sgtslut69 - Tumblr blog

sgtslut69 · 9 days ago

Text

imagine your ex-boyfriend being so annoying, spamming your phone, and randomly showing up at your apartment, begging you to give him yet another chance.

at first, you felt pity for the guy.

even thought of letting him in a couple of times.

you didn't, but the guilt that gnawed at your throat nearly became too much to bare.

your hand drifted eerily close to the handle as you heard his pleas through your door.

the only thing that made you come back to reality was the pounding of a broom stick on the floor beneath, shouting for the man to shut the fuck up.

that was some days ago, but now, instead of feeling pity or guilt, you’re starting to feel just plain creeped out.

scared he might act on impulse and break into your apartment in the depths of the night.

you're sleeping has taken a plummet, even with a knife by your bed, nothing seems to coax you into relaxation.

that is, until you have the brilliant idea to go next door to your tall, scary, military neighbor, who goes by simon.

you don't know his last name; hell you barely knew his first.

the only reason you knew it was because you heard some girl he brought home moan it through your thin connecting walls.

you felt guilty as you pulled out your small vibrator, goading your sweet release as you heard him groan and curse with every harsh thrust.

even the guilt that swirled in your stomach couldn’t take away the guttural effects he was having on your body, even from so far away.

you ducked your head, avoiding his gaze from then on, until one day, while having trouble unlocking your apartment door, he trudged to your door after examining you for a moment, gently scooting you away and fixing it right before your eyes.

you claimed he was a magician.

he chuckled, deep and gruff, before his name fell off his tongue in greeting, making your thighs clench together.

you hurriedly introduced yourself, before rushing into your apartment, shutting the door behind you, and sinking onto the ground with a deep sigh and hot skin.

pathetic, really.

but, he didn't mind.

he thought you were cute—odd but cute—and you brought him cookies the next day as a thank you, so how could he think ill of you?

so if anyone could help you, it was simon.

“hey, neighbor,” you greet him when he opens the door. he is wearing a simple black long sleeve shirt and dark cargo pants.

he nods towards you. “hello.”

you smile brightly at him, somewhat forgetting your dilemma.

he tilts his head to the side, quipping a brow. “any particular reason you’re here?” he asks, voice rough as always.

you rock on your heels, fidgeting with your fingers. “i need your help.”

he leans against the doorframe. “go on.”

“i’m sure you’ve heard that guy that comes around,” you start, watching his squinted eyes.

“who hasn’t? that bastard is always here,” he says gruffly.

“he’s my ex,” you admit, cringing.

simon stiffens, eyes opening wider slightly.

“he’s, uh… become an issue. he won’t leave me alone, and i’m scared he’s going to break into my apartment while i’m sleeping,” you say, shaking your head, the tension in your voice evident.

“he’s not going to do that,” he shrugs.

your eyes widen at his dismissal, feeling slightly hurt. “how do you know?”

he turns to grab a backpack off a hook beside him. “because i’ll be there. won’t let him through the door,” he casually mutters as he steps out of his apartment, closing it behind him.

you feel a flutter in your stomach at his taking on the role of your protector so quickly—no enticement necessary.

“i really appreciate it, simon.” your voice is full of gratitude.

“don’t mention it, sweetheart,” he shakes his head, heading towards your door. “key?” he asks, reaching for your painted key hanging around your neck.

you hurriedly lean forward, mind completely fogging at the endearment.

his lip quips as he tugs the key up and over your head to unlock the door.

once he unlocks the door, he pushes the door wide open, stepping aside for you to go in first.

“and they say chivalry is dead,” you can’t help but joke as you slip in, a teasing glint in your eye.

he matches your humorous smile with one of his own. “do they? hadn’t heard that,” he murmurs, closing the door as he steps in.

you spin your head away from his gaze, opting to stare at a lonesome flower pot with a dumb grin on your face.

the next two hours are spent lazing until you find yourself on the cushion right next to simon on the couch as he occasionally glanced at the door, while you picked and prodded at reality show stars on the television screen.

But you and simon both stiffen when you hear the familiar hard knock on the front door, followed by a strained male voice pleading.

you look at simon who's already stalking over to the door; you uncross your legs and walk behind him.

with annoyance, simon pulls open the door, and you see your ex’s face whiten and his body sag at the sight. “can we help you?” simon gruffs, cocking a brow at his pathetic demeanor.

your ex stammers, stumbling over his words as he looks between you and simon. “who the fuck are you?” your ex demands, though not daring to try and overpower simon because simon easily has fifty pounds and eight inches over him.

simon crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging bigger as he does so. “you should lose this address,” he urges, voice so gruff and commanding it sends shivers down your spine. “i don’t take too kindly to guys stalking my girlfriend,” he says with an ease that makes you lick your drying lips.

“girlfriend?” your ex chokes out, unable to comprehend what he is hearing.

“that’s what i said, isn’t it?” simon almost sounds disinterested.

your ex’s eyes wander to you. “you're dating this guy?” he almost sounds hurt.

you shift under his gaze, feeling awkward.

“don't talk to her. talk to me,” simon interjected, feeling your unease.

“you can’t—you aren’t dating,” your ex begins, narrowing his eyes. “you’re just doing this to make me jealous, aren’t you?” there is venom behind his words that pisses simon off.

simon’s lips flatline, and just as you go to speak, simon turns his head, hand coming to cup your jaw to kiss you deeply, possessively.

your ex releases a short breath as the sight.

simon’s tongue moves across to skim your teeth, making you whine into his mouth, as his fingers tangle in your hair for deeper contact.

you shallow a whimper of protest as simon pulls back, enjoying the sight of your ex so shell shocked.

simon tilts his head forward, looking into his eyes intently. “this is my girl, and if i find out you’ve been botherin’ her, i’ll make you a dead man. you hear me?” his voice is so lethal it makes you squirm, but in a completely different way than your ex.

your ex’s eyes look like saucers as he nods his head fervently.

“good choice. now leave,” simon instructs.

without another word, your ex spins on his heels, looking like a hurt lamb as he leaves the complex.

simon lets out a dry laugh as he shuts the door behind him.

“thank you,” you murmur.

he gives you a brief smile, gesturing for you to sit back on the couch. you both go back to lazing around, now watching some cooking show you put on.

later that night, he insisted on setting up shop in your living room for the night… or just the next two!

it’s really not a big deal.

he just wouldn’t be able to continue on if something happened to his cute neighbor!

that’s all.

you’re so sweet and still shaken up by the interaction that you let him stay the night.

…and the next one.

…and the one after that.

you’re starting to think he never really counted on staying just one night.

you don’t say anything, but after the second week passes and simon is still around, you find yourself reeling as you start to see his socks and shirts tucked nicely in your drawers.

his coffee mug now kisses yours in the cabinet, and some magnets of the countries he’s visited cling to the fridge.

there isn’t a crevice in your apartment that simon hasn’t explored, or left a piece of himself in.

you should have known better than to invite simon into the same place he had fantasized about for the past six months.

the very place where he listened to your sweet moans, so loud, so tempting.

every. single. night.

he kicked his friends out of his place every time he heard your vibrator start up, so that they couldn’t listen to your breathy whines and so he could sneak away to his room, where your thin walls meet, to tug away at his cock imagining it was you stroking him until he came all over his hand and sheets.

such a sweet girl, you are.

letting a dog into your home to roam free, unaware of the way he watched you with a slobbering tongue and a primal hunger.

oh, sweetheart, you never stood a chance.

4K notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 16 days ago

Text

a most pleasant marriage (john price x f!reader, minor simon x john x reader)

medieval arranged marriage au, SMUT, reader is a virgin, i did no research i fear, 4k wc

The emerald grass below your window, stories high and nearly minuscule, sways as you wait. And wait. And wait.

He was supposed to come two days ago. Your new husband, a foreigner, promised to you by your father in exchange for help to gain his own lands back. Greed begets greed, and while your maids help you change for your nightgown to a favorite dress of light blue, your stomach churns at the thought of the kind of man who would make such a promise. Your father has refused to educate you in any sort of war strategy, but you’re wily enough to know that promises can easily be broken. That the sagging stone buildings of your kingdom, small and unimportant to bigger ones that stomp on it like a bug, are no prize to be won. Why would your future husband want to help such a land when he could just as easily take it?

And so you wait outside of the arched slits of your stone window, your stitching in your lap as you halfheartedly nod to the chattering gossip of your ladies. After tea later in the day, sugar and butter heavy in your stomach, you nearly doze to their droning in your chair.

The clattering of horses wakes you right up.

A band of knights on horses, dressed in the black and white colors of your husband’s household, climb the winding hill that leads to your castle. You drop your stitching on a side table and gather your skirts, nearly running down the hall as your ladies follow you gleefully, taking another way about to the entrance hall. Worn stone and fiery sconces pass you in a blur as you skip down curved staircases, apprehension flooding your veins. What if he’s cruel? What if he breaks his promise to your father? What if-

A wall of muscle cuts off your next step, and thought, as you ram right into someone. You can tell it’s a man by the scent of musk and sweat, heady in the center of his torso. Your face hits stretched fabric as pain floods your nose. Strong hands grip your waist, a place no man’s ever touched, and stop your momentum from causing further destruction. Your hands, heavy from the stylish long sleeves that widen at your wrist, grip at stern shoulders as you steady yourself and your rapid breathing.

“I apologize, good sir. It was not my intent to run into you, I merely did not see where I was going. My deepest apologies.” You remove your hands to gingerly touch your nose, effectively blocking your view of him as you try to ensure no permanent damage was done. Remembering yourself, you step back until his hands leave your waist, coldness seeping in after. A terrible position to be caught in, especially with your husband’s men and potentially your husband himself in this very castle.

“Not to worry. I should hope I’m able to withstand an act of violence from a princess after my years of warfare.” Satisfied your nose is not broken, you remove your hands from your face slowly. A man stands before you, seemingly unruffled from your run in. Strong legs, horseman’s legs, build into a wide torso, the kind made for an armored chest plate with shoulders broad enough to bear it. He wears black and white and the insinuation of it sends a shiver down your spine. At last, you take in his face. His eyes are less kind than you thought they’d be based on his voice, the dark blue of a cruel river stream, fast enough to drown a child. He wears a beard in an unusual shape, one you’ve never seen on any man. His hair, brown as an oak tree, is thick enough to run your fingers through.

The thought is traitorous.

“If you call that an act of violence, you must not give accidents any berth to be what they are. Just accidents, that is.” The words escape without thinking, your hands flying to your mouth to stop the onslaught of thoughts spilling from your mouth like a waterfall. It’s then that you notice other things about the stranger. The quality of the fabric he wears, noticing that the black is actually a deep indigo, a rare color you’ve only heard of from whispers in court. Metal chains of gold encircle his neck, showcasing his wealth through lapis and rubies. Such a man must be rich beyond your wildest dreams, and certainly beyond your father. Your heart drops at the realization.

“You knew I was a princess.” You murmur before he can acknowledge your earlier sentence. “Yes.” He takes a step further, no honorific in his words. Any man who’d have the gall to not acknowledge your title must have a reason to. Realistically, he might be able to tell your status based on the jewels that adorn you, but something bigger itches at your brain like a hound pawing at a closed door. “How?” You whisper, eyes trained on his shoes. Something drops on the floor, and only when your trembling fingers touch your skin do you realize your nose is bleeding.

“Your father showed me your portrait before I agreed to the marriage agreement.” His feet, clothed in indigo as well, come into your field of vision as he steps into your space. A callused hand raises your chin up, his thumb swiping at the blood under your nose. He removes his hand almost immediately, his thumb slick with your red blood nearing his mouth. You watch as his pink tongue swipes at the blood, then track as he wipes the rest on the white of his tunic. A claiming, a forbearance of what’s to come.

“King John.” You curtsy as another drop of blood falls, staining the fabric of your sky-like gown. Out of the corner of your eye, the king grins.

“A pleasure to meet you, Princess.”

You officially meet a few hours later. It seems that King John didn’t mention your illicit meeting to your father, and after staunching the bleeding of your nose and changing into another gown, you didn’t either. The gown is a deep blue color, and you couldn’t help but think of King John’s eyes when you picked it. You plead a headache as to why you return early, and your ladies are eager to fill the silence with gossip of the men King John brought with him. One who wore the mask of a human skull, a Scotsman, and another who made so many flirtatious overtures half of the women fainted. All you can think of are warm hands on your waist, gripping you like a God-given right. Though, you suppose it is.

When you make your entrance into the throne room, it’s surprisingly empty. No courtesans, though your kingdom has few already. Instead, King John converses with your father at his throne, towering over the man by pure stature. You curtsy and scurry further when your father calls your name, already confused at the unusual silence of the room.

“King John, may I present my eldest daughter. I trust she is to your liking?” There is no warmth in his tone, just the promise of retribution sparkling in your father’s eyes, the same color as your own. You turn to King John and curtsy again, keeping your eyes lowered as you stand demurely afterwards. “Your Grace,” you murmur. He’s silent, eyes burning into you as he appraises you. He hums, a low sound that goes straight to your core. You hope he noticed the color of your gown.

“She is. Her portrait does not compare.” Your cheeks warm as you keep your gaze lowered, years of etiquette classes holding back your reaction. Father grunts, clearly not wanting to spend more time than necessary praising you when they could be discussing how to win your lands back. “Yes, Your Grace. As we discussed, the ceremony and exchange of dowry will take place tomorrow.” Your heart thunders, blood rushing in your ears. You knew it was coming, of course, having packed most of your things and done dress fittings as your mother planned the wedding itself. Hearing the confirmation out loud is a different beast. This is your new life.

You hope he will be kind.

They converse about the dowry but do not dismiss you, leaving you to stay frozen in place as they discuss how many gold coins and jewels you are worth. Finally, you are dismissed with a reminder of the welcome feast tonight.

If this is the feast before the wedding, you fear for the antics of the one after. King John’s men, a horde of knights with almost no holy men to be found, are rambunctious as they drink your wine coffers dry. You sit at the seat of honor tonight, usually only reserved for your brother, the heir. King John sits on the other side of your father, mainly conversing with the man in the skull mask as you pick at your meal. Your father is reddened by drink, a young maid who is not your mother seated in his lap as he raves about his last conquest years ago. Your ladies titter beside you, your other sibling and mother having been sent off to bed an hour ago.

“Daughter!” You jolt as your father slaps the table to get your attention. “Yes, Father?” You answer meekly. “Practice serving your husband. His cup should never be empty.” He plucks a flagon of wine out of a passing maid’s hands and shoves it towards you. You rise and take it from him, hands shaking as you uncork it. When you round his chair, his gaze back on the woman on his lap, King John’s men stare. And stare. One of them with eyes like lightning nudged the handsome one beside him, whispering something that makes them both laugh. The skull-faced one, sitting closest to King John, is silent, his eyes dark as a demon’s.

You wrench your gaze away from them to land on your future husband’s. His cheeks are pinked from wine and he sits with his legs spread, wide enough to fit a barrel of ale between them. “Go’on.” You pour, your full focus on the jeweled cup as you feel his full focus on you. When the glass is nearly full, you place down the flagon and stand uncomfortably, waiting to be dismissed.

He does not dismiss you.

Those same hands from this afternoon grab your waist again, pulling you harshly into his lap. You make an unladylike squeal, immediately looking over your shoulder to see if your father noticed. Thankfully, he’s gone, probably off with that poor maid. “Your Grave, I don’t think this is appropriate.” You plead, hands gripping the fabric of your skirts so hard they might rip. He shifts you so you sit on one of his thighs, your feet in the space between them while the side of your ass is practically on his…

“You’ll be my wife in the mornin’. And I’d slay anyone makin’ fuss.” You gasp at his sternness, turning to see the truth of his words written on his face. One hand cups the front of your thigh, searing like a cow’s brand, while the other steadies your hip, keeping you in place. “You would, Your Grace?” You ask, eyes wide. He nods, straightening a bit so you fall further into him. Your hand reaches out to brace his chest, your fingers tangling in gold chains, and you keep it there, drunk on the power beneath you. Your father has never made any claims in your name, content to push any duties of propriety onto your mother.

“Call me John,” he implores. He nods his head to the skullfaced man who’s been watching your exchange, no turning in his chair to give you a sense of privacy. “Sir Simon, my right hand. Garrick and MacTavish are off somewhere in the crowd, his seconds.” You nod in your best imitation of a curtsy while affixed to your future husband’s lap. Beneath your thigh, you feel something harden. You freeze as the warmth in your core. John makes no comment, pressing circles into the velvet of your dress above your hip.

“They call you the Ghost, Sir Simon.” It seems wine has loosened your tongue as well. Thankfully, he grunts in a way you think might be a chuckle. “They do, sweetheart. He scare you?” John murmurs, his words losing any royal tone. Nervously, you nod minutely. John chuckles, shaking you awake like a bath gone cold. “He’s not the one you need to be scared of. C’mere.” He scoops your skirts and legs over his other thigh, closing his own to make an overwhelming lap of strength with tree trunk thighs. John grips your chin, a memory of this afternoon, and turns you this way and that. Sir Simon leans forward, close enough that his legs brush your own. “Pretty.” Sir Simon concludes, leaning back out of your face as his chair creaks. “Agreed. And plenty to handle.” He squeezes your thigh for emphasis. You clamp them shut, afraid he’ll take you right there on the table if you give him any leeway. It’s a complicated mix of fear and something you can’t quite name, close to the anticipation of a new dress but all encompassing. Below your stomach, butterflies flutter in places reserved for your husband. For John.

“Go to bed, princess. I’ll see you in the morn’.”

The morning disappears like lemon cakes on a spring morning. The formality of the religious ceremony carved itself into your bones, the same way your father carves your name on the decree of your marriage. Then it’s a parade through the town square, sitting in an open carriage and waving to the crowd as John holds your hand. The sun is sweltering, but you don’t know if that’s from the layers of white fabric you wear or John’s insistence on being next to you at all times. Then it’s back to the castle, the exchange of the dowry getting packed into the carts John’s men brought.

It all leads up to the feast.

This time, you are directly next to John at the place of honor. So many toasts are made you start to lose your voice, placating it with hot broth from the kitchens. Hours later, the crowd drunk on its own congratulations, your father stands with his goblet in his hand. “It is time.” He announces ominously. You lose John’s grip as your father guides you down into the crowd.

Hands, everywhere. Men of all ages lift you above their heads and tear your clothes off at the same time, making their way to your Royal Chamber for the night. All you can do is close your eyes as the smell of fermented wine rolls off their tongues, greedy hands grabbing what they can as they get you up the stairs. Thankfully, it’s harder for them to be coordinated, abandoning the struggle against white fabric as they bring you to the chamber door.

John arrives just after you, a gaggle of women behind him. He’s not as undressed as you, with only a tear in his tunic. You frown and he senses it, his eyes immediately turning stormy. “Out.” John orders. The women leave, but the stupider men stay. One lord speaks up, a slimy gleam to his face. “I beg your pardon, but we need to watch the consummation, Your Grace.” You almost retch at the thought of them watching you be intimate with a man you barely know. “Out.” John says again, fire in his voice like a dragon. They take the hint and fumble their way down the stairs. You gasp in air, breathing out a sigh of relief.

“Wife.” He greets you, appraising your torn state of dress. Your skirts are ruined, turned into strips of fabric. The lengthy sleeves have turned into scraps, exposing the top of your chest, but nothing more. With every breath, you can feel the dress start to rip even more. “Husband,” you reply breathily.

He opens the door for you. The fireplace quietly warms the room, but there’s no light other than that, making everything past the bed hard to see. You start fidgeting as you walk in front of him, taking a seat on the bed as you fiddle with your hands. “We need witnesses for the consummation. If I’m not with child right away, they’ll say it’s my fault or annul it or say you’re-“ He stops you with a thumb to your cheek, the rest of his fingers squeezing the side of your neck. “Look in the corner.” You squint, scanning the room for whatever he’s looking for. Suddenly, you hear a masculine grunt from the darkest corner of the room. When you whip your head towards it, you catch graphite eyes and the silhouette of a warrior.

