You look into his brown eyes. Tired, concerned and filled with guilt. There’s some kind of black makeup smeared around them.

You catch your breath, taking in the sight before you as you scan his face. “Simon, what the fuck!?”

“I know, I know I’m sorry, love. I came straight from work. I wanted to… I forgot…” He struggles to find the words, glancing at his mask on the floor.

How could you have known that was him? That mask brings out the fear in hundreds of trained military men every day. That mask haunts their dreams, a powerful death omen that’s the last thing most see before they die. If they’re lucky enough to live, they warn their comrades about the skull. The Ghost…

Of course you’re terrified. This mask is designed to scare. And yet here he is late at night waltzing into your dark kitchen, donning not only the mask, but in full tactical gear as well. How fucking stupid could he be?

“I didn’t mean to scare you, gorgeous. I’m so sorry.” He strokes your hair.

Fuck, he can’t have you being scared of him. Not ever. Not after how he’s seen his mother cower in the very presence of his father every day of his life.

“You’ll never have to see that again, I promise, Love. I promise.” He whispers.

“It’s okay.” You chuckle. “You’re home early.” You point out as you card your hand through his messy blonde hair.

“That I am. Come on, let’s go take a shower and go to bed, yeah?” He rubs his nose against yours, causing you to giggle as he squeezes you tight. Oh how he’s missed that noise.

—

(I’m tired and not too proud of this one but here you go🫠)

[saeish]

he can feel your stares. he's been in the military his whole life, ofc he's hyperaware of his surroundings. but he also knows why his lovely wife is gulping everytime his biceps flex, he tracks your cycle because ofc he does, how else will he know how to take care of you and your physical and emotional needs otherwise. knows you're ovulating and decides to be a lil shit about it. not his fault darling, he's just helping you around the house, it's just too hot for him to wear a shirt darling, (he loves the way you're so obsessed with his body). for someone who has been insecure of his scars his whole life your eyes and attention make him love them too.

and when you finally have enough of his teasing, he's matching your fervor. letting you take whatever you need, he, your husband, aims to please darling.