“Sir Simon.” He tilts his head in acknowledgment, almost like he’s bored with his role. Your palms sweat and you rub your thighs together to stave off the strange feeling in your stomach. “Don’t look at him, wife. Look at me.” You follow John’s orders immediately, locking onto his intense gaze. “What have you been told of this?” Your cheeks warm, remembering the short lesson from your religious teacher and an even shorter one from your mother.

“I shall lay down and let my husband use my body to complete our marital duties.” John sits down beside you with a grunt. Instead of responding, he runs a finger down the length of your exposed shoulder. You shiver involuntarily. He leans forward, and you stiffen as he kisses your shoulder. The last time you received a kiss was years ago, after a harrowing fever where your mother sat next to your bedside for a fortnight. “Is this…part of the marital duties?” You ask, voice trembling as he makes his way to the side of your neck he previously held. “Yes.” John murmurs into the hollow of your throat. He licks at the skin there and you jump, almost hitting your jaw against his head.

“Steady now.” Simon’s voice is raspy, like a dry paintbrush against blank canvas. You follow his orders immediately, willing yourself to calm down as John comes off the bed and in front of you.

And then, he kneels.

A King kneels before you, his rough hands dragging your tattered skirts up your legs, revealing parts of your skin that have never seen the sun. You freeze as he makes his way to your thighs, the skirt sitting around your waist. Your underskirts are made for using the chamber pot easily, so there’s no fabric around your cunt. John groans again, close enough that you can feel his breath cool the wetness beneath you. “Y’know what that is, princess?” He murmurs, spreading your thighs with ease. You shake your head, confused at the butterflies in your core. “Slick. Wetness. Arousal for your husband and his second, hm?” It seems rhetorical, so you stay silent as his fingers near your cunt. He kisses your inner thigh and you immediately snap your thighs shut. John looks up at you, violence in his eyes. “Stay open.” You try to, forcing your thighs open as he nears again. One large hand steadies your right thigh as his other strokes the slick between your thighs. When his fingers get close, your thighs snap shut again of their own will.

“Simon.” He appears in an instant, stony eyes peering down like he’s reading a text. “Hold her other leg open.” A scarred hand clamps down on your left thigh, wrenching you open almost to the point of discomfort. This time, John rubs his fingers at the slick between your folds and all you can do is sit there and take it. His thumb dips into your hole, and the intrusion is frightening, but he’s gone before you can even notice. He moves it up a little and there.

A loud moan escapes your lips, a sound you’ve never heard before. You clamp your hands to your mouth in embarrassment, remembering your mother’s lessons about staying quiet. “There she is.” John murmurs, seemingly uncaring of your break of expectations. He rubs again and again, then changes the angle so the heel of his hand rubs while he teases the entrance of your hole. Your breaths are heaving and Simon’s hand is hot on your thigh, sure to leave marks tomorrow. The top of your dress, already crumbling, breaks under the weight of your panting just as John presses his palm hard. Your nipples scrape against the dress fabric as your tits escape from the confines of your dress while Simon squeezes the soft skin of your thigh. It’s a funny feeling, a little like peeing, as you release into John’s hold, whining as he holds his palm steady.

“What just- I don’t know- did I do something wrong?” You pant as both men look at you with sparkles in their eyes. “It’s called an orgasm, princess. A release. Necessary for your marital duties. You’re being perfect.” Your heart calms at his praise, and it’s only when you nod do you realize your tits are bouncing of their own accord. John stands, ripping your bodice before you can even think to process. Simon tugs the fabric out from under you as John pushes you back, scanning you like a hunter after a deer. “Hands on your tits, wife.” You follow his instructions, laying your hands confusingly across your chest. John opens your thighs with both hands this time, his mouth wet against your curls. Simon leans over you and you realize this whole time, he’s removed the skull mask with only a black handkerchief covering the bottom half of his face. Those same scarred hands cover your own, showing you how to squeeze your nipples until you understand on your own.

The movements send sparks down your spine, making your hips buck against John’s face. He doesn’t complain, sucking hard at your cunt as you squirm. Simon's stare is as intense as a full moon on a clear night, making you feel like the center of the room. Even as a princess, you've never gotten such attention without it feeling transactional. There is no pain like how your maids whispered, just sheer pleasure, better than any honey cake or sweet wine stolen from the kitchens. Lightning sparks down your body, and the pressure of John holding you down while Simon knows your body better than your own. Your cunt is sopping, the sheets under you wet from your slick as you convulse when John adds a finger inside you. You gasp at the sensation, one becoming two quickly as he finds no resistance. He crooks them towards himself, like he's telling his pretty wife to come here. You come again just like that, thrashing into Simon's hands until you melt like a spring snow into the bed.

John strips off his clothing harshly, revealing a masculine figure you've only seen in carvings or glimpses from the men practicing at their swords in the yard. Hair all over, bearish in appearance, but you're learned enough now to not close your thighs. "C'mere," he orders, and you scramble forward, losing the warmth of Simon's hands. He guides your soft hands to his cock, letting you explore it with questioning touches. It's heavy in your hands, velvety but hard as stone. He grunts when you do an exploratory tug, and you drop your hands, afraid you did something wrong.

"This may be quick, wife. I'll rectify it in the morn'." You nod, brows furrowed as you were told it was always quick, no matter what. John climbs out of you as Simon steps back, but you can see his own silhouette of his cock through his trousers, backlit from the fireplace. John lays his weight on you, his forearms bracketing your head, and you sigh at the comforting feel of him. There's no fear anymore, your senses pliable from two orgasms. He nudges open your legs and you feel an intrusion of where he was before, but it's smoother than you thought it would be as he slides in. "John." You moan, mouth open as fullness grows inside. "So sweet, princess." He murmurs into your ear, pushing further until the hilt. You whine, squirming until Simon presses a gigantic hand on your stomach, keeping you in place as John finds his bearings.

He thrusts once and your breath hitches, your arms wrapping around his muscular shoulders as you sink your claws into his back. John tucks his face into the crook of your neck, and it feels like so much more than duty as he finds a pace. Simon's hand stays there, and your stomach feels fuller than the biggest feast. John's thumb finds your cunt and you start squealing at the overwhelming feeling. "John, I'm- cannot again I-," and he just chuckles, thrusting over and over. You share the same breath, your eyes finding Simon's at every other moment. If this is marriage, you think, it is nowhere near a prison. It's the rough hair of John scraping against your torso, his sweat gliding against yours. That spark builds again, not as bright as before but still powerful, and you clench again when he hits a specific spot. John, slippery with sweat and panting murmurs, follows after, warmth flooding between your thighs as he slows.

"I apologize, I cannot last as long as I used to." John confesses, still inside you as Simon takes his hand back. Your head is cloudy and sugar sweet with no room for reason. Your hands are still on his shoulders, and on instinct you move one to slide into his thick head of hair. "Nothing to apologize for, husband. It was pleasant." Simon chuckles, and you wonder if you've done something wrong. “Pleasant, she says.” John says to Simon, letting you gasp as he slips out of you, his cock leaving a trail of white on your thighs. You tighten your grip against John’s scalp as you watch Simon return to his seat, practically unaffected despite his arousal.

“Did I please you, husband?”

“Yes, wife. This shall be a pleasant marriage. Now rest.” And you do, John trapping you with his body and Simon trapping you with his eyes.

2K notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 18 days ago

Text

welcome home

ghost x reader x soap

when soap and ghost return from mission and find you, a civilian medic working on base, curled up on the rec room couch, you end up giving the boys a thorough welcome home.

18+ only. plus size fem reader. scent kink. the guys are dirty (literally). mild bush/ball/cock worship. threesome.

The rec room is dim, lit only by a stingy bank of ceiling fluorescents that flicker slightly whenever someone leans on the wrong bit of wall. The overhead lights are switched off, replaced with the softer, amber glow of a crooked floor lamp someone had dragged in from god knows where. You liked it better this way; made the place feel less like a barracks common space and more like the kind of living room you'd grown up in. Well-worn couches, stained coffee mugs no one claimed, the faint whirr of the old mini fridge in the corner humming like a tired cicada.

You're unwinding there in your favorite crewneck, the fabric a muted russet that brings warmth to your features, its oversized fit far more comfortable than the scrubs you quickly shed after your shift ended for the night. The fleece lining on the inside is wearing thin at the cuffs, but the familiarity of it grounds you. In black leggings speckled faintly with lint, you sit curled up on the worn sofa, your socks mismatched but thick, the wool catching slightly against the cushions beneath your feet. You're halfway through a tepid mug of builder’s tea when the door bursts open behind you.

The scent hits you before the sound does. Sharp, brackish sweat cut with gunpowder and oil, layered under something deeper: leather, steel, the dry stink of sand and smoke. Your head turns instinctively.

Soap strides in like he owned the place, flushed and gleaming from exertion. His dark shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, translucent with sweat in places, and there's a scrape on his forearm that hasn’t stopped bleeding yet. His tactical vest hangs open, bouncing against his hips as he moves. He has that look again—eyes alight with residual adrenaline, skin pink from wind and heat, hair still damp and pushed messily back from his brow. He's chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too broadly, which means he has something stupid or dangerous in mind. Probably both.

“Christ, it’s warm in here,” he mutters, toeing off his boots near the radiator, which clangs faintly with old heat. “Were you lot tryin' to boil yourselves alive while we were gone?”

Ghost follows him in, quieter. He peels off his gloves without a word, the black fabric damp in his hands. He isn’t even out of his gear yet, still dressed in his reinforced trousers, boots caked with dried mud, black compression shirt clinging to his back and chest. His skull mask is pushed up, exposing the lower half of his face; the mouth veneath is drawn, his jaw flexing beneath a few days’ growth of stubble. You can see the faintest smudge of something dark on the side of his neck.

Neither of them have showered.

And yet your stomach flutters.

“Back already?” you ask, voice lower than usual, though you hadn’t intended it to be.

“Early extraction. Ghost didn’t even break a sweat,” Soap drawls, flicking the fridge open and extracting a bottle of amber liquid from the back like it's his reward. “Which is bollocks, ‘cause I’m about two degrees from heatstroke.”

He unscrews the cap with his teeth and fishes out three glasses from the shelf: one a chipped mug, another intact, and a clear plastic cup with the England crest on it.

“C’mon, love,” Soap says, sliding onto the couch beside you with the practiced ease of a man who both doesn't understand personal space and feels he doesn't need any, especially with you. “You’re off shift, yeah?”

You nod. “Just.”

“Then drink with us. Celebrate a job well done." He wears a wide, slanted smile, one that makes your belly flip when it conjures the memory of him wearing the same expression above you, his ID disc swinging from the chain around his flushed neck, skimming the valley between your bouncing breasts. "No bullets in my arse this time,” he adds, and you blink the haze of the memory away, left warmer as you roll your eyes playfully the way you know he wants you to.

You've shared a bed with him more than once, during late nights when the air was too heavy to sleep, long stretches between assignments, moments stolen in the lull between your worlds. It was easy with him. Good. Sometimes rough, sometimes slow, always welcome. And never more than what it was. But lately, your eyes had started to wander to the sergeant's looming shadow: the man who never touched and rarely spoke, but always seemed to be watching you whenever you were near.

And Johnny had noticed; he wasn’t the jealous type. He’d seen the way your glances caught on Ghost, too, how the room felt just a little too loaded when he and the big man visited medical or you crossed paths with them at the rec. He knew, too, that Ghost had heard the sounds you made together through the paper-thin walls of their bunks. That he had listened. Johnny told you so once, voice low and filthy while he fucked you slow, laughing when it made you go all soft and squirmy underneath him.

But Ghost never said a word. Because Ghost, the reticent bastard, wouldn’t make a move.

Not unless coaxed.

And not by his sergeant.

You glance toward Ghost, who has folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, his gaze cool and unmoved. The amber light flickers against his cheekbones, casting sharp shadows up the bridge of his nose. His dark eyes are on you again, and you shiver at the quiet intensity there.

“He’s not joining,” you murmur, more an observation than a question.

Soap flashes you a devilish grin, leaning closer. You can smell the salt on him, the heat rising from his skin like a slow exhale. “He never joins. He just sulks and stares.”

“I can hear you,” Ghost says flatly.

“Don' I know it,” Soap says wickedly, looking at you pointedly before pouring two fingers of whiskey into your glass, then his own. “Here. Just one.”

The glass is cool in your palm, slightly sticky from whatever surface it last sat on. You raise it, hesitate, then throw it back. The burn is immediate: sharp, medicinal, tinged with something smoky and a little sweet. It settles in your chest like a hot coal.

You exhale, lips parting with a soft hiss.

Soap watches your mouth the entire time.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s a look,” he murmurs. “You always this good at takin’ it down?”

You shoot him a glance, more amused than offended. “You’re shameless.”

He leans in again, voice low now, warm as the whiskey. “Only when I’ve earned it.”

You don’t move when his fingers brush the hem of your sweatshirt, nor when he looks past you, over your shoulder, to where Ghost still stands unmoving. Sharp like a snap decision, Soap leans back and catches his index in your mug, dragging it with a scrape of porcelain across the table to meet his plastic cup for another drink. He pours with more ceremony this time, angling the bottle like he's showing off. The whiskey catches the low lamplight, shining golden as it sloshes into your mismatched glass. He fills it higher than before— definitely more than a shot— and slides it across to you like a challenge.

“One for my glorious return,” he declares, raising his own. “And one for the quiet bastard over there.”

You glance over the low back of the couch again, but Ghost still hasn't budged.

Soap tips his head toward you. “You’ve gotta drink both, since he won’t.”

You scoff, your eyes returning to the Scot. “That hardly seems fair.”

“But it’s fitting,” Soap says, nudging the rim of your glass. “You look like you can take it.”

You hold his gaze as you lift the second drink, the burn still humming low in your belly from the first. The rim clinks against your teeth as you knock it back, the heat sharp enough to draw a quiet gasp as you swallow. A trickle escapes the corner of your mouth, trailing down the curve of your chin and catching at your soft jaw before dripping slowly toward your neck.

You move to wipe it— too slow.

Soap is already there.

“Messy, that,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your jaw before he drags the tip of his index finger up the length of the droplet. He raises it to his lips, tongue darting out, slow and shameless, as he sucks the whiskey from his skin.

You don’t mean to stare, but your eyes can't help but linger on the wet pink of his mouth. And when they flick up, his are waiting.

“You’ve not eaten, have you?” he asks, voice lower now. Not concerned. Curious. Maybe a bit wicked. “Changin' colors on me. Whiskey’s gone straight to your cheeks.”

You shake your head once, feeling the heat settle high in your face, ripening your complexion. “Snack on the way out. Didn’t have time.”

Soap makes a low sound and taps the glass again, watching the way your fingers curl around it.

Ghost still hasn’t spoken, but you can feel the weight of him in the room— feel the press of his attention even if he pretends to be indifferent. But you dont look at him again, afraid any sudden movement might break his trance and send him stomping.

Soap leans back against the couch, legs spreading slightly, shoulder brushing yours. “He’s not lookin’,” he bluffs, just loud enough for Ghost to hear. “Not even glancin’. Could be all over you right now, and he’d just stand there, arms folded, like a fuckin’ statue.”

You smile, ducking your head slightly, a little drunk already. Not on the alcohol, though that helps, but on the smell of him. The salt and earth, the heady stink of his undershirt, still damp from the field. Sunbaked cloth and body heat and grit.

Without thinking, you tilt closer, let your nose skim his collarbone. Your lips barely brush his skin as you press your face to the crook of his neck.

He stills. Just for a moment.

Then: “Christ, you are drunk.”

“I’m not,” you murmur, voice muffled against him. “You just smell really fucking good.”

That makes him laugh, his chest rising underneath your palm. “Filthy, you mean. Sweaty. Like I’ve not washed in days.”

“Exactly.”

He hums, his hand sliding across the back of the couch, heavy and warm behind you. He doesn't touch you, but the implication is there, all that muscle close enough to make your scalp prickle.

“Look at her,” Soap says suddenly over his shoulder, lifting his chin toward Ghost. “Look at how she’s already meltin’. S’all big-eyed and dewy, lips parted, pressed into me like she’s tryin’ to crawl inside my shirt.”

You go still, both afraid and thrilled that Soap might keep running his mouth like this, burst the whole bubble open after all.

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t want to touch her?” Soap continues, that teasing lilt sharpening just a little more. “Pretend you didn’t notice how she looked at my mouth when I licked my fingers clean?”

You feel your pulse flutter; you listen for it, but Ghost doesn't answer.

Soap’s voice drops to a hush, loud in your ear but meant only for Ghost. “Pretend you don’t picture what her thighs look like wrapped around one of us— both of us— drunk off the smell of it?”

Your breath catches— not just from the words, but from the way Soap’s arm shifts behind you, his forearm brushing the small of your back, possessive without pressure. Your cheeks burn hotter than the whiskey.

You lift your head, just enough to peek out from the crook of his neck. Ghost stands across the room like a statue carved from shadow: arms crossed, shoulders squared, chin tilted down just enough to obscure his eyes in the dim light. But you can still see the tight set of his jaw, the way his throat works when he swallows, the faint glisten of sweat around his nose.

You look at him, and you feel... seen. Whether he returns the gaze or not.

And yet Soap is the one touching you. Soap is the one letting you lean into him, letting your weight settle against his side like he wants to hold it.

“You’re so bloody soft,” he murmurs then, just for you. His palm slides down your back, slow, sweet, to rest at the curve of your waist. “All warm and squishy and fuckin’ lovely. Like a proper bed after weeks of concrete floors.”

You blink slowly, that ache between your thighs growing bolder.

“Bet you’d let us sink into you,” he goes on, lips brushing your hairline now. “Let us get all tangled up in this sweatshirt and those pretty thighs. Be better than any mattress we’ve had since we enlisted.”

He lets his hand settle lower— just at the edge of where soft belly meets waistband— and then he stills again, as if daring one of you to stop him.

“You’d let me have a nap right here,” he says, nuzzling your temple. “Wouldn’t you, love? Let me fuck you slow, then pass out on your tits like a man who’s earned it.”

The breath shudders out of you.

And when you looked again at Ghost, you see it: the clench of his hands where they grip his biceps, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the heat blooming behind his eyes like something primal, barely contained.

He is watching.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek back to Soap’s shoulder. “I do want that,” you murmur, voice low and intimate, but not shy.

Soap’s breath hitches just enough to tell you he heard.

He pulls you onto his lap without hesitation, strong hands guiding your hips into place like he’d thought about it already, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. The denim of his trousers is rough beneath you, the hard line of him unmistakable beneath the worn seam. His palms settle over your thighs first, then slide up to squeeze at your hips and the softness there, wide fingers digging in just enough to claim.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass…” he breathes, softer than you'd expect. “You feel so good. Like you were made for this.”

And those words, that tone, make you sink right into it. You drape yourself over Soap’s shoulders, your arms loose and lazy with drink and heat, fingers threading into the thick hair at his nape. His skin is warm there, damp still with sweat and tacky with the remnants of field-dust that hadn’t yet been rinsed away. You nose along the side of his throat, breathing in the raw, masculine scent of him— salt, smoke, leather, the tang of metal and blood. Faint cologne still clings in the hollow of his throat beneath the grime, like it's soaked into his skin after too many missions and too little rest.

God, he smells like something that had survived.

You press a kiss there, just a brush of your lips. And when he lets out a quiet, clipped groan, you smile.

You don’t need Ghost to move to know he's still there.

He stays where he is, propped against the far wall near the door, one shoulder pressed to the plaster, half-shadowed by the dull glow of the crooked floor lamp. But you can feel the tension from here, can see it in the rigid lines of his body, the way his arms hang loose at his sides now instead of folded, fists clenched like he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

He can’t see Soap’s hands anymore, you knew; can’t see where they’ve slipped beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. Could only guess what Johnny is doing from the way your body shifts when your hips roll and your thighs tense around him.

But you know he can see your face. And oh, do you want him to see it.

You let your head loll back a little, exposing your throat, and your lips part around a sigh that could have been a breath or a moan. Soap is teasing you now, his hands slow and roving beneath your sweatshirt, thumbs circling just above your waistband, not yet touching anything obscene, just feeling. Mapping the soft swell of your belly, the dimple at your hip, the curve where your flesh overflowed his grip. His voice is a rumble against your ear, low and hot.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, breath catching as you shift in his lap, brush against the hard ridge of him pressing against the zipper seam. “All plush and warm, makin’ a mess on me already. Can’t even fuckin’ see what I’m doin’, can he? Poor bloke’s gonna lose his mind.”

You bite your lip hard enough to feel it throb.

Your skin buzzes under the low light, humming with the lingering warmth of the whiskey, the teasing drag of Johnny’s hands, and the fever-dream heat of being watched so closely. Your lashes droop, your mouth soft and slack with pleasure that hasn’t even peaked yet.

And always, your eyes drift back to Ghost, pulled there as that nervous thrill tightens in your chest until the heat and the alcohol finally make something snap.

Lifting your head, arms still loose around Soap’s neck, you find him across the room. You don’t say a word, just let your eyes lock with his.

And then— languid, dreamy— you open your arms again. Fingers spread, palms exposed. A silent but clear invitation.

Ghost doesn't reply. But his jaw clench hard enough you can see it twitch, even from here.

You feel Soap chuckle where your chests press together, his voice molten.

“She wants you to see it, Ghost,” he purrs, unable to help himself from teasing. “Wants you to feel what you’re missin’.”

Then, to you, as his hands finally slide lower, gripping your hips:

“Tell me, love. You want me to make you come while he watches? Want him seein’ your face when you fall apart?”

You don't answer right away; instead, your gaze stays on Ghost across the room, watching the stoic man closely. And the signs are there: the muscles in his jaw are visibly flexed now, his fingers still clenched tight by his sides. His whole frame looks wired, like he's barely holding something inside, his eyes dark and fixed to your face as if trying to read every twitch of your lips, every shift in your breath.

Behind you, Soap’s hands squeeze, fingers digging possessively into your hips, rocking you gently over the hard ridge of him beneath his trousers. But you don’t look at him. Not yet.

Your voice, when it comes, is husky, warm with heat and whiskey, but clear.

“No,” you say, loud enough to carry across the room, soft enough to sound intimate. “I don’t want him to watch.”

There's a beat of silence.

Soap’s brow arches, his lips quirking like he's about to tease again—

And then you add, your tone slipping into something velvet and filthy, “I’d like him in my mouth.”

The room goes still.

Soap lets out a bark of laughter— low, delighted, breathless. “Fucking hell, love.”

You feel his hands clench again, tighter now, just shy of bruising as he pulls you down harder onto his lap, grinding you against the firm line of him. His breath is ragged against your ear, his chest rising fast beneath your weight.

“You hear that, Ghost?” Soap calls, his voice all bright amusement and dark hunger. “She doesn’t want you over there, sulkin’. She wants you down her fuckin’ throat.”

Still, Ghost doesn’t move. But you see it— the shift in his stance, the widening of his eyes, the way his chest expands with a deeper, slower breath like he's trying to ground himself but isn't succeeding. His knuckles are pale now, clenched so tight his veins rise stark beneath the skin.

And you know he's imagining it. Imagining your mouth on him. Imagining how you’d take him: on your knees maybe, or still warm from Johnny’s lap, lips kiss-bitten, eyes half-lidded and wet. You can see behind his gaze how badly he wants it.

How badly he wants you.

When he steps forward, it's without a word.

He doesn't rush— just steadily closes the space between himself and the couch, cautiously, controlled. It's the kind of movement a man makes when he’s already lost the argument with himself and is just trying not to lose his grip on everything else.

His boots barely make a sound across the concrete floor, his eyes on you the whole time. But not just you— he looks between you and Soap, the press of your bodies, the way your thighs frame Johnny’s lap, the bruising grip of his broad, tanned hands on your hips, the way they slip lower to knead your wide ass. His expression is unreadable, but his body betrays him.

Because by the time he reaches you, the thick ridge beneath his trousers is unmistakable: heavy, straining against the front of his waistband. And when you reach out with one hand— slow, like he might startle— you feel the subtle flinch in him.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your finger traces along his belt, featherlight, then circles the buckle. You feel him tense; his cock twitches visibly beneath the fabric when your knuckles brush over it.

You look up at him, heat pooling in your belly, your voice low.

“I meant it.”

Soap hums low in his throat, one hand slipping under the waistband of your leggings to grope at your ass as your fingers work open Ghost’s belt slowly. The buckle clinks, its metal warm from his body. You mouth at the front of his trousers through the fabric, catching the scent of him now, and god, is it thick. Deep and musky, soaked with sweat and the faded presence of gun oil.

You drop your jaw, dragging your tongue over the rough fabric, and Ghost hisses through his teeth.

Beneath you, Soap begins to rock you more deliberately now, the denim of his jeans rough against your leggings, his cock straining against the fabric, grinding up between the softness of your thighs.

“Go on, love,” he murmurs, voice hot and wicked in your ear. “Show him how pretty you suck cock. He’s been dyin’ to know.”

You drag Ghost’s waistband down with practiced slowness, hands trembling slightly from anticipation, from need. His cock springs free— thick, flushed, heavy. Your breath catches at the sight. And you can't help it; you steal a moment to bury your face against the coarse, sweaty curls at the base, inhaling greedily. He smells like sex and tension and everything that makes your mouth water.

You kiss the root, nuzzling, tongue darting out to taste the salt of his skin, the sweat collected there. Ghost groans— a low, guttural thing— and finally, finally, touches you, resting one large hand at the back of your head. It's heavy, dizzyingly large, cupping the curve of your skull with the sort of latent power you know could crush the bone if he wanted to.

But he doesn't; doesn't even tighten those thick, rough fingers. Ghost just holds you there, letting you taste him for the first time. You lose yourself in it for a moment, so much so that when Soap shifts under you, pulling your leggings down to mid-thigh, you sigh out a startled moan against Ghost's silken skin.

Soap groans when the curve of your ass presses down harder against his lap. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his tone almost awed as he bucks up to answer you. “You’re soaked.”

You don't reply, just open your mouth for Ghost, lips wrapping around the head of his cock, your tongue teasing the underside as you suck him in slow. Johnny shifts even more beneath you now, likely working his pants open, but it can't pull your attention from Ghost's cock. Its weight is obscene, stretching your mouth, and you revel in it— the taste, the heat, the way his thighs tremble slightly as you drag your tongue beneath the crown.

It's only when you feel Soap's blunt head bump clumsily against your pussy, red hot and eager, that you begin to quiver with need. Your hole flexes when he presses up, and your mouth drops open, and then they both slide into you in the same moment— your body welcoming them in, already open and wet, your breath hitching as your throat fills and your cunt does too. The angle is perfect: Soap buried deep from beneath, Ghost pulsing against your tongue, the two of them claiming you in tandem.

Ghost’s hips roll once— slow, cautious— and you moan around him in encouragement, the vibrations making him shudder. You keep one hand at his hip, grounding him, and reach the other to cup and knead his balls, slick with sweat, musky and perfect.

You're surrounded by them. By the scent, the weight, the breathless grunts and quiet curses and the heavy slide of Soap’s cock as he rocks up into you from below, forcing Ghost a little deeper into your mouth each time. Their rhythm syncs around you, your body nothing but sensation, exquisite and aching.

And Ghost—God, Ghost.

You look up at him, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, eyes wet with want. And he looks as wrecked as you feel. Silent, but his breathing is ragged, his lip caught between his teeth as he watches your mouth work him over with filthy reverence. The sight makes you moan softly, the weight of him thick on your tongue, the heat of him flooding your mouth. His foreskin slides wet and slow with every pass of your lips, and you tongue beneath it deliberately, learning the contours of him by feel. His taste is already blooming over your tongue: clean salt and musk, the silk of his skin steeped in the scent of sweat, fabric, and restraint finally slipping loose.

Soap shifts his grip, pulling you closer into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him fully now, your knees braced on either side of his hips, thighs spread, his cock sheathing deep inside you with every grind of your hips. The denim rasps against your skin, hot and textured, a perfect counterpoint to the slick glide of his cock.

He rocks into you again and again, slow and deep, his hands gripping your back like he can’t decide if he wants to fuck you or hold you.

And your mouth is still full of Simon.

You arch slightly over the back of the couch, low enough to give you leverage, high enough for him to stand comfortably before you. One of his hands grips your skull, gentle but anchoring, while the other braces against the backrest beside your shoulder. He's staring down at you now, jaw tight, chest rising hard.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny groans, his hands traveling up under your sweatshirt again, splaying even wider over your back, kneading more intently at your softness. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

You make a sound around Ghost’s cock: half moan, half admission.

“Having us both,” Johnny continues, voice velvet-rough. “Just like this. Me fuckin’ you full while you suck him off. God, you’re fuckin’ tight.”

You moan again, louder this time, and Ghost bites off a curse above you, soft and gritted. His cock twitches in your mouth, so you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, drag your lips slowly up the length of him before descending again, tongue tracing every ridge.

Johnny’s eyes never leave your face.

Your brow is damp with sweat, your skin glowing with heat, mouth stretched open and wet. You know how you looked— fucked-out, wanting, nearly wrecked— and knowing Johnny can't get enough of it just increases your pleasure.

“You love it, don’t you,” he pants, his voice rougher as he begins to fuck up into you harder now, making the slap of your bodies echo softly in the low-lit room. “Love bein’ between us like this. Mouth full, cunt full. Don’t even know who to come for.”

You whimper.

Then, just as he slams into that spot inside you that makes you jolt, you pull off Simon’s cock with a wet gasp, strings of saliva clinging to your lip as you drag your hand down to wrap around him instead. Still working him. Still letting him feel the slick grip of your worship.

Your voice comes out cracked and hoarse, eyes fluttering half-lidded as your body bounces in Johnny’s lap.

“Fuck, Johnny…” you breathe, loud enough to make Ghost shudder above you.

You jerk him slow, tenderly, your thumb rolling over the swollen head, still flushed and slick. Your free hand cradles his balls, gently tugging, letting your tongue drag along the underside of his cock as you look up at him, lashes damp.

“You can let go,” you whisper. “I want you to. I want to hear it.”

Simon’s mouth parts slightly, and something in your chest leaps, yearning for his answer. But no words come. Just a quiet, bitten-off grunt and the tremble in his thighs.

And all the while, Johnny keeps fucking you, his hips driving up into you from below, his voice spilling constant praise in your ear.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy, babe,” he whispers, biting your shoulder. “So fuckin’ perfect. Can feel how much you’re lovin’ this— fuck. Grip me like that again and I’m gonna come.”

You can feel it rising in you too, tight and dizzying, but it twists when he says that. And the sound you make, the sound that feeling squeezes out of you, is so desperate and raw it shocks even you.

The pace turns frantic.

Johnny's thighs flex beneath you now, solid and unyielding, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare skin, biting at the soft swell of your ass as he fucked up into you with brutal rhythm. Every thrust jolts you forward, makes your thighs and belly wobble with each bounce, your whole body alive with friction and heat. Sweat pools against your sides, between your breasts, slicking the waistband of your leggings where they cling around your knees.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass—” Johnny growls into your neck, his voice strained and ragged.

You're panting, moaning, arms limp around his shoulders as you take it, want it, so very badly.

But your mouth needs more.

It needs him.

You turn back to Ghost, eyes hazy, lips wet, and opened for him again.

His cock slides back over your tongue with no hesitation this time, just need. Your arms wrap loosely around his hips, holding him close, grounding yourself to the sharp lines of his body as Johnny bounces you hard enough to rock his cock deeper into your throat.

Simon doesn’t move anymore, doesn't thrust. just holds you, both of his hands gripping your head now, fingers flexing, breath hitched in his chest.

And still you moan. Louder now. Tighter.

Each of Johnny’s thrusts forces Simon deeper, and each inch of him against your tongue makes your head spin. Your jaw aches, your cunt aches, your mind spirals.

You can barely think.

You only know that you want them, both of them, to fill you, to unravel for you, to give you the evidence of their pleasure, that last piece of themselves.

You whimper around Simon’s cock, eyes glassy, drool slipping from the corners of your mouth, needing—

And then—

Low. Hoarse. Like it's being torn from him, Ghost speaks.

“Fuck— love, I’m not gonna last—”

It breaks you open.

You clench around Johnny so hard it makes him gasp. His hands fly to your hips, anchoring, his next thrust wild and uncoordinated as his orgasm slams into him.

“Jesus fuck—” he chokes, buried deep, spilling inside you with a low, broken moan.

You sob around Simon’s cock, grinding down hard on Johnny as your own climax overtakes you— wet and fierce, like your body can't hold it in anymore. Your legs shake, toes curling in your socks, pleasure crashing through you with dizzying intensity.

And Simon—

You feel him pulse on your tongue, thick and hot, his hips bucking forward in a stuttered jerk as he comes hard down your throat, voice breaking in a guttural moan.

“Shit, love— fuck—”

You hold him, let him give it all to you. Swallow what you could, the rest slipping from your lips, dripping down your chin as you whimper through the aftershocks. Your thighs tremble, muscles twitching, your whole body flushed and shaking with exhaustion and satisfaction and something more you can't begin to name.

Gradually, everything slows. Softens.

Simon’s hands ease in your hair, smoothing it gently now. One slips to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the mess with startling tenderness. Johnny is still beneath you, arms wrapped around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder, breath coming in hard, hot gusts.

And you stay there, bodies tangled in the low flicker of lamplight as your skin begins to cool. The room is quiet now, save for the slow, exhausted inhales of three people too wrung out to move just yet. Johnny’s face is still tucked against your shoulder, his grip slack but lingering, like he didn’t want to let go. Simon’s thumb is at your cheek, still smoothing gently along the bone like he hasn’t realized he's doing it.

Your voice breaks the silence— thin, rasped, but unmistakably smug.

“Welcome home.”

There's a beat.

Then Ghost huffs out a short laugh, almost a scoff, though still fond. He ducks his head slightly, one hand rubbing his face like he can’t believe you.

Johnny lets out a wheezy breath of a laugh beneath you, hands squeezing your waist.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, voice still hoarse. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“Good timing, right?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself sink into their warmth.

Simon’s hand moves to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading wide, grounding. Johnny’s thumb traces slow circles into the softness of your hip.

And for a while, none of you say anything more.

You don’t need to.

You're all home.

610 notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 21 days ago

Text

Tattoo Artist

CW: oral sex, small descriptors used for reader when I felt it necessary i.e. the tattoo artist having tattoos. reader is referred to by a nickname. Authors note: And before you ask, no I do not condone the tattoos price has on the homecoming skin, as an American traditional tattoo GIRLY those are simply an insult to tattoos.

The song I was listing to whilst writing this

Despite what most think, John has tattoos. Mostly hidden in places you can’t easily see. Truthfully, he probably would have had far fewer had it not been for Little Petal.

It’s just when John’s dad died he wanted a tattoo to commemorate his life, you know how middle age men get when their fathers pass. So he booked a session with a local artist, the shop had great reviews; it was clean and busy, and he figured now was as good a time as any.

Never in the entirety of John’s life has he been so instantly captivated by a woman. Covered in tattoos and piercings, she was gorgeous and immediately incredibly friendly. He learned she owned the shop and had gone to art school. For what it was worth she absolutely knew what she was doing.

All in all, it took her barely an hour to draw his tattoo, make his stencil, and have it permanently etched into his muscular thigh. I mean how long could two dates possibly take anyway? And that’s really how it started. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was booking another appointment a few months out, with the promise of allowing her to actually draw him something this time. He could have taken her right there, just seeing the way her face lit up at the prospect of mild creative freedom.

When he returned for his next appointment, this time with a brand new scar and an embarrassing amount of excitement for a grown man, he settled in her chair. She flipped through drawings she’d made for him, drawings she thought would “fit your vibe” all traditional style but not the kind that bored; a street lamp with moths circling it was the one he ultimately decided on.

John was a very tough man. Hell, the man gets shot at for a living, but he didn’t expect the little petal to be able to inflict so much pain. Of course, he was tough about it, barely flinching.

“Does it hurt, then?” She asked him amidst her stabbing color into his side.

“Not bad.” He remembered murmuring to her as her needles dragged across his skin.

“Doesn’t hurt me one bit.” He chuckled at her cheesy joke, but the little smile on her face was enough to make his thoughts go awry.

It wasn’t long before he wasn’t just tattooed, but was one of her regulars. After a few years, his entire left leg was mostly covered. Apparently, when you become good enough friends with your tattoo artist, she starts to tell you things like, “I’m not doing that, John, that’s ugly.” And “No, that fits better over here.”

At some point, he also started receiving unexpected and sporadic text messages from her. Texts like, “I saw this cute cigar shop in London, made me think of you.” Or “I drew you this, thought it would fit perfectly on your knee.”

John has had his fair share of women in his life, he wasn’t exactly sure just why he was so into her. Maybe it’s the sweet, soft way she spoke. Maybe it was how she was so passionate about her work. Maybe the way she joked and teased him, or possibly it was just simply how incredibly herself she was.

John made his way into her shop one Saturday afternoon, the door chiming as he stepped through the threshold. The scent of patchouli filled his nose. She was an eccentric little woman, from the black walls to the leopard print furniture.

He stepped up to the front desk, eyeing the little trinkets she had sat atop it, listening for the soft patter of her platforms against the hardwood. When she poked her head from the back room, she offered a sweet smile.

“Hi, hon.”

“Hi, petal.”

They’d done this dance time and time again, proper etiquette and professionalism were long gone. He watched as she turned back into the room, a wordless request for him to follow. He did, his boots clattering on the floor as he made his way through the shop. He immediately sat in the corner chair, watching the bird flit through her stack of drawings.

“Okay listen,” She began, holding out a hand to silence him as if he’d been about to interrupt, which he hadn’t.

“You don’t have to get it if you hate it but, I drew this pinup.” She pulled out a white sheet of paper and held it out to him. John reached for the sheet, looking it over. He wondered for a brief moment if she’d done it on purpose, if she’d even realized exactly how much the cartoon woman on the page looked like her.

“It’s great, love,” He hums, still looking it over but letting his eyes meet hers for a moment. No, there was no way she’d done it intentionally, she wasn’t the egotistical type to brand someone with a picture of herself.

“Cool,” she mused, already planning. “thinking on your inner thigh. We can do it high enough that people won’t see her when you’re in shorts.” That girl was always thinking ahead. She has a real knack for this, not just the drawing or design process but the placement too.

“Yeah, okay, pretty,” John said simply, leaning back further into the chair. He let her run around the shop, scanning her drawing, then printing and cutting out the stencil. When she returned, stencil in hand, she looked at him with that cute little frown she sometimes got.

“Take your pants off, John.”

God, she didn’t have to tell him twice.

“Right to the point, huh?” He chuckled. She'd always taken his jokes well, so he felt no need to apologize for the comment.

She gave him an eye roll, one more of amusement than anything. He unbuckled his belt, pulled off his boots followed by his jeans, setting them on the chair. He plopped himself onto the table, and she, completely comfortable by this point, started pulling him into the position she wanted, moving his leg to her desired spot.

John liked his tattoos, he really did. But in that moment, he was instantly reminded why he kept coming back. It was the way she pushed the leg of his underwear farther up his thigh, making marks on his skin to correctly line up his stencil, or her casually commenting “You’re so hairy,” as she ran the pink disposable razor over his inner thigh.

“I’m a grown man, petal,” he responded, with a small chuckle.

This tattoo, the one she seemingly didn’t realize she’d drawn of herself, the one he was allowing her to permanently mark on his skin. This might be the worst decision of his life, he suddenly realized, not because it looked like her, or because he’d regret it; he’d learned over his almost forty years of life that regrets were worthless.

No, it might be the worst decision simply because he hadn’t thought about how high up it was, how close her hands and her face would be to his crotch, and how he was absolutely going to get hard whether he meant to or not.

After she’d shaved his thigh, applied the stencil, and properly sanitized his skin, she began to tattoo. She chattered away as she always did, John nodded along, trying to listen. But the man might as well have been fighting demons, not because it hurt, either.

John just hoped she wouldn’t mention the bulge in his underwear, or better yet, maybe she was too busy to notice. After she’d finished the outline, she stopped her machine, moving to change needles and pour her caps of color when she spoke.

“Got a pain kink, John?”

He was momentarily stunned by the way her eyes gestured to his cock. He would never have expected a joke like that from her; sure she teased him but this was a first. He laughed.

John had half a mind to tell her to go screw herself, or sarcastically agree. But he figured if she could say something that should be considered inappropriate for a professional, he could say something incredibly inappropriate for a client.

“No, bird, got a pretty girl's face inches from my dick kink.”

She smiled. No way she thought that was genuinely flattering. She had to trust him more than he’d realized not to immediately get upset. So, like the civilized adult man he wasn’t, he kept going.

“Got a thing for their mouths round it too.”

At that, she didn’t squirm, flinch. Or even make a grossed out face. She laughed, the kind of laugh a girl gives when she knows she’s about to get some.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

John thinks he must have, at some point, been some kind of saint in a past life, because that is the only way he could possibly imagine something so great happening to him: his tattoo artist stopping mid tattoo to wrap her lips around his cock.

The entire afternoon was a haze. When his tattoo was done, her breath now smelling faintly like cum, he let out a satisfied sigh, admiring his fresh ink in the mirror.

“Looks like you, ya know.” He mused, meeting her gaze. She looked momentarily shocked, as if she seriously had not intended that.

“Good,” she replied with a smirk finding its way to her lips. “Marking my territory.” Oh, she had no idea how right she was.

CoD Masterlist

285 notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 22 days ago

Text

johnny dates your friend and then asks her if she's got any friends (you) for his friend (simon). but simon freaks you out. he can't hold a conversation— or won't, you're not sure; you're lucky if you get monosyllabic grunts out of him as if he were a neanderthal. the only times you've seriously heard him talk is to bark out words at either johnny or the bartender.

he walks around with a poorly concealed weapon on his hip, almost like he is expecting trouble. he wears all black, which is completely fine, but then a skull balaclava that he refuses to take off, even to drink his liquor. you don't try to hide the grimace on your face when you watch him sip through the thick fabric. he's got skeleton gloves on his hands too, like some sort of shit cosplay to match his mask.

and he fucking stares, unashamedly so. it is unblinking, scrutinizing, intense— his dark eyes, pools of midnight, keen. he stares at the people walking in through the door, stares at johnny when he takes your friend to the dance floor, and when you tell him out of courtesy that you're going to go get another drink, you can feel him boring holes into the back of your head as you walk away, piercing flesh and bone.

the phantom fingers of his gaze trace icy paths along your spine, erupting your skin in goosebumps. you find him immensely creepy, and you thank the fucking stars you're only here as a favor for your friend. you don't think you want to do this again. he's either a wanted serial killer or just a goddamn freak.

a heavy arm wraps around your shoulders once you're at the bar, and with a sneer on your lips, you turn to the owner of said offending limb, only to come face to face with johnny. he leans into you, close enough to where you can feel his stubble grazing the shell of your ear. (back up, brother.)

"listen, bonnie!" you wince; it's really not that loud in here for him to be yelling like that. "ah ken, ghos— er, simon, might no' be yer average man. he can be a little off-puttin'—" a little? if he doesn't follow you home and skin you alive, you'd be incredibly fortunate— "but ah promise ye, while he may no' be boyfriend material, he's an incredible fuck."

excuse me? he's got to be positively pissed. "maybe you should slow down, yeah? you might already be three sheets to the wind if you're gassing up your unsettling friend's cock. no offense."

"naw! ah'm tellin' ye. long ago, we had a mission tha' ran everyone tight, 'n so we relieved tension the only way we could— big, strong guy like him had me limpin' for a few days after."

you're about to ask for an angel shot because there is no way in hell that your friend's boyfriend is making casual conversation about him getting absolutely railed by—

"give 'em a try. jus' the once, i swear he don't bite," johnny pauses-- the rosy flush on his nose and cheeks vibrant, "unless ye ask nicely. yer friend said ye needed to get laid, anyways." oh, you're gonna fucking kill her, that long-tongued cretin.

"right!" you drink the remainder of your cocktail in one big gulp, liquid warmth trailing down your throat, before not-so-kindly shrugging him off. "i'm gonna go, you, uh— we didn't have this conversation, for the sake of my friend." you gesture at the bartender. "one more, please. i'm gonna need it."

damn. now johnny's got you thinking about getting your back broken by simon. maybe you really are just down horrendously, or maybe it's the alcohol in your system that has decided to toss all self-preservation out the metaphorical window because now you can't stop noticing him.

he's real tall— enough to have him slightly tipping his head to walk through a doorway. his shoulders are mountainous, his hands the size of a bear's paw. his physicality is undoubtedly impressive and well, you've always been weak to burly, commanding men.

you make eye contact with johnny from across the room, his bright blue eyes alive under the dim light of the dingy bar, and the bastard shifts his gaze from simon to you, giving a cheeky wink.

lifting your glass, you drink the last of your liquid courage— the taste of it bittersweet. it has been a long time since you've gotten laid.

double damn.

"hey." you lean slightly toward simon, cupping your hand around your mouth. "you and i both know why we're here. take me home?" the way he looks at you has you shifting restlessly in your seat. did you perhaps make a mistake? oh, fuck. did you just throw yourself cunt-first at someone who is not interested? your face burns with embarrassment, heat licking up your cheeks. maybe the earth will split open, right here ri—

"let's go then." oh thank fucking god. you don't know what you would've done if he'd said no. shrivel up and die, probably. "uber'll be here in 4."

when it arrives, he places his leather jacket around your shoulders, cocooning you in its warmth— the heady scent of nicotine clings to the garment— and leads you outside with a hand on the small of your back.

the world outside the car blurs into a hazy painting as the driver navigates the streets. colors blend together, once sharp outlines now dissolved. the rain gently taps on the window, a soothing sound that could easily lull you to sleep until you start when a roughened palm suddenly glides along your thigh— fingers slowly tracing intimate patterns on your skin.

simon's hand is hot, and it only burns hotter the closer it gets to your center under your least favorite skirt. he cannot be serious right now. you place your hand over his, short nails biting into him because there is no way you're about to be fingered in an uber—

his voice is deep, a deliciously thick rumble, right by your ear. "nice kitty." you've never been one for pet names or anything else for that matter, but the pulse of arousal that shoots up your spine has a shaky exhale leaving your lips, a ghostly breath fogging up the window.

the tips of his fingers tease the seam of your knickers, a generic cotton fabric that clings to your dampening cunt like a second skin— desire trickling onto the gusset. your whimper is drowned out by the terrible music the driver is currently playing when his small finger grazes over your slit, featherlight.

"so wet already? i've barely even touched ya, love." again with the cunt-clenching nicknames. he has no business purring them out like that. "i can smell your sweet pussy from here. you really must be achin' for it." of course the time he chooses to be vocal, it's to spew filth. "don't worry, i'll treat ya good."

somehow, you actually manage to choke out a response. "i'm sure. johnny-" you hiss through clenched teeth when he slips under your knickers, a finger brushing along your slick entrance, "said you had him walking side to side once." you buck your hips, seeking the friction you need, but it only makes him pull away a bit; how unsurprisingly cruel.

"only because he was bein' a brat. you're not a brat though, are ya? gonna be good f'me?" your tongue is heavy in your mouth, words lodged in your throat— all you can give him is a slight nod. "i expect verbal answers. i'd hate to spank your arse raw. how would ya sit down after?"

the idea of being bent over his strong thighs, face pressed into his couch as his firm hand takes you into the needy subspace you crave is too much, or maybe not enough because you're tucking your face into the side of his neck in an instant. "please," you warble, unsure of what you're even begging for.

he curls his finger, slipping between your lips, and when he finally brushes your clit— a fleeting, tantalizing touch— your eyes threaten to roll into the back of your head. "needy little thing. i bet there's a damp spot right where you're sittin'. drippin' all over my fingers—" your breath is ripped from your lungs when he abruptly pulls his hand out and away, the sodden material of your knickers snapping against your heated skin. you're about to snarl out a vicious what the fuck, but the once-blurred scenery outside sharpens into focus.

the driver parks and looks at you from the rearview mirror. "we're here." you mumble a muted thank you, stepping out with quivering legs and a drenched cunt. a crisp breeze dances across your skin, a refreshing contrast to the stifling heat from inside the car.

as soon as the car drives off, you're hoisted onto a broad shoulder. the world tilts, and you fist the back of simon's shirt for stability. "highly unnecessary. i can wa—" you let out a squeak when he slaps the back of your thigh, the sharp bite of it sending a jolt straight to your throbbing center.

"hush."

you sputter indignantly as you hold on tighter, breaths coming out in short gasps, syncing with each step. "i beg your pardon?"

you yelp when he gives you another slap, this time closer to your cunt. "then beg." you're rendered speechless.

wow. maybe you've actually bitten off more than you can chew.

the wet cement under you is a blur, the texture lost in the rush of his movements until he comes to a stop, and you hear a familiar jingle of keys. he bursts through the door, the hinges groaning in protest, and you're staggeringly planted on both feet.

"nice place." a lie. it looks unlived in— brand spanking new. you vaguely hear the lock behind you as you take in your surroundings. a perfect, leather couch, not a crease in sight. the rug under it is pristine and bland, a cream color that matches the rest of his flat. impersonal. not an ounce of real personality anywhere. you begin shrugging off his jacket when you're suddenly pressed against the cold door, simon bent at the knees in front of you, his dark eyes— sharp as blades— lock onto yours.

"gonna beg?"

the fire in your lower belly reignites at the sight of his unmasked face. ash-brown hair in a simple crew cut, thick brows with the right one bisected by a pink, gnarled scar. slightly crooked nose, broken one too many times, and thin, pale lips. a countenance to match his rugged personality.

you're pulled out of your thoughts when he licks a hot stripe over your covered slit and you mewl at the sensation. "i asked you a question."

the words rush out of your mouth before you can even think of stopping them. "yes, yes! please, god, i don't- just- please let me come! i-" his thumbs hook into the waistband of your knickers and tug them down slowly, strings of arousal sticking to the gusset, smearing on your inner thighs.

"alrigh', since ya begged so prettily." your vision goes white when he throws one leg over his shoulder, and his slick tongue slides through your folds, the tip flicking your clit lightly. he laps at your cunt like it drips milk and honey— nourishing and sweet. simon groans into you, the sound crawling up your vertebrae and into the base of your skull.

he begins to draw lazy circles around your pearl, every swirl of his tongue has your back bowing as if winding it, inching you closer to the precipice. your toes curl in your shoes, hands finding purchase in his coarse hair, knuckles staining white as you start the feel the familiar tightening in your lower belly.

and then he pushes one thick finger into you, down to the scarred knuckle, and crooks it. the squelching noise your dripping pussy makes when he presses on the tiny patch of rough skin inside is loud and obscene; practically echoing off the dull, ivory walls of his flat.

"gonna come f'me? make a mess all over my hand?" simon adds another finger, a slight burn nipping at the heels of the pleasure coiling under your navel.

"c'mon. give it to me, pet." his lips encircle your clit, giving it a light suckle and it's—

the coil snaps, a sudden release of tension. it is violent and oh, so exquisite. white noise in your head, your ears, coursing through your veins. it prickles, it stings; it's pleasure and pain. your soul sinks back into your body— like a feather returning to its nest— and you blink, momentarily unbalanced.

"ya with me?"

you breathe deep— the taste of salt in the air, the scent of sweat-slick skin, your heart pulsing with life. "yes. i'm here." the man took you to the stars and laid you on them. jesus.

"good." the room spins, and you're weightless, nestled in his arms. it'd seem innocent if it wasn't for the stickiness in between your thighs, or the prominent bulge in his jeans occasionally pressing into your arse.

simon kicks a door open, knob bouncing off the wall with a crack, and quickly places you on the bed before tugging his shirt off. the belt and jeans come off next, and—

"you don't wear pants." why would he let that monstrosity just hang like that?

"good observation. is water still wet?" he asks, tonelessly. you narrow your eyes at him, pushing your tongue against the back of your teeth.

"fuck me for having eyes and using them as intended, i guess," you mumble under your breath. he grabs you by the ankle and tugs the skirt off, then your shoes, "ouch, i like my feet where they are, thank you," and literally rips your shirt in half. "you'll be giving me on of yours before i leave as recompense."

he holds himself up with his arms over you, your thighs burning as they cradle his hips.

his cock is a heavy, hot weight on your stomach— ruddy, leaking tip right under your navel. you're not small by any means, but he's going to tear you in half. there's no surviving such an onslaught. he's not just leaving you with a limp, he's going to turn your two smaller holes into one big one.

he tears into a golden wrapper with his teeth, and expertly rolls the condom on. simon lowers down to his elbows and nudges your jaw with his nose. "i'll stop the moment ya call it. tap on me if you're feelin' overwhelmed."

that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to you, and the fact that it comes from a massive creep who stares at people like they owe him money has you a bit dumbstruck.

his stubble grazes the side of your neck as he glides his cock along your slick folds; once, thrice, until the head catches on your swollen entrance. simon pushes in slow, agonizingly slow— you don't know if it's better or worse because you feel every devastating inch of his length as it forcibly wrenches your walls apart.

your senses are solely focused on him: his body enveloping yours completely. his breath, sweetened like malt, wafts gently across your skin. his thick waist that you can't fully wrap your legs around. everything about him is big— his physicality, his presence, his cock.

"take a deep breath for me, pet. feel everythin' i'm givin' you."

your lungs expand as you do, and when you exhale, your muscles slacken. rapturous pleasure begins to bleed through the delicate membrane that separates it from the bite of pain, until boundaries are blurred and—

and he sinks into you like a rock breaking the surface tension of still water, bottoming out in one, smooth stroke. you can't help the mewl that falls from your lips nor the way your walls clamp down around him.

"fuck, there it is. so bloody tight, this greedy cunt is takin' my cock like it was made for me."

there isn't a single coherent thought in your head and you're glad for it. finally, someone to fuck you stupid.

simon gives you an experimental thrust, dragging his length along every single one of your nerves, and then another— desire overflowing from where he stuffs you to the very brim. "good. ready?"

he takes your tiny nod as an answer this time and begins to fuck you in earnest. it takes everything in you to not black out from how perfect it felt.

simon puts his weight behind every thrust, a steady pull out, and a spine-jarring push in. you can feel him deep in your stomach, a delicious pinch of discomfort each time he presses against the plug of your womb.

"so fuckin' wet, your cunt's droolin' all over me." he hooks an arm under your left leg and lifts, the angle he's put you in tittering dangerously on the tightrope of rapture and ache.

it's so good, so fucking good, your slick walls fluttering as he carves himself into you, your soul, your cunt when you feel a tight snap inside.

simon pulls out in an instant, taking your breath with him as he does. you look down at his cock and notice that—

"the condom broke. i've got another in the drawer, gimme a sec."

there is some weird thing that lodges in place somewhere deep in your sternum when you realize that he's been nothing but considerate and attentive to you since he brought you home and hasn't fussed over anything once. it's an extremely low bar, you are aware. rewarding what should be the bare fucking minimum is sad, but you're not completely altruistic in your motives anyway. you want to feel his bare cock inside as he rearranges your insides.

"no!" he quickly turns to look at you, "no. it's okay. i'm clean and i'm also on the pill. if that's okay with you, of course."

a man his stature should not move as fast as he just did, blinking from one side of the room to the other. he quickly throws both of your legs over his shoulders, heels resting on his back when he sinks back in, this time letting out a guttural groan as he does.

you can feel the ridge of his flared head, the warmth of his cock seeping into your tender walls— a new level of intimacy. he fucks you with fervor now, a precise snap of his hips that has your teeth clacking with every thrust.

your climax takes you by complete surprise, crashing into you like waves on a rocky, jagged shore. burst after burst of blinding pleasure threatens to consume you whole, and when your limbs are loose and syrupy— body limp— only then do you realize that he came just as fast. thick white ropes of viscous spend cover your stomach and trail down to your abused cunt.

your hamstrings already hurt with delayed onset muscle soreness. you might actually need a wheelchair to go back home.

(thank god your hips held out, and no, you don't care that it's essentially sacrilegious of you to even think that.)

his breathing comes out in ragged bursts, beads of sweat dripping onto the valley of your breasts.

and he's back to the fucking staring. "simon."

"pet."

"please stop looking at me like that."

he huffs and dips his head to flick your hardened nipple with his tongue, making you hiss with over sensitivity.

"make me."

as dawn breaks, the world begins to stir awake. hues of pale pink stain the sky, the first blush of morning. light and shadow begin to blend in the bedroom.

your phone vibrates under the pillow, simon's arm tightening around your soft waist at the buzzing sound. his lips press a light kiss on the sensitive skin by your ear, and his large hand begins to weave its way downward, pads of his fingers gathering the evidence of last night (or early morning) and gently parts your folds, brushing light strokes on your clit.

when he places your leg around his hip and sinks into you from behind, your phone buzzes again-- alone and forgotten.

good morning!!! i expect a full, detailed report by lunch or so help you god.

sent 5:30 am

about time you got laid, you're not you when you're horny.

sent 5:49 am

9K notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 23 days ago

Text

advienne que pourra

FKA: Meet Cuties (female!reader x eventual poly!141)

Part Twelve: Substitute Teacher

Previous | Series | Next Summary: One of you art teachers quits and you need a quick replacement. John is the perfect choice, even if he is a bit nervous about it. CW: mdni AN: Can you tell I love the kids in the all ages class? Also, I love writing this story because from the start I said to myself "pacing? what pacing? We're going on vibes"

You should have known Tuesday morning that your day was going to go to hell in a handbasket. Your phone had died in the night, the charger having come undone at some point, the alarm you had set to wake you up never going off. You had no coffee or breakfast because the plan had been to stop at the cafe on your way into work to grab something. So naturally you made it to work in time, but were very frazzled and very hungry.

You didn’t have time to even settle in before noticing that Prue was already on a rampage. Why? You weren’t entirely sure but she had yelled at a volunteer in front of guests and had once again cornered you about the gala with thinly veiled threats to kill your programming. You weren’t sure she could actually do that but you weren’t going to put it to the test.

Then the truly terrible thing happened.

Grant Dalton, instructor for the all ages classes, had quit, effective immediately.

Grant had already been teaching the class when you were hired and had been the one to tell you about how the classes worked. He had been instrumental in helping you set up the adult figure drawing class and finding an instructor. More importantly, he was on the schedule to teach the class happening that afternoon.

You sat at your desk in your office. It was a good thing you hadn’t been sitting at circulation doing double duty because the string of curses that left your mouth as you reread the email would have made some of the pensioners blush.

And so you had spent most of the morning trying to come up with alternatives. Reaching out to the local schools and museums for anyone available. And maybe if you had had warning you would have had time to find someone even just for the day but you hadn’t.

You were pacing the hall outside of the community room when John found you. You were sure you looked frazzled, you felt frazzled. Far more frazzled then when you thought your biggest challenge of the day was being hungry.

“Ye alright, hen?”

“Oh yeah, peachy, I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

“Dinnae sound fine. Anythin’ Ah can help ye with?”

You turned on your heel, stopping your pacing and looking at the Scot.

John was always early for class, you had a suspicion he had a very open schedule and despite being tempted to ask Simon you had restrained yourself. You already felt guilty enough being…friends? Acquaintances? Co-conspirators?

Whatever you were, you felt guilty enough about it without getting intel on John from his partner.

“I-” and you stop, because the answer is right here in front of you.

John looks at you expectantly, running a hand through his shaggy mohawk. You would have been more surprised by the haircut but one of the boys from the all ages class had found you after to ask if John was okay. Ali was one of the more sensitive teens from the group and it didn’t surprise you that he was the first to approach you or to admit he was worried the other boys were bullying a grown man.

And even though you had consoled Ali, you were not ready for the scar that John’s haircut had uncovered. He still frequently wore hats and they mostly covered the starburst of puckered skin, but not fully, not enough to forget about its existence.

“I need you-”

“Och lass, Ahm right flattered but Ahm taken.”

You opened your mouth then closed it, “for fucks sake, John.”

You grabbed his arm and yanked him into the community room before he announced to the whole library you were trying to get in his pants. Not true.

“I need you to teach the class today.”

“Wot?”

“Grant quit, like this morning, said bye, good luck, sayonara.”

“And ye think Ah can teach the class?”

“The kids love you, the others I couldn’t care less about. Do it for the kids,” you pleaded, hoping the Scot wasn’t secretly heartless.

“Ah dinnae ken, Ahm nae sure Ah can dae it.”

“Of course you can, please, John,” you grabbed his hands, turning him to face you.

You weren’t as stunned by his casual beauty as you had been when he first started coming to the library, and while the others still blushed and stammered whenever he asked a question you felt the two of you had built a rapport, something mutual and fully platonic. But, as you looked up at the Scot, those disarmingly blue eyes, the way he was ruggedly beautiful with a strong jaw and scars that marred his skin like the paints on one of his canvases telling a story, he seemed like he would rather hide behind obscurity.

Simon was rather lucky to have him.

“John, please, just today, for me. And if you hate it I will never ask you again.”

“Och, cannae believe yer goin’ tae make me dae this.”

Your eyes widened, a smile overtaking your face for the first time that day.

“Really? Like really really?”

“Aye, really.”

“I could kiss you right now!” You clapped your hands together, mind already racing over what your next steps were. First minor crisis avoided.

“Dinnae swing yer way, lass. But Ah would settle for a pint.”

“Yeah, okay, sure, later. First, what do we need to get ready for class?”

“We?”

“We, because you aren’t technically approved to teach a class so I will have to stay. Hmm,” you tapped your foot, looking around the room. You hadn’t sat in on a class for a few months, the instructors took care of most of the work. And there was the issue of your own job. “Okay, you do whatever it is you need to do here, I need to go make sure everyone is all set upstairs. That work?”

John simply nodded.

The all ages class was scheduled to start after the local secondary school let out and already there was a trickle of unruly teens coming into the library.

When you made it back to the community room a few people were already sitting around the tables, eyeing John as he went through the shelves where the supplies were kept, pulling out things at random. By the time most of the regulars had signed in and taken their places John had a selection of items pulled out at the desk the instructors typically used.

“Oi, Mac, whatcha doin’ up there?” One of the older teens, Javi, asked from where he sat, slumped down in his chair like all the bones had left his body.

And here we go.

“What’s it look like Ahm doin’?”

“Where’s Mr. Dalton?” Ali asked next.

“Alright,” you interrupted, clapping your hands together and getting the attention of the class, “sadly Grant is no longer with us and John will be leading the class today.”

“Oh, shite he snuffed it?” another one of the boys asked.

“What? No, he’s just not teaching the class. John is going to be the instructor today.”

“Mac, you a teacher?” Javi again.

You let out a sigh, stepping up to the front of the class and standing next to John, hopefully showing a united front despite the fact you could see him clutching the edge of the desk behind him tight enough his knuckles were white.

“No more questions, if you have questions you can ask me after class. Until then, John is going to lead you. What were you working on last week?” you turned to direct the question to John.

“Still-” he stumbled over the word, “still lifes, but Ah was thinkin’ we could spice it up?”

“Whatever you want, you're the teacher.”

You sat in the back of the class, using your phone to check in on emails while John led the class through the exercise. You didn’t want to be too hopeful but what he was setting up wouldn’t be done by the end of the hour long class.

You stopped scrolling emails when a text came through from “loverboi”.

A run club? You weren’t exactly the most athletic person. The extent of your cardio nowadays was wrangling kids during story time and you avoided that assignment like the plague. But the last time you had out on sneakers with the intent to run? Undergrad maybe? You had a roommate who was a bit of a gym rat.

Has it really been that long? It was a little embarrassing to admit, even to yourself.

Without answering you opened up a browser on your laptop and started searching for new sneakers. While you were at it you probably needed exercise clothes, your raggedy joggers and cut off tees would probably look out of place at a run club, even one that was beginner friendly.

You could probably use some more physical activity in your life, maybe this was the push you needed? You definitely needed to make more friends, of course you had Sandra and the other librarians, but you needed a life outside of work. That was the whole point of this move.

A fresh start.

(You didn’t count Simon, couldn’t count him when you were sitting in the same room as his boyfriend who didn’t know you had befriended his partner. It still made you feel guilty. Especially when you had plans to see Simon again tonight.)

So, a run club would be a good start, meet some fresh faces, get back out there, meet some people your own age. Ogling Kyle in his gym clothes was just a bonus. And maybe the other John was free? You could see if he wanted to get dinner, let you properly repay him for fixing your sink.

There, a text to the other John askin if he was free for dinner and one to Kyle saying you would give it a try and he better not be lying about it being beginner friendly.

At the front of the room John had concluded explaining what the class could work on and had started walking around the room talking with each of the attendees about their plans. You hadn’t really paid much attention to what the class would be doing but you could tell the teens were excited as they whispered to each other grinning from ear to ear. They might given John a hard time, teasing him about things like his hair, but they did like him. At least enough to listen to him.

He eventually made his way to you, dropping down in the unoccupied chair beside you.

“That wasnae bad,” he admitted.

“Not out of the woods yet, gotta get through clean up.”

John shrugged, looking around the room.

“Does the teacher ‘ave tae be like a proper teacher?” he asked, avoiding eye contact as he waited.

“No, Grant was, or he had been an art instructor at some point. Bruce was never a teacher though, just loved figure drawing and responded to the advert. Why?”

“Ah could, ah mean, if ye were interested o’course-“

“Spit it out John,” you said with a smile turning to him.

“Ah could teach the class.”

You had been so sure it would take longer to convince him, maybe some bribing, baked goods, coffees, something like that.

“You sure? Don’t want to sleep on it or anything?”

John turned to face you, running a hand absentmindedly through his hair and pulling the locks away from the scar. You couldn’t be sure he even realized how on display the movement made it. The puckered skin, the redness. It wasn’t an old scar, Simon’s concern for John was enough of a giveaway that something traumatic had happened to him that he hadn’t yet fully recovered from.

Did you ever really recover from something like that?

“Ahm sure, if Ah sleep on it there’s a good chance Ah would say nae. Ah would ‘ave time tae talk meself out of it. Ye ken?”

You did know, you knew what it felt like to start second guessing yourself, second guessing your worth and your abilities. Second guessing yourself where before you would have forged on fearlessly. John struck you as the kind of man who had been fearless.

He deserved to feel that way again.

“Yeah, okay cool, so I will have a ton of paperwork for us to get through so that we are ready for next week. Do you want to come to my office after class? I can print out everything and go through the paperwork together?”

He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck now, frowning a bit before asking, “is there a lot tae read through?”

“Not much, I can walk you through it all. Make sure you understand it before you sell your soul to me,” you finished with a wink.

When the class was over, and John had finally sent off the overly excited teens who couldn’t stop spitballing art ideas at the Scot, the two of you made your way to your office. It was still cramped, your desk covered in piles of books and paper.

The day had started so poorly, but as the Scot scrunched himself into the other desk chair, trying to get comfortable in the crowded space you couldn’t help but hope things were looking up for you now.

“Alright, let’s get started.”

Previous | Series | Next

93 notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 24 days ago

Note

I just got a new jumpsuit and didn't realize anytime I need to use the bathroom I need someone to untie me because of the way it lays on my back. (It's stupid and annoying but it was my first time wearing it so I didn't know)

Now I'm just picturing a pretty bird going up to the 141 and asking them to undress her (because she's tipsy, can't find her friends, and needs to use the bathroom but her own outfit is holding her hostage lol) what would the boys reactions be?

YELLING I HAVE TO YELL OMG I LOVE I LOVE I LOVE!!! (also bestie that sounds so annoying it would have to be the CUTEST jumpsuit for me to want to keep it once i had that realization)

ok here we go:

price: he's been aware of you, dancing and singing along to the songs over head across the club that he only agreed to come to because soap and gaz threatened mutiny if he and ghost didn't come along. (and to prevent possible crimes. it's happened before when they're unsupervised.) he's been enjoying watching you dance, but hasn't made a move to interrupt you. it's not his scene and he's got a great view. figured when you needed a breather he could swoop in and introduce himself. but then you glance around the club, frowning and swaying a little, and when your eyes find him you beam and beeline right for him. you're obviously a little tipsy, a little handsy, giggling with slightly glazed eyes and a flushed, pretty face (he wonders if you look like this when you've just been fucked, hopes he can compare from personal experience) and you ask him for some help in the bathroom. and he would say no, he's a gentleman and much as he'd like to you're in no state, but then some asshole sitting beside him tries to swoop in and he has to shut that shit down fast. he takes you in to the staff bathroom after speaking with the bartender (and exchanging a little money), and is a perfect gentleman about it. really. (there were like three mirrors in the bathroom and he got a good fucking view when he was leaving to guard the door from the outside while you peed, and he was definitely looking through his hand shielding his eyes when he came back in.) and if he lets his hands linger a little as he laces you back up, if he kisses your shoulder and lets his hands drop to squeeze your waist - well then who could blame him, really? he drops you back with your friends with your number in his phone and a kiss to the cheek. "See you 'round, pretty bird."

ghost: like price, he'd been dragged to the club against his will. soap has been begging him to be his wingman (why is anyone's guess, it's not like ghost's great at. like. talking to birds.) and he finally gave in and agreed just to shut him up. he's having a rough time, honestly, it's loud and crowded and not his scene at all, but what's making it bearable is the pretty bird in a jumpsuit having a ball out on the dance floor. he's trying not to be obvious about watching, but soap's caught him a couple times, enough to tease him (annoying little shit, he'll have the fucker run drills til he pukes), enough even for you to notice, flashing him smiles and even waving at him across the floor. (he froze for a full minute before his hand twitched, raising halfway before he realized you weren't even looking at him anymore and he put it down.) he watches you look around, craning your neck, trying to find something, and is arguing with himself about his instinct to walk over and ask what you need when suddenly you're walking over to him. his ears and face burn with heat as you brace yourself with a hand on his upper thigh to lean in and ask sweetly against his ear if he'll help you out of your jumpsuit, and he can't speak for a long moment, his brain just static. until soap (he knows how to get the LT back online) tries to offer to help and ghost surges to a standing position, bristling like an angry cat "sit the fuck down, sergeant. i can handle this" he walks you into the mens bathroom like it's nothing, and one barked order has all the drunks scattering like rats. he locks the door behind the last of them and ensures the bathroom is clear (and selects the cleanest stall) before his shaking hands get you out. he spends the time you're in the stall firmly telling himself not to get hard, that it's just being a good samaritan or whatever. it's no big deal. but then you come out, batting your eyes and asking for help, one hand holding the waist of the jumpsuit up and the other covering your tits, and he nearly falls to his knees. yeah, he decides as he fumbles to try to get you redressed, he's gotta get your number or something. "So love. Where do you live?"

gaz: this is one of his favorite bars. not too overpriced, not too 'hole in the wall', frequented by people his age rather than just the old locals who's grandparents went and sat in their same chairs however many years back, and yet it's not totally overwhelmed by tourists. it's really the perfect bar. it's his go-to when he wants to blow off steam or get a good old fashioned or, like tonight, dance. he saw you come in with your friends, huddled together like a pack of lionesses on the hunt, all dressed up and ready to swoop in for the kill. he took one look at you and groaned out loud, enough for the bloke next to him to look over at you and your friends and whistle softly. he swooped in before anyone else could get a chance to, glad to escort you over to the dance floor, supervise your trips to the bar, one eye on the bartender and any other man who dared try to get close, his other eye on you as you talked. you're a lightweight, that much is for sure, or maybe you just don't drink that often if all it takes for you to get all cute and tipsy is two vodka crans and a few sips of his beer from the bottle he keeps dangled between his fingers while his arms are around you. you smell and feel like heaven, and he'd originally been planning to take you back to his, but he's not sure that's on the table anymore when you stumble back, giggling against his chest. and then you lift that pretty face and ask him so sweet to help you find your friends because you 'need help' in the bathroom, and he swears he nearly goes blind as arousal hits him hard and fast. he plays the gentleman at first, offering gallantly to help you find your friends, but would you look at that, nowhere to be seen? oh well, he's happy to help if you'd like, baby. he takes you to the ladies' room, a charming smile and a short explanation preventing any alarm from rising as the bathroom empties. he keeps his eyes closed ('fumbling' or really just groping and feeling up your hot skin and the perfect give to your body under his hands), babbling apologies when his hands 'slip' as he unties and then reties you. by the time you're all laced up again your hands are running over his chest, your thighs pressing together and a needy look replacing the tipsy gaze in your eye. he cups your chin, smiling charmingly. "I think I'd like to do that again sometime. But maybe at my place, and not a bathroom. And you'd take it all the way off...and keep it off."

soap: he fucking loves going to clubs. gay clubs, strip clubs, german clubs, overpriced nightclubs, hole in the wall barely staying afloat clubs, underground punk clubs, whatever, he loves them all. and while he loves dragging his team out with him whenever he can, he doesn't drag them out every time he goes, think how much work that would be to make sure they have a good time while he's working his magic with a pretty hen. so he's alone when he sees you across the dance floor, and he's instantly in love with the way your hips move. he's never been shy about wanting a lass a day in his life, and you're not different in the least. you move against him like a goddamn dream and he's been half hard for the last few dances, his hands on your hips and his mouth on your neck, and he would press for more but he's admittedly had a few drinks and so have you, so he's trying to keep a clear head and at least pretend to be a gentleman (even if he's already put a hand on your tits and squeezed when they put Buttons on earlier, smirking when it made you shiver). but then you turn around, crowding close, and manage to convey to him that you have to find your friends for some 'help in the bathroom'. he grins like a wolf and says he can give you everything you need. admittedly his mind is in the gutter and he doesn't even care about the women gasping in shock when you tow him inside, just smiles and waves at them all. and of course he's disappointed when you reassure them that you're not having sex, he's just helping you with the back of your jumpsuit. (he thinks it's fascinating how all the women take one look at the back and immediately nod, empathetic noises coming from them) no one leaves and he's all smirks and wandering hands, praise pouring out of his mouth at your dancing skills, how good you smell, how pretty your skin is, hen, wow, look at that when the top slips and he gets a good peek over your shoulder at your tits before you cover them. the other girls giggle as you playfully smack him before ducking into a stall, and he just smiles and leans against the wall waiting for you. "you're a really good boyfriend" some girl sighs wistfully. "my Tom would never set foot in a ladies room" he doesn't correct her, just thanks her and tells her to ditch Tom, which is met with raucous applause. when you emerge from the stall he plasters himself to your back as he ties you back up, playfully saying "such a shame to cover all this back up, lassie. but i can take you back to mine and get a proper look later." your eyes meet his in the mirror, blushing hard, and you ask, "is that a threat?" "no, hen, s'a promise."

296 notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 24 days ago

Note

Tag teaming Ghost you say? Inspiration you say??

First thought, Mace and you tag teaming Ghost,

Then Soap,

Settled on Price. Because everyone wants Price to show Simon how to fuck your pussy right. Make you whine and groan and soak the bed.

But what about Price teaching YOU how to leave Simon a squirming sobbing mess.

But that's just a thought, y'know 😋

“Mmph—fuck—”

Simon’s practically slack-jawed, you’re grinding something fierce against his prostate. And if you aren’t doing that, you’re alternating between shallow and deep thrusts, rolling your hips just like that, all to draw those wonderful sounds out. Bloody fuckin’ hell.

And Price is nursing his cigar, watching from the sidelines, and guiding you whenever necessary, but you’re a quick study.

After all, you were right where he is not even thirty minutes ago, watching him fuck his soldier, bringing out a side of Simon reserved for only you and him.

145 notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 24 days ago

Text

Perving on Captain Price

You're making him uncomfortable. Good.

Serves him right for deciding to see you as some sort of daughter figure before you even shook his hand and introduced yourself as the new member of his old task force.

He wasn't even that much older than you. He wasn't even old! Definitely old-fashioned, though. Something along the lines of what they call "positive sexism". He sees a girl, cute and young, surrounded by men who either want her out of the room or want her in their bed—oftentimes both, one after the other. He feels the need to protect you, look after you, help you adjust, and make you comfortable.

You want to see the imprint of his cock bulging out of your stomach. You want to hear yourself squelch embarrassingly loud from his hard and slow thrusts into your pussy. You want to taste his cum before you swallow it all and open your mouth like a whore to show him proudly. You want your bedsheets to smell like him for days when you're done with him.

And you keep touching him. All the time. Anywhere you want. Everywhere you want. His shoulder when you pass by him in the hallways. His hair in the breakroom when you claim to see something stuck to it. His fingers when you insist on delivering your paperwork straight into his hands.

But if you had to be honest, you would have to say that you like showing him more. Nothing too obvious, obviously. Just tasteful and careful views; a little cleavage here and there, a slip of leg whenever you wore something short for the day, a subtle arch of your back that you know he can't keep his eyes off of. So, nothing you can't pretend that isn't on purpose and make him feel like he's the pervert in this annoyingly still platonic relationship.

Which means that you have no choice but to be content with simply watching the effect you have on him. The way he keeps clearing his throat and pulling excuses from thin air to leave the room far too quick to not be obvious. The way he has to cross his legs, wince at the sensation, and immediately try to cover it with an over-the-top fake cough. The way he shies away from your direct gaze but tries to sneak glances at you with an adorable flush on his teddy-bear cheeks immediately after.

One of these days, you swear you're gonna snap and just tackle him to the ground and ride him on the floor like a suctioned dildo, fully clothed and right in the open where everyone can see you.

You have no idea how dangerously close he is to laying you on his lap and spanking your insolent ass raw if you keep on keeping this up. Acting like a real fucking slut. He's not a green little altar boy, okay? He knows what you're doing. He's trying to restrain himself. But he's not stopping you either; he tried, but after he chickened out halfway through the conversation on both separate attempts and started stammering about hardware parts for fifteen agonizing fucking minutes, he's not going to humiliate himself that way again. Ever. Instead, he's going to shut up and take it like a good boy and beat his cock every night to the thought of you, emptying load after load into his palm and biting back angry, shameful tears. Because what else can he do?

You'd love to show him. All he needs to do is say yes.

Yes, please.

4K notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 1 month ago

Text

Concept: John Price has a lovely little wife at home, that he shares with his boys when the going gets tough…

John Price x Simon Ghost Riley x Mrs Price (You)

Shameless smut. Threesome. Squirting. Bit of Price x Riley action. Little bit angsty (blame Simon)

Masterlist

Simon is a special case. You and John don’t acknowledge that, but it’s true all the same. It started when John asked one year if Simon could come for Christmas. You’d agreed, faintly irritated that your peaceful noel with your often absent husband was going to be interrupted.

Then the man had skulked into your bright, festive home, riddled with silent self loathing well concealed under a veneer of indifference, and you’d forgotten about being angry.

Simon adored your soft coddling, the endless rounds of tea you made him and the small tasks he carried out that made you beam up at his thawing onyx eyes. It didn’t take long for him to start trailing around the house after you while John read the paper, then to sit as close to you as possible during firelight warmed nights watching the old sitcom reruns they play over the Christmas period.

From what little John had told you, Simon had a rough upbringing. He’s important to John, as all his boys are. But with Simon there’s a layer of understanding between the two men that runs deep.

If anything happens to John abroad, it’s Simon that’s written into his will to stand beside you through the agony of it. Simon who has access to John’s offshore accounts so they can’t be traced back to you in the event it all goes south. In essence, Simon’s so thoroughly invested that at times he feels like he took the same vows to you John did, no wedding band upon his finger needed.

Simon was the first person you both let into your marital bed. More than that though he became a part of your marriage, the silent third in the relationship, never asking anything of either you or John, but gratefully included all the same. It’s not official, Simon visits sporadically like an alleycat with several homes that feed it.

But you enjoy the intimacy and so does John. It isn’t unusual for him to visit without your husband at his shoulder, and John is always quietly thrilled when he comes home to Simon’s boots neatly resting next to your smaller shoes on the rack. You invite him for Christmas every year, and Simon always comes home with John a few days beforehand to maximise the time you all have together.

No one else on base has a clue, and though Simon would never admit it, he loves you both entirely. His loyalty to John is unwavering, a steadfast commitment made years ago in the wreckage of his old life, the one that came before Ghost or skulls reeking of gunpowder.

The adoration of you came unexpectedly, from a place of intense jealousy that John had love in someone else and the home comforts he had always failed to find. At first Simon resented John’s insistence that he should meet you, stay in your shared house filled to the brim with simple domesticity.

But after that first taste, Simon knew he’d found a place for himself, lying between you both in the long hours of the night, his head on your chest and John’s broad hand at the nape of his neck.

Perhaps that’s why he takes it so very personally when he feels a spare part. A cuckoo finally recognised and flung from the nest. Jealousy has no place in this arrangement, Simon acknowledges that, though he still feels it regardless of whether he’s allowed to or not.

“Come on, out with it then.”

“What?”

“You’ve been in a foul mood lately. At least do me tha’ curtesy of tellin me why.”

“Not in a mood, dunno watcha mean.”

“Simon.” Price leans back in his creaking desk chair, arms resolutely folded and leaving no room for argument. “You knocked a blokes teeth out for lookin at ya the wrong way last week.”

“He fuckin had it comin.” Replies Simon darkly, scowling so his eyeblack creases around the bottomless darkness of his eyes. John raises a brow, cerulean gaze meeting a suddenly contrite mahogany one ringed by ash coloured lashes. “And I said I was sorry for tha’.”

“Know somethin’s wrong, even if you won’t spit it out.” John pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s getting a headache.

Simon scoffs, rocking back on his heels. There’s a pause where he seriously considers being honest with his Captain, but that entails emotional vulnerability which Simon abhors. It’s a stranger to him, something that doesn’t feel safe unless he’s at home with the people he cares about, balaclava off and softness allowed to seep into his chest.

“Can I go? Said I’d spar with Johnny before I finish up that paperwork.”

“By all means.” John gestures sweepingly to the door with unnecessary flamboyance, still looking searchingly at the man towering opposite him, the embodiment of death dressed from head to toe in black.

Before he can stop himself, Simon lets something slip that suddenly throws his viciously sharp mood into high relief.

“Tha’s if he’s not fuckin playin with that scrap of fabric your missus calls knickers again.”

It’s spoken under Simon’s breath, mulish and uncharacteristically bitter. While Simon is prone to fits of quiet displeasure, it’s rare for him to snap his maw at John, rare enough that the older man takes notice immediately.

“Green isn’t a good colour on you Simon. Stick to black.”

Simon slams the door a little harder than intended, dragging his heels while he curses internally. That was petty, he knows it was.

It isn’t like he minds Johnny having his way with you, hell, it isn’t like you belong to Simon either. But he can’t help the elements of possessiveness in his nature, they are inbuilt and unavoidable. You and John are his little family, the three of you coexisting in perfect harmony while Simon eats up anything you cook and nods off to sleep against John’s shoulder on the sofa.

Actually it’s anxiety that’s currently eating away at him, though Simon isn’t prepared to acknowledge it yet. Johnny is far more easy going, a sunnier personality, better company than Simon could ever be. The Scot is fun to talk to, Simon knows first hand how disarmingly enjoyable it is spending time with him.

People laugh easily with Johnny, whereas Simon carries a potent aura of sullenness, black orbs full of heavy energy and mistrust of most social interactions.

At it’s root Simon wonders whether you might prefer Johnny in your bed, or if Price might find it more uplifting to have him at his side when tackling DIY projects around the house and garden. Simon loves Johnny too, but also envies him slightly, bold and brave, a heart worn on his sleeve rather than one guarded close to his chest. Instead of talking about his fears, Simon hides in them.

Back in his office, John presses his mobile to his ear, waiting for the dial tone to connect him with your soft voice. It still gives him a surge of adrenaline when he hears you speak, the same as it did when you both met.

Giddy and grinning from ear to ear, John tells you a soft hullo down the phone every time he calls. It makes you laugh, a little routine built on a fundamental adoration and understanding of each other.

“Hiya darlin, you having a good day?”

The light of his life and Simon’s too by all accounts, John listens to you talk, any irritation at Simon’s temper tantrum soothed.

“Listen, Simon’s ‘avin a bit of a wobble, think we might need to give him some TLC this weekend love.”

“Have you upset him Jonathan? What have you done?!”

Your voice is teasing, with the barest edge of a telling off hidden in the crackle down the line. You know them both so well, one a husband in name and both a husbands in your mind. John is sure you’ll have a remedy for it, bash their heads together until your shared coupling is balanced again.

“It is my fault actually, sometimes I don’t appreciate Simon like I should. Don’t appreciate how sensitive he is underneath.” John sighs heavily. You read between the lines, sensing the issue at hand.

“You better both come home to me then.”

Simon deliberately works late that night, burning the midnight oil, eyes strained as he completes reams of tedious paperwork, dotting his signature out with the pen clutched tight in his fist. By the time he makes it back to your house, John’s car has a thin sheet of ice covering the windshield and only a few glowing lamps have been kept on in the sitting room.

It looks so warm and soft inside, amber coloured windows and a short stream of steam flowing out into the chill where the heating has been put on. Simon almost aches with it, until he remembers he’s supposed to be in a bad mood, giving himself a shake and mulishly slotting his key into the lock.

“Dinners in the microwave Si.” You call out as he steps over the threshold. No fanfare, no drama from his spat with John earlier. He slumps into the kitchen and starts heating the plate you set aside for him. He hears you enter behind him, two arms wrapping tight around his middle as you burrow into the back of his hoodie.

“Hi.” Voice muffled, you rub your face against the muscles woven beneath the fabric.

“Hi.” He replies wearily, covering your linked hands on his stomach with his big, calloused paws. “Where’s the Cap?”

“Out for a run, s’just you and me for a bit.”

Simon frowns, you tug off his balaclava ready for the washing machine tomorrow morning, smoothing his ruffled blonde strands and pressing a hand to his forehead.

He sighs, leaning into it, the warmth of your palm, the smell of a tea you’ve spent all day cooking up for him and John. Perceptive as ever you sit with him while he eats, letting him play with your fingers, then you make him a cuppa and a slice of cake for pudding.

The silence between you is golden, every now and then you rub his knuckles, smile in that mellow way that quietly reassures him.

“Will you be here on Sunday? I’m doing a roast.”

For a split second, Simon considers being bluntly honest, asking you to tell him if his company is truly wanted around the table, if the happy way you phrase that question comes from a place of love that mirrors how he feels. A lump rises and gets caught in his throat. Greedy, he’s always been the same. Resource guarding as a stray does over a full dinner bowl.

He swallows the emotion barely, it catches, chokes on the way down his throat.

“Sounds good.”

“It will be good!” You pet his head while the plates are cleared. If you notice the way his jaw is clenched, dark eyes burning over bright with something akin to devotion, you don’t mention it.

Full and placid, Simon rests with his head on your lap in front of the TV. You’re no fool, aware that Simon finds it impossible to be moody when he’s eaten a good meal and that your husband is always relaxed and mellow when he’s worked up a sweat pounding the roads around your house.

That’s why you all work so well together, you are the equilibrium keeping both stern personalities combined and harmonious.

Gently, you tug Simon into a sitting position, reclining and stretching your legs out so he can settle beside you. Chest to his back, the drone of some innocuous sitcom blurring in the atmosphere, he sinks into the embrace, lets you wrap around him. Warm and fuzzy, a hand sneaks underneath the hem of his T-shirt, fingers teasing the rough hair on his lower belly.

But he catches them before you can hook one beneath his waistband, holds them firm and links his digits against your own.

“What do you need Si?” You ask him quietly.

He doesn’t know how to say it, what to verbalise when the only thought in his mind revolves around vanquishing the turgid anxiety forming within his chest. Simon wants you to touch him like you cherish his very marrow, make believe he’s truly accepted in this space he occupies made originally for two but now squeezed for three.

“Dunno.” He grunts roughly, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth when your lips nuzzle into the soft skin of his neck.

The kisses you press beneath the cropped hair on his nape make him breathless. John’s shadow hangs heavily over the spectacle of you both spooning on the sofa, almost as if Simon needs the older man’s permission.

Instantly regret floods him for his earlier outburst. John’s been nothing but generous, welcomed Simon into his team and then his home, while the jaws he fed snapped ravenously for more.

John and you are the only people who have ever seen his soft underbelly, the sole humans he’s rolled submissively over for and offered that bitter, black heart to.

You hum in response to him, and he thinks there and then he might break with it. Your nose nuzzling his flesh softly while a few kisses linger there.

“I put clean sheets on the bed.”

A short pause follows that, he waits, listening intently.

“I’m gonna have a shower…then I want to cuddle up with you in them.”

Simon shifts a little.

“That okay?”

“Had a row with John today.” Simon speaks quietly, shame drenching each syllable. “Overstepped myself.”

He takes a short breath, the tension across the big shoulders you’re resting your chin on could be cut with a blunt knife.

“Don’t reckon he’ll be up for tha’ tonight.”

“If that’s what you think…why are you here?”

He has to consider that for a second. In truth he’s in your house because it feels like his too. The place Simon can be himself for brief periods until the longing for permanence becomes too much.

“Because…”

“Because it’s where you want to be, where you should be and you know that.” You finish the words for him, giving Simon an out from saying the things too difficult to give a voice to. “We want you here too.”

Sliding off the couch, you get to your feet.

“Come on.” One smaller hand beckons to him.

Hours later, he’s dozing. Your head curled within the crook of his arm when he hears John’s key turn in the latch. Simon listens intently, the sound of heavy, grumbling movements on the stairs, the bathroom door shutting with a snap.

After a few moments the shower starts running and it’s then he makes his decision. Placing you carefully on the pillow, fast asleep, Simon makes his way slowly to the source of rushing water, moving silently as a panther would through tall grasses.

He doesn’t knock, there’s no need to. Simon has no intention of ruining the moment with announcements. John’s broad back is to him, the steam curling over the sun damaged and freckled muscles lining it, his dark hair drenched in the moisture. His head turns very slightly, the only indication he knows someone is in there with him.

It takes Simon less than a heartbeat to shed his clothes, to climb in behind John. In the same way you did, he moulds himself to fit, forcing his big body close. His forehead rubs lightly against the beads of water caught on John’s flesh, backwards and forwards. Repetitive, self soothing.

“M’sorry.” He mumbles and John knows that doesn’t come lightly. “Was out of order weren’t I.”

John doesn’t immediately reply. Simon stands there, feeling more unwanted by the minute, wondering if he should disappear entirely from both of your lives. That would hurt, but he’s lived through worse. Hasn’t he?

Before the spiral completes itself, John has turned, grabbed him by the back of his neck and dragged his mouth forwards. The kiss that follows is layered with unspoken things, quiet and silent emotions only two men like Simon and John could understand.

The stubble of John’s beard scratches, firm hands cradling him in a way that leaves no room for doubt in his head. His tongue pushes, probes the line of Simon’s lips as a grunt leaves him at the response he receives.

“Listen to me.” Nose to nose they stand, azure pupils boring into the darkness fighting within Simon’s own eyes. “Ain’t nothin to apologise for. The missus likes the boys, but they ain’t the ones she wants to wake up with every mornin. You and I are.”

Simon chokes, held together purely by the force of that statement and John’s presence alone.

When they kiss again, it’s softer, far more content and comfortable. They linger there for awhile, surrounded by artificial rain, lost in it’s rhythmic pattern.

You wake groggy, the lights off, only the low blur of the alarm clock on the sideboard. Your sleep addled brain takes time to compute that you’re surrounded by two hulking forms. John lies on one side, Simon curled on the other.

Quietly you stroke the curve of John’s face, letting the pads of your digits brush against the strong jawline under his beard. He opens an eye, resting it lovingly on you. When you smile he does too.

Simon stirs, one of his hands looking for yours, but when he locates it you only get a brief squeeze, before it moves upwards to sneak beneath your pyjama top. His callouses catch on the budded skin of your nipple, while it rises to a peak at his touch.

The resolution soars and falls with each beat of your heart, a steady pulse that becomes clearer.

Slowly, you reach for John, moving his palm to twine against Simon’s on your breast. They both rest there, the three of you sighing in sync. Then John shares a look over your shoulder, one you can’t see returned. But you feel Simon move.

You’re rolled into him, face pressed against his chest and tugged to straddle his body, while John adjusts too. John runs one finger along the curve of your form spread over his lieutenant, it ignites, makes warmth spread from your crown down to your toes.

Simon moves your face to his, several long and slightly urgent kisses pressed against your lips. Then he makes a low sound in the back of his throat, hoarse and bitten off. The rustle of fabric behind you, but he won’t let you turn, grasping your chin harshly and nipping at your mouth when you try and move.

Without vision, your imagination starts to flourish, blooms fantasies that make your pussy clench. Fuelled entirely by desire, Simon refuses to allow you an inch of room, as John’s rough hands make short work of your panties, ripping them clean in two.

A small noise leaves your throat when the coarse hair of John’s beard brushes the soft skin of your thighs. Simon places one heavy palm against your lower back, forcing you to arch, putting you on display for your husband.

The air is cold, legs moved further apart so you’re entirely exposed.

“Fuckin gorgeous.”

That’s the only warning you get before John’s tongue lathes against the exposed seam of your cunt.

You jerk, twitching as Simon keeps you rooted in your position, John taking his time, painting gentle motions backwards and forwards. He catches your clit and you keen, try and wriggle to escape the intensity until Simon knots his fingers against your scalp.

The blunt head of John’s cock nudges at you, spreads the layer of arousal his roused alongside his spit until he’s soaked. Your teeth nip into the meat of Simon’s pec, his hand still caging you there, deliciously restrained.

The first thrust of John into you sends a simultaneous grunt from both men. You’re jolted harder into Simon, strands pulled taut and painful, his other fingers reaching between you both to tease the apex of your pussy until you hiss.

John holds your hips, surging inside your cunt red hot until the fierceness of taking him blends into a fever. There’s nowhere to run between them, John’s thick cock stretching you tight, Simon bullying your clit, not gifting you an inch of reprieve. Shuddering, you can feel the crest of a burning orgasm hovering.

Simon spits on his fingers, increasing the pace of his movements against your nerves until you shudder, whimpering with overstimulation that borders on intoxication because your brain might well melt out of your ears.

The pull on your hair sends the muscles of your neck recoiling, leaves your throat open for more kisses. Simon layers them there meanly, swipes his tongue along the column of your windpipe and leaves you gasping. Unable to utter a word, only breathy slugs of air are sucked inwards, the soft slick of flesh meeting flesh filling the room obscenely.

It hits, crashing over you until your toes curl, pussy filled to the brim and fluttering around John as it’s his turn to groan. Warmth flows over, his spend seeping out onto the covers.

There’s no time to collapse, even catch your breath. The small movement Simon allows is only used to angle your pelvis, seat himself inside your aching cunt to the hilt. The lubrication of John’s cum helps, Simon is bigger, almost as thick at his base.

For a moment, Simon’s fingers cup your cheek, caressing feather light in a way that hints at unrestrained adoration, pieces of hair tucked off your face. He’s so hard it’s almost impossible, you can feel him in your throat and you sob with it. Simon shushes you gently, John kissing the small of your back lightly as he moves around the bed.

Simon rocks up into you, trying to ease the pressure and you cling to him. John settles next to you, pulls you upwards so you’re tilted snuggly, drags your mouth to his. It helps, the safety of his body, emboldened you start to move.

Simon’s hands at your waist, John pressed close and grounding you. It’s right where you should be. Each gyration nudges your clit teasingly and Simon huffs at the sensation of you taking him deeper.

“M’close.” He murmurs. “Fuck! I’m so close!”

“Not until she cums.” Growls John and Simon nods urgently in response.

When you start to quiver, John takes you by the throat, adds just enough pressure to make you gulp, to remind you of his raw authority. It makes your head swim, eyes searching for his, because the sight of that grim determination in his face will make you burst over the banks of another climax.

Simon powers into you from below, his grip now harsh, struggling to keep himself from following. He’s rewarded when you cry out, a thin stream of arousal drenching his balls until his cock swells with need. Simon moans hoarsely, drags you to grind harder against him until you shake.

Finally, with a nod from John, Simon spills deep, tears beading at the corners of both onyx eyes with the pleasure of it. Combined they coddle you, Simon whispering moans and aching thoughts. John’s presence steadies you both, pieces you back together brick by brick.

The sight of your husband putting Simon on his knees, sinking inside him with relish while Si drags your cunt to his mouth by one ankle, isn’t one you’ll forget.

You add it to the catalog of cherished memories you’re keeping. The way Simon eats you out, tastes the remnants of himself and his Captain their with relish speaks of deep feeling. Even if he won’t vocalise that.

Simon keeps the panties you wore that night. But never lets Johnny catch a hint of them.

3K notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 1 month ago

Text

tongue on loving wound

simon “ghost” riley x fem!reader | omegaverse!au | alternate universe to In Limbo | alpha!ghost x omega!fem!reader | masterlist

Chapter Two: unravel me until i’m wrapped around your finger

tw: gore, blood, slight pseudo dub-con, is scent intox a thing?, scenting, nudity, light smut

Simon spits the blood out of his mouth before wiping the remainder off on his sleeve.

It lands in a bubbling glob next to Marco’s corpse, marring the floor with a faint pink before it’s overwhelmed by the flood of ichor pouring from his yawning throat. Pearl white teeth peek out from between parted lips, now stained rose, and Simon scoffs at the sight of his canines. Sharp. Whittled down enamel. They’re fake—the mark of an alpha without control.

Closing his eyes, Simon breathes in the scent of a fresh kill. Raw meat, thick in the air, wafting through his nose and plugging it full until his mind is spinning. Pheromones fade and are quickly replaced by decay. Wet foliage and fur caked with dirt beneath a shallow grave.

This is what victory smells like. This is success.

“O-Oh my god, y-you…”

Eyes like burnt umber lock onto you the moment your trembling words burrow through Simon’s brain. Sweet little omega with her back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, and hands covering her mouth—you’re shaking with wide eyes focused on the scene behind him. Simon glances back at Marco’s body for a split moment to take in the gore and he mulls over how this must look to you. A senseless act of violence. Revenge in its most brutal form. You’ll realize that this is a gift in due time.

“I told ya I was gonna take care of all this, sweetheart,” he patiently reminds.

The moment he steps towards you, your attention snaps to him. Blood still coats his face, wetting his maw, dribbling down to his chest. You know humans used to kill one another like this back before nature was deemed unsightly. Sharp teeth are meant for protecting, for fighting, for piercing sweet scent glands on the tender sides of necks. Still, the sheer carnage before you stuns you into silence.

All Simon can think about is what a good omega you are looking up at him as you curl on the floor. It instills an aplomb that swells in his chest, heating his blood as it pumps throughout his body. You. Yes, you. It feels right. He can’t name why, he just feels the fact of it settle in his bones, a weight he doesn’t mind keeping around.

Kneeling before you, Simon’s hands reach for your throat and you only flinch a little bit when his fingers hook underneath your collar. Faux pink sears his retinas as he thumbs over the polymer. Real leather would be more secure, but this infantizes you. Belittles you.

Teeth gritting, he begins to yank it apart. Plastic and metal strains and creaks underneath the pressure, and you squeak just as the collar splits open, claps coming apart and clattering on the ground. Simon discards it to the side, and your hands are quick to rub your naked throat as you sigh in disbelief. Your skin is ripe and smooth with perspiration, but you can’t help but trace the ghost of your collar.

“Simon, I—thank you—this is—I can’t believe—oh!”

Without warning his nose is in the crook of your neck, crooked curve rubbing at your scent gland. His breath is soft and long as he inhales you. Your gland pulses against his nostrils, white hot blood throbbing beneath your skin, and he huffs. Palms flat on his chest, instinct tells you to freeze as he continues to nudge against you, hot breath fanning against your newly revealed skin.

There’s a pit that pulls just behind his navel when you tilt your head to the side; a snarling beast that compels his mouth to open. He nearly listens to it. That whining dog within him. Yet his nose catches the unsavory redolence of Marco, and how it still taints your skin, leaving you sordid and rotten, and he licks his teeth instead.

“Sweet little ‘mega… you still smell like him,” he mutters into your collarbone.

Blinking, your feet begin to scrape against the ground, body squirming beneath all of Simon’s attention. “I do?”

He nods, then covers your hand on his chest with his own as he leans back to look at you. “I’m gonna fix that.”

“You will?”

Lips still twitching, still yearning for something, Simon leans forward without warning, mouth planting against the center of your forehead. The taste of your skin is muted because of Marco’s blood, which now stains the crown of your head, but it’s enough to satiate the growling in his stomach.

“Yeah,” he assures as he rubs the blood off your face with his thumb. “Gonna take you home ‘n get ya all cleaned up.”

Before anyone can stumble upon the mess he’s made, Simon escorts you out of Tsar Trading and shuffles you into his car before speeding off through the city. Your body is airy in the passenger seat next to him. Limbs filled with helium, skull packed with balloons, everything zooms by in a blur. Hands drawn to your throat, you can’t help but hold your tender skin. How long has it been since you last felt yourself like this without a barrier?

Without Marco’s threatening teeth hovering over your neck?

The dull drum of your hangover worsens the moment Simon pulls into the garage, and reality crashes down around you with the sudden weight of a tidal wave. Marco. Your debt. His corpse heavy on the floor of a grimy pawn shop. A hunk of flesh in Simon’s mouth. The alluring sheen in his eyes as he spat out fresh ichor onto his latest meal.

“C’mon, sweetheart.”

The door is open. Simon’s hand is waiting for you. Beckoning. Calling you home. You gently place your fingers against his palm and he brings you out of the garage and into the house. It’s darker than you expected it to be. Windows shrouded with thick curtains, all overhead lights snuffed out with only lamps and secondary lighting to illuminate the rooms—it’s warm. Comforting. A blanket of drowsiness swaddles you the very moment the door is locked behind you, pulling you beneath rocking waves and drowning out the vicious storm you’ve attempted to weather most of your life.

Simon leads you through the living room around his comfortable sectional and coffee table littered with motorcycle parts to bring you into his bedroom. His mattress is huge. Large enough to swallow both you and him for dinner and still have enough room for dessert. Much like the rest of his house it’s dark with plain walls and a strong aroma of tobacco and musk. You breathe in and your brain begins to spin; gyrating until you’re unsteady on your feet.

Algid air greets you in the master bathroom and it acts like water against your face, shocking you back into your body. Simon turns on the spout in the bathtub and runs his fingers beneath the flow, humming to himself as steam begins to waft and he yanks on the diverter until it’s spewing from the showerhead.

“Oh, that was kind of you. You didn’t have to run it for me,” you excuse, attempting to thank him for his kindness despite how gauche it feels on your tongue.

Straightening himself, Simon wipes his hand off on the front of his jeans before his attention is back on you. “Course I did.” Then, he motions at you, fingers flicking up. “C’mon. Clothes off, sweetheart.”

His order restarts your brain and you find your arms absentmindedly crossing around your midsection, guarding your stomach, the most tender part of your body. “What? Like, right here? In front of you?”

“Is that a problem?” he asks with a raised brow. When you stutter through your answer, he puts you out of your misery. Stalking closer, feet moving with purpose, he gently closes in on you, body waiting to smother yours. “I told ya I was gonna clean you up, didn’t I?”

You swallow. “Y-Yeah.”

The blood on his mouth has dried, but the scent is still just as strong. Intoxicating curor like red wine and honey mixed with brutal sweat. All discomfort within you dissipates when he looks at you—when he’s so close that you can smell him. Rewired brain, neurons learning new pathways, doors opening that you always thought were locked shut.

“You’re gonna let me clean you up then, yeah?” he prompts. His lips quirk into a pleased smirk when you nod. “Good omega.”

All shame leaves you the moment you begin to peel your clothes off. Shirt, pants, underwear—it all piles up on the floor next to your shoes until you’re standing nude in the mist, nipples perking in the cold. Simon pulls back the shower curtain and ushers you inside then shuts it before too much water can splash on the floor.

Mindlessly, you stand beneath the pelting drops of water and let it cascade down your body, ignorant to the quiet thudding that hits the floor next to you. The next time the shower curtain moves, Simon is naked. His pallid chest dully reflecting the light still isn’t enough to blind you as you watch him climb into the tub behind you. You inspect him within a single instant. The thick muscles that flex in his thighs, ink spreading along his arms in swirling designs, a fat keloid that digs into his shoulder—

—and of course, him.

You know what he’s supposed to look like. The videos and pictures from your health class ages ago were able to teach you that much at least. Still, it’s different seeing a cock in real life. Flaccid, it hangs lazy between his legs, foreskin stretching over the head and hiding it from view. Speckles of silver attempt to make their presence known from the underside of his shaft, leading all the way down to his puffy knot where it rests as a dormant shade of pale pink.

As he snaps the curtain shut behind him, you distract yourself with mindless swaying while your arms wrap around your torso. Hands behind your shoulders, fingers digging into the anxious muscles unguarded. Simon dips his hand beneath the stream then wipes at his face. Beads of rosy water roll down his abdomen, tracing along his sternum before eventually diving to the tub where it vanishes with the flood.

It isn’t long before his attention turns to you. Shower gel lathering in his bare hands, he guides you how he wants your body and scrubs you clean everywhere he can reach. The side of your neck, down the curve of your spine, between your legs—you giggle when he reaches your flank, nails scraping over your waist, tickling your ribs. He spends extra time on your wrists. Thumbing over the tiny scent gland that lies just over your pulse, he brings it up to his nose after each rinse where you can hear him breathe you in even over the roaring water clogging your ears.

“Do I—erm… do I smell okay now?” you question cautiously.

There’s a long stretch of silence full of Simon nuzzling your wrist before he finally answers. “You don’t smell like anythin’ at all.”

“Oh, yeah,” you say with a sheepish chuckle. “I guess that… makes sense.”

“Do you not have scent glands?” His question is blunt—near invasive. Far from a proper thing to ask, but his need to profile you is nettling too deep beneath his skin. The only person in the world he cannot smell, here before him, and haunting all his waking thoughts. Yet, you are not scandalized. Simon’s curiosity is not the first you’ve encountered.

“No, I have them,” you admit. “They just… don’t seem to want to do their jobs. At first they thought it was late puberty, then a hormone imbalance, then a genetic condition… Now they’re telling me I might just be a little broken with no fix.”

Simon’s eyes narrow at your explanation as if the very notion has him upset. “You’re not broken,” he insists.

Backtracking, you shake your head. “Oh, I know. I guess. I-I mean, it doesn’t bother me. Like, I’ve never had any of the urges everyone else gets. Nesting, or heats, or…” Your tongue is loose, flapping against your teeth before you’ve fully comprehended your words. You stare at Simon as if he’s tricked you—transfixed you—before swallowing down the rest of your explanation. “It’s for the best anyway, I mean, with all that stuff going on with Marco I wouldn’t have the time to deal with biology anyway so… s-so, thank you. For—erm—taking care of him.”

Simon is quiet for a long time. He holds your gaze and it burns, red hot coals shoved into the pits of your stomach, poking at your navel, urging you forward. Instead, you stay still as he pulls your wrist up to his mouth just as his tongue lulls out to lick your gland. It sends a spark through your nervous system. It sizzles along each neuron until something hums to life in the long forgotten slice of your brain and you’re left staring at him with wide eyes.

“Anythin’ for you, little ‘mega.”

When the water shuts off and you’re met with the bite of brisk air, Simon dries you off with one of the largest towels you’ve ever seen. It dances over your skin, down your back and in the crux of your arse. He doesn’t bother to grab himself a fresh one before he dries himself off, then lazily wraps it around his waist. Enervation tugs at your eyelids as you lean down, fingers reaching for your old clothes on the floor, but your movements cease the moment Simon’s hand is on the back of your neck, scruffing you like a mangy cat.

“Nuh uh,” he warns. You yelp as he pulls you back and you spin around to face him with a huff. “You’re not wearin’ those. They reek of Marco, and I just washed you up.”

As if wounded, you wrap your arms around yourself, skin puckering into gooseflesh as you shiver. “What am I supposed to wear, then?”

Instead of giving you any proper clothes to change into, Simon retrieves a spare quilt from the hallway closet, wrapping it tight around your shoulders before dressing himself. Half naked, you sit on the edge of his bed with glassy eyes and scenes swirling in your skull as you’re forced to confront the day's events.

Sharp teeth in tender throat. Fresh ichor spilling like pomegranate juice. The pretty corpse of a pretty man. A pink collar next to pallid fingers.

“Hey.” Simon stands before you, fingers pressing beneath your jaw, prompting you to look up at him instead of your lap. “I’m gonna get you new clothes. Gonna be okay by yourself for a bit?”

Your blink comes slow as you stare at him, nose flaring as his scent pierces through you like a bullet through ripe flesh. “Yeah. You can take the key to my flat, it should be in my pants.”

“No baby, I’m buyin’ you new ones.”

“What?” you breathe. “But I’ve got perfectly fine clothes at home!”

The look he gives you turns your tongue into stone as umber eyes darken into onyx. Lips squeezing tight, you stare at him, hips readjusting on the edge of the bed as you wait for him to speak.

“You’re not safe right now. Goin’ back to your flat is a bad idea while things are too hot, ‘n you’re safer ‘ere with me.” Pausing, Simon’s fingers wander away from your chin and down along your neck, ghosting over that sensitive nook that makes you quiver. “I asked you if you needed an alpha to take care of this for you ‘n you said yes, so you’re gonna be a good pet ‘n let me do this, yeah? Gonna let me take care of ya?”

All fight and urge to argue is siphoned from your marrow, forced into dormancy too deep for you to reach. Everything goes fuzzy as mirth seeps from your brainstem and into your blood. It pumps throughout your body. Everything tingles. You’re warm in his touch. Content. Happy.

“I’ll be good.”

Simon makes quick work of his trip. After gathering your old clothes and throwing them into the bin, he spends his time meticulously gathering everything he expects you to need. Trousers, panties, shirts and pyjamas—he forgoes getting you any sort of bra entirely, not even attempting to eyeball your size. He doesn’t intend on letting you leave the house, anyway. Not until things cool down.

He returns with his arms full of stacked bags that he haphazardly places on the kitchen counter before meandering back into the bedroom. Numbra cloaks the room, nearly obscuring his vision, but he’s still able to make out your form on the bed. As he stalks closer, feet silent on the floor, he notes you’ve slightly rearranged his bedding. Pillows strewn around your body, duvet bunched up in supporting places like you’re in the midst of a bowl.

Eyes closed tight with the quilt pulled just under your chin, you’re fast asleep. He can hear the air in your lungs and how it expels through your nose, soft against the sheets, eyelids fluttering in the midst of a dream. Something stirs within him. A primordial growl that doesn’t quite bubble up in his chest—a content beast purring.

He’s compelled forward, knees dipping into the mattress, movement gently jostling your form but not stirring you into consciousness. This feels right. His body next to yours, back pulled close to his chest, arm caging around you as he digs his nose into the back of your neck. You smell pure. A natural redolence like jasmine. With Marco’s scent expunged, he falls asleep within mere minutes.

A few hours later, he wakes to the feeling of your nose pressed to his flank.

His shirt is rolled up slightly, exposing the soft padding of his stomach during his slumber, but something sears through him. Your skin. Without the quilt to guard your body, you’re leaning against him without a barrier and he swears he can feel the quiver of your pulse. Your sniffs are soft and delicate, near pathetic little things—secretive and tense.

Breathing in, Simon’s legs go rigid as he stretches and you freeze the moment he moves, retracting back into yourself as if you can’t afford to be caught. It’s impossible to hold back the simper on his lips as he sits up, movements slow and careful so as to not spook you. Still, you pull the quilt up under your chin again as his body twists, hands planting on either side of your head. His pupils swallow his irises. Black holes ready to consume you.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks.

Your lips curl inward before you press them against the corner of the blanket. “Stop what?” Simon doesn’t expand on his question, but the rise of his brows gets you to spill. “S-Sorry, you just… smell really nice.”

“You’ve never been this close to an alpha before, have you?” he hums curiously. When your only response is to shake your head, his simper grows into a smirk. Before you know it, he’s lowering himself onto his elbows, body blanketing yours until his neck is presented to you. “Go ahead. You don’t even have’ta ask, baby.”

The speed at which you give in is laughable. Nose against the underside of his jaw, diaphragm forcing your lungs to suck in mouthfuls of him—you dive into him. Arms curling around his neck, you pull him closer and he relents. You nuzzle into him as if you’re trying to dig through his throat with your nose. The longer he lets you explore, the more brave you become with your movements—reeling him closer, tugging on his shirt, legs squirming beneath him.

Then, there’s the pinch.

Dull teeth nip at his collarbone, forcing Simon to pull back with a growl. Teary eyed, you stare up at him, apology already slipping from your mouth.

“I-I don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry,” you spew.

He doesn’t say anything in response—he simply allows silence to shroud the two of you as he reverses the dynamic. His own crooked nose knocks against the side of your neck and you keen so prettily his hips roll forward instinctively as his lips hover over your scent gland. There are times in the past when he’s messed around with omegas like this before, toying with their most vulnerable parts just to feel them melt, but there’s something that’s weaving through his brain that muddles his thoughts.

Jasmine. Ichor on flowers. Fur warmed by the sun.

It lulls his teeth out from between his lips. They’re dry. Thirsty. Screaming for something to wet them, to put them out of their misery. Simon nearly gives in. Tender flesh on full display for him, quivering pulse within his grasp—he pauses. The scent flees just as quickly as it appeared.

Humming, his lips quietly press against your scent gland and—for now—he ignores the tickle in the back of his brain that demands more.

Weeks pass like this. You laze around on any surface you deem soft enough as you flip through the dusty books that lie on forgotten shelves throughout Simon’s home or solve sudoku puzzles in the paper. He tells you this is to keep you safe—just until Marco’s corpse has fully rotted—but by the time the weather warms into spring you’ve already carved your own spot into this house.

Curled up into his side on the couch, nose suctioning to his side, digging into his ribs, wandering up to the pit, nesting in his bed, snoozing whenever you please, smiling more and apologizing less—you’re not sure you want to leave anymore. It’s safe here in the secluded den Simon has built. You tread past windows without the worry of camera flashes burning your sight, you don’t flinch when he touches you—and his smell.

It sows something inside of you. An infinitesimal seed that’s burrowed deep into your gut and has germinated for so long it’s ready to bear fruit. Delicious, ripe with juice and skin so full it shears with the faintest pressure of teeth. The roots burrow so deep that they affect not only you, but Simon, too. He feels it churn through his offals, spearing through all things unnecessary; intestines, liver, spleen.

The feeling haunts him worse when he’s not at home. Far in the depths of Terminus’s maw where a sickening concoction of scents assaults his nose. Even here in the VIP room it’s overstimulating. Sour musk, faux pheromones, greed and bitter lust; it all coalesces until his eyes are watering at the stench. There’s a twitch in his fingers that beg for a cigarette, but he bites the sensation back as the sillage of rosewater pierces through the wall of odor around him.

“There he is. My husband’s favorite delinquent,” Aelin chirps. Simon’s growling chuckle sounds like blended metal when compared with the soft music playing in the room. Aelin grins as she leans against the wall next to him, heels tapping against the lacquered floor. “I do hope he’s taking things easier on you now after that whole mess.”

Mess. He nearly scoffs.

“Marco was a sod. It was a pleasure to get rid of ‘im,” he hums.

“Even without permission?” she questions, inflection curling around each word.

His reply dances on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. Of course it was worth it. He’d do it a million times over. Without permission, by himself, with a crowd, with his bare hands—the trouble he caused was worth it. Snuffing out the filth. Freeing you from your bonds. The sweet omega sleeping in his bed is just a secondary treat.

“Chip didn’t come with you tonight?” Aelin reroutes when he doesn’t reply.

He shakes his head. “Said she wasn’t feelin’ well.”

“Ah.” An elbow brushes against his side; playful. “She seems to be staying with you an awful lot these days. Hardly even answers the phone when I text. Care to explain how that came about?”

Truth is, he doesn’t. He thinks about your debt, and the secrets you’ve whispered to him about it, and he knows you couldn’t handle bearing your sins to Aelin. Not now, at least. Instead, Simon sighs as he rests the back of his head against the wall, looking at the crowd over the angled curve of his nose.

“She likes the way I smell.”

At that, Aelin smirks.

The rest of the night moves at a snail's pace. Musk is tainted with liquor and hoppy beer, burning his nostrils until they feel void of hair. Simon remains at the edge of the crowd, eyes narrowing at each face that passes him by while something writhes beneath his skin. He thinks of you. Your skin on his. Nose on his neck. Gland in his mouth. It’s as if he has hives on his skin, they itch and burn, setting him ablaze, making him wish he could take his claws and rake it over himself until it stops.

On the ride home he lights a cigarette to cleanse his palette of the filth he’s had to endure through the night. It swirls on his tongue and when he exhales he pushes it through his nose until the only thing he can note is tobacco and the buzz of nicotine. His dash reads 01:33 by the time he pulls into the garage and he’s groaning as he enters through the door, achy feet finally nettling too deep.

The moment he steps foot into the living room, Simon knows something’s wrong.

Thin fabric and glistening springs greet him as he stares at his barren sofa. Each cushion has been stolen away, leaving behind not so much as a throw pillow in its wake. Hackles raised, he carefully steps around the couch, eyeing it warily, as he enters the kitchen. The light is still on—you always keep it this way when you know he’ll be home late—but the island is a mess. Seven half empty water glasses are strewn about the countertop with no method to the madness, and he nearly slips right on his arse as he splashes through a puddle just by the sink.

A piercing dither strikes his chest when he calls your name and he gets no response, sending him spiraling through the house until he’s bursting through the bedroom door. When he flicks the light on he freezes.

You’ve nested—properly. Damn near burrowed. A true hibernaculum. Sofa cushions line the wall and are held together by tucked sheets, and you’ve seem to have raided his spare blankets from the closet. His hamper is overturned, and he sees various articles of his clothing poking out from the medley of fabrics that you’ve buried yourself in. Even from the doorway he can hear your whimpering. Pathetic pules. The squeaking of a mouse or cries of a kitten.

Simon opens his mouth to grab your attention, but just as he does something hits him—a wall of thick air, something hardly permeable, yet strong enough to nearly bring him to his knees. He clasps a hand over his mouth as he stumbles toward you, but it’s not enough to smother the scent.

Your scent.

Jasmine and blood, fresh red oozing out of weeping meat, warm honey dripping onto a waiting tongue, the brine of needy tears spilling from a desperate cunt—

Your eyes flutter open as Simon seats himself next to your nest and the moment your gaze locks onto him, he knows he’s doomed. The sudden onset of your scent leaves his brain devolving until a demanding mantra plays on repeat—take. Take you. Take everything, all your pain and strife, and give, give, give.

“Simon?”

The crack in your voice sends his heart quivering as he leans forward, hands cupping your face. You’re febrile. It seeps through his skin and into his bones demanding that he purges it. “I’m right here, baby.”

“S-Something’s wrong like- like, I feel really weird,” you whine. You reach up to wipe the sweat from your brow only for it to be instantaneously replaced by more perspiration and he has to fight back the urge to lick your fingers clean. “Everything’s so warm and I just- I can’t think straight… I-I’m sorry about your clothes, you just- it’s the only thing that seems to c-calm me and-and oh… Simon you… you smell so nice.”

Each word you speak has his heart thudding in his chest, violent and raging like a storm. Your eyes are so heavy you can hardly keep them open, just peering up at him through heavy lids as you deliquesce in his grasp. He’s leaning forward, lips parting, tongue wishing to taste the delicate scent that teases his nose.

“Did somethin’ happen?” Even his own voice sounds as if he’s under water—too far beneath your current to be saved.

“N-No it just- I felt odd this morning but it just- it came out of nowhere sometime after you left.” You stutter as he breathes in against your scent gland. “Am I sick?”

“You have a scent now,” he admits as the world seems to sway around him. It’s potent. So strong yet pleasant, smothering him in a way he wouldn’t mind asphyxiating.

“I do?”

He hums in confirmation as he begins to traverse down your body. You’re wearing nothing but a dress shirt and a pair of panties, leaving your bare legs to spread wide for him as he slots himself between them. You listen to his touch, chest rising against his face as he trails down to your stomach. Then, he’s pushing at your thighs, giving himself enough room to shove his face against your clothed sex.

Instead of exclaiming, you moan, hips rolling up as he inhales. There’s an intoxicating aroma that overwhelms him, sending all his blood straight to his cock where it aches against his jeans. You watch his eyes squeeze shut before he’s weaning himself off of you, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are warmer. There’s a new fire lit behind them and the sparks are jutting out to meet you—to know you, your skin, the softest parts of you, everything that makes you tick.

“Poor little ‘mega,” he coos as he sits back on his haunches. “Can’t even tell when she’s in heat.”

“What?” Everything you know crumbles around you as Simon’s words attempt to untangle themselves in your mind. “But I- no- I’ve never been in- they said I couldn’t!”

“Might’ve been from the stress,” Simon offers, though it’s hard to think rationally when your scent muddles his thoughts. He attempts to recall any other omega who’s scent had this effect on him, yet nothing comes to mind. Something jovial purs in his chest at that revelation; that you’re special—his. “Owing Marco, workin’ yourself half to death the way you did, might’ve thrown your body into survival mode. Prioritized other functions besides scent and hormones.”

There are tears in your eyes now. Frustration and fear clash head on in your chest, and you’re pawing at your eyes to will them away. “Fuck. No, no, I can’t—this cant—no!”

Simon melts over you, elbows crashing into the mattress as he covers your body with his, sticking close to you despite the heat. “Shh, it’s okay baby.”

“I dunno what to do! I’ve never… I can’t think, I just, it’s like there’s a hole inside of me, and it burns, and I just need it—I dunno what I need! I’m so-”

“Shh,” he coos again. He knocks your hands away from your face with his jaw before he’s presenting the side of his neck to you. Your sniffling slowly fades until you’re breathing deep, nose against his throat, drowning in his scent. “Poor thing. Need me to take care of you, yeah? Need your alpha to help you through your heat?”

You hum, lips reaching up to grace against his Adam’s apple. “You smell… that’s not too much trouble? Helping me? Simon you—my alpha?—you smell so nice…”

The keen in your tone has his fingers curling into your nest while the straining in his pants gets worse. He’s throbbing with want. It rattles inside of him so fiercely he fears you might hear the growling in his stomach.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

“No baby, it’s no trouble,” he assures. “Do you trust me?”

You’re beginning to calm now, muscles no longer tense on the bed, yet still burning just as hot as you were before. But it’s better now. It’ll be enough—until it isn’t.

But he’ll be right here to take care of his omega through it all.

“I trust you,” you eventually sigh.

“Good. Now lay back and let me take care of my mate.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

746 notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 1 month ago

Text

mermaid!john price x f!reader

smut <3

cloaca & hemipenes , double penetration

AN: for the love of god, do not fuck in salt water, chlorinated water, or any wild bodies of water. bath tubs are fine as long as its soap/additive free and your tap water is SAFE. this has been your sex safety psa.

The moonlight cast ripples across his glistening scales, blues and greens shifting like oil on water. John lay half-submerged in the tide pool, propped up on his elbows as he watched you with a calm, knowing gaze — the kind that said he’d seen this look before. That blend of curiosity and frustration.

“I just…” You trailed off, eyeing the smooth, glistening plane of his lower half. “There’s nothing there, John. I want to—hell, you want to—but how the fuck do we even…?”

John chuckled low in his chest, voice thick with salt and gravel. “You humans are so linear,” he teased, reaching up to gently tug you closer. “You think if you don’t see a cock, there’s nothing to work with.”

You flushed, but allowed him to pull you down to straddle his tail. His body was warm beneath you, radiating heat even through the seawater.

“I’ll show you,” he murmured, his voice a low hum against your skin.

His fingers guided yours lower — past the human half, down to the smooth slit just above the place where his tail began. The skin there was softer, more sensitive. You hesitated.

“There,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “That’s where you start.”

You touched him gently, and he shivered — not from cold, but from sensation. The slit twitched slightly under your fingers, and as you pressed more confidently, it parted just enough to reveal—

“What is that?” you breathed.

John’s smile widened. “Cocks,” he said. “Two of them. One might be enough for you… but you’re welcome to try both.”

Heat rushed through you. “That’s unfair.”

“You wanted to know,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Now let me teach you the rest.”

You stared.

It—they—were swelling, slowly unfurling from the slit beneath his abdomen. Twin shafts, slick and flushed deep violet, tapered and ridged in ways that made your breath catch. The sight of them pulsing slightly, twitching under your gaze, was mesmerizing… and daunting.

“There’s no way,” you breathed, shaking your head as heat pooled low in your belly. “John, I can’t—both of those…? That’s not possible.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and lazy, like waves hitting the shore. “Love,” he said, voice warm and unbothered as he leaned back on his elbows, “you don’t have to take both.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

He grinned now, lazy and wicked. “One’s just backup. You’re not a sea nymph, you’ve got limits.” He paused, then added, teasing, “Not that I mind seeing you try.”

You swatted his shoulder, but the tension in you was already giving way to something else—arousal sharpened by curiosity and the thrill of the unknown.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” you muttered, fingertips ghosting near the base of one shaft. He inhaled sharply, hips twitching.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmured, suddenly softer, more serious. “Just follow what feels good. I’ll guide you if I have to.”

You swallowed hard, heart thudding. “You sure?”

John caught your wrist, brought your hand to his length, wrapped your fingers around the thicker one. “I’ve been dreaming of this,” he said. “Let me make it good for you too.”

You sank down onto him slowly, thighs trembling against the smooth edge of his tail. His hands gripped your hips with a reverence that made your skin flush, guiding you with infinite patience as the first of his hemipenes filled you.

God—he was thick, ridged in a way that caught with every inch, and even though you were soaked, stretched, aching—you couldn’t stop the breathy whimper that escaped your lips when you bottomed out.

“That’s it,” John groaned, voice rough with restraint. “Takin’ me so well, love. Look at you.”

You tried—really tried—to keep your eyes open, but the moment his second shaft brushed against your clit, slick and warm, your head lolled back.

The friction was unreal. With every shift of your hips, that second length rubbed perfectly against your front—hot, hard, pulsing with your rhythm. You could feel the pulse of his arousal in both shafts, the one buried inside you and the other grinding against your slick folds.

“Fuck,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders for balance. “John—God, it’s too much—”

“No it’s not,” he husked, thrusting his hips up shallowly to meet your bounce. “You’re doin’ perfect. Taking all of me like you were made for it.”

His praise washed over you like heat from the sun, dragging another moan from your throat. You rode him faster now, pleasure curling tight in your belly, body flushed and overstimulated. The drag of his ridges inside you, the friction outside—it was dizzying, relentless.

“You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me,” he groaned, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, the other gripping your ass. “So fuckin’ beautiful like this. Full of me, riding me like it’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.”

You were stuttering now—his name, broken little cries, breath caught in your throat.

John held you through it, gaze locked to your face, and when he felt you clench around him, he groaned low and deep, pulling you down and grinding up to make sure you felt every wave of your release.

“That's it,” he whispered, breath hot against your cheek. “Let go, love. I’ve got you.”

You were trembling.

Still riding out the aftershocks, your body felt boneless, hot, soaked in a haze of pleasure so thick you could barely think. John had softened his grip, letting you roll your hips at your own pace, chasing that slow, grinding friction of his second shaft rubbing against your clit.

But then—you shifted your weight back, just a little. And the head of that second cock, still slick with your arousal and his precum, pressed against your entrance.

“Wait,” John rasped, his voice suddenly tighter, “you don’t have to—love, seriously—”

But your brain was swimming. You needed more. Your body was humming with overstimulation, desperation coiled like a spring inside you. You whined, breath shaky as you shifted again—and the second tip breached you.

John swore under his breath, hands tightening reflexively on your hips.

“Christ… you’re really gonna try, huh?” His voice was low, strained, not mocking—more like awe-struck. “You’re soaked enough, but—fuck, sweetheart—both?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just kept going—inch by inch, sinking down with trembling thighs, your body clenching and adjusting, stretching wide around the second cock. It burned, but it felt so good too—so impossibly full. Your jaw went slack, a broken sob of sensation ripping from you as you finally sat flush against him, both shafts buried deep inside.

John was frozen beneath you, his eyes wide and blown-black with lust and disbelief.

“Holy hell,” he breathed. “You’re unreal, you know that? Fucking—look at you.”

You were already shaking again, overwhelmed, teetering on the edge of another orgasm just from the stretch and pressure alone.

“Don’t move,” he warned, though his voice was shaking. “You move—I’m not gonna last.”

But you couldn’t help it. Your hips gave a tiny roll, and the way both lengths shifted inside you made you cry out—helpless, ruined.

“Fuck!” John growled, head thrown back. “You’re gonna break me, love. Gonna fucking—ah, fuck, that’s it…”

And you knew, in that moment—watching him unravel beneath you, gasping and swearing and worshipping every inch of you—that you’d gladly break for him.

You couldn’t stop grinding.

Both of him still inside, you rocked in small, shallow circles—your thighs trembling, walls stretched around him so tight you could barely think. The second cock burned in the best way, and you could feel every twitch, every ridge of him moving with your body.

Your hand slipped between your legs, fingers messy with slick, searching for your clit as your moans turned breathless.

But John was faster.

He caught your wrist with a groan, voice thick and frayed. “No, love,” he murmured, almost scolding. “Let me.”

You barely had time to whimper before his thumb slid into place, broad and rough and just right, circling your clit in slow, reverent motions.

“Jesus, you’re shaking,” he breathed. “You’re fucking—look at you. Stuffed full, makin’ those pretty sounds, and still greedy for more.”

You cried out, body clenching hard around him. He moaned with you, hips rolling up gently—just enough to drive both shafts deeper without breaking the rhythm of his thumb. You were close again, unbearably close, your body already beyond limits you hadn’t even known you had.

“Didn’t think you’d be able to take both,” he whispered, lips brushing your temple. “Didn’t think I’d get to feel this. You, like this—mine, yeah?”

You nodded helplessly, mouth slack, hands gripping his chest like he was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

“God, you’re perfect,” he growled, grinding up into you. “So fuckin’ perfect, takin’ me like this. You make me feel—fuck, sweetheart, you don’t even know.”

You whimpered his name again, and he shushed you gently, circling his thumb a little faster.

“Let go for me,” he whispered. “Come on, love. Be good and cum for me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You shattered in his arms—clenching around both of him, crying out as your orgasm crashed through you like a wave breaking against rock. He held you steady, groaning deep in his throat as your body milked both shafts, his own release following seconds after with a ragged gasp.

The tide surged around you both, warm and heavy, but the only thing anchoring you was the weight of him inside you—and the way his hands never stopped holding you like you were something precious.

You were barely aware of the waves lapping around your thighs, or the way your body was still clenching faintly from the last tremor of release. Everything felt thick, heavy—like the world had narrowed to the stretch of your muscles and the warmth of his body beneath yours.

But John wasn’t still.

You felt him shift—heard the low rumble in his chest, more growl than breath—and then his nose was pressed to your wrist.

He inhaled deeply, holding the scent in his lungs like he needed it to survive.

You blinked slowly, barely lucid. “John…?”

He didn’t answer. Just dragged your hand closer, nuzzling into the palm before pulling your wrist toward his mouth. Not to kiss it—but to breathe in again, as if memorizing you by scent alone.

Then he moved—arm around your back, dragging you flush against him as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

You gasped softly, still sensitive, your body jolting with the sudden closeness. But his grip didn’t ease. He was scenting you, openly and greedily—rubbing his cheek along your skin, nosing behind your ear, his stubble scraping gently.

“Smell like me already,” he murmured, half-wrecked, voice low and thick. “But not enough. Not yet.”

He pressed his face into your armpit next, and though the spot was damp with sweat and sea spray, he groaned like it was ambrosia. The sound rumbled against your skin, his tongue darting out to taste—not for pleasure, but to mark, to know.

“John,” you whispered, dazed. “What are you—”

“Want to,” he said, voice husky, lips brushing your collarbone. “My kind—we scent our mates. Memory lives in the skin.”

You shuddered in his arms, boneless and breathless.

“You’re not going anywhere yet,” he whispered, bending his tail to lay heavy over one of your ankles, anchoring you in his arms. “Not after this. Gotta make sure the sea remembers you belong to me.”

Then he nosed under your jaw again, breathing you in like you were holy.

The sand felt colder under your bare feet than you remembered. You stumbled a little, half from exhaustion, half from the slick, sore ache between your legs. Tugging the top half of your wetsuit back up over your shoulders was a task in itself—your arms trembled with effort.

You winced as you took a few slow, careful steps. “Jesus,” you muttered, “you broke me.”

Behind you, in the shallows, John chuckled—a low, rough sound that carried over the tide.

“C’mon now,” he teased, resting his arms on a half-submerged rock. “You’re walkin’ just fine. Bit wobbly, but that’s on you, love.”

You turned just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “You had two dicks inside me, John.”

He only grinned wider. “And you took ‘em like a goddess. Thought you’d be proud.”

You flipped him off half-heartedly, biting back a smile.

But as you reached the edge of the dunes, something about your limp made you wince and laugh at the same time. “God, if I’m this sore after that, I don’t even wanna think about what else you’re hiding down there.”

That’s when his grin shifted—sharp, knowing.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, eyes gleaming under the moonlight, “wait till you see my ruts.”

You blinked. “Your what?”

He didn’t answer.

Just winked, pushed off the rock, and dove backward into the dark, silver-lit sea—his tail flicking up behind him once before vanishing into the deep.

The waves rolled in, soft and unassuming, like nothing had happened.

You stood there, suit half-zipped, legs aching, heart thudding hard in your chest.

“…Ruts?”

479 notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 1 month ago

Text

Johnny Mactavish x female!reader, Kate Laswell x female!reader, Soap x Laswell x Reader, vibrators, Dom/sub vibes, public orgasms, dubcon, anal fingers, blowjobs, facesitting, multiple orgasms

Soap frowns a little as he hears it again- a low, almost inaudible buzzing. He'd thought maybe a fly was stuck in the briefing room, but the sound was too steady for that.

He strains his ears- he's bored, this meeting is boring, it could have been an email- and tries to pin it down. Somewhere relatively close, or he couldn't hear it at all- and since you're the only person close to him, he looks at you first.

You're sweating.

His first thought is, are you sick? The briefing room is always kept ice cold to discourage napping. But even with the flushed cheeks he doesn't think that's it. Soap's good with details, with people and how to read them.

Right now, you're red faced and sweating,muscles clenched tight, at odds with everything else in the room. You and Soap are at the back, even, tucked close to the corner, out of the way.

The buzzing picks up, and pulses in a heartbeat rhythm, bzz-BZZ, bzz-BZZ, and your knee jumps, a tiny gasp slipping through your lips. Soap keeps his face very carefully neutral and facing forward, even as it all crashes in.

You've got a fucking vibrator.

Sitting in the middle of superiors and commanding officers, and there's something shoved into your pussy. Something that's going hard enough that it's starting to crack your composure. Something he doesn't think you can control, with both hands in view on the table, thighs quivering, Soap the only one sitting near you, because he was late and slid through the door and grabbed the closest seat-

His cock twitches. Fuck, this is the most insane thing he's ever seen, and suddenly that faint little motor is all he can hear- forget Price's droning on, his ears are locked in on you and your breathing, the way you bite back every soft moan, as the vibrator does it's delightful business.

He wonders what kind it is. A little bullet snugged up against your clit? Something thick, giving you girth to clench down on as it buzzes? Vibrating panties, maybe, to make your whole soft cunt tender and sensitive.

But who's controlling it?

Glancing around, Soap considers his options. Not Price, leading the meeting, or Ghost, next to him and both hands in view as he takes notes. Gaz, maybe, but he hasn't turned to look at you once- Soap wouldn't be able to keep his eyes off you, if he was the one driving you crazy. He can barely keep himself under control as it is, knowing what he knows, when you don't know he knows.

Laswell.

She's in the opposite corner, phone in her hand, eyes on the projector screen but flicking over to you. The phone is facing in, screen hidden, but Soap thinks he can just see her thumb moving up and down in the shadows. A steady rhythm, bzz-BZZ.

Soap is hard enough, fast enough, it gives him a head rush. Fuck, he didn't even know you and Laswell have a thing- possibly a thing- enough of a thing you gave her control over your cunt, fuck. He stretches his arms out, and leaves one over the back of your chair, smiling politely when you shoot him a glance. Nothing to see here, just getting comfortable. He waits, gives it a minute, and then when he feels you tense against his arm, shifts so that he settles right over your shoulders, letting the heavy weight of his arm push you harder against your seat.

Your hand snaps out to grab his thigh, fingers digging in, and you actually close your eyes to hold onto your composure. Fuck, this is so hot, every inch of you desperately trying to stay quiet as his arm forces your pussy harder against the vibrator, drives the sensations deeper. He thinks he can even hear the faint wet sounds of soaking pussy as your hips start to grind in little, unstoppable circles.

His phone pings softly. A text- mind giving her a hand?

He looks over to Laswell, gets a tiny nod, and winks at her. God bless the woman, really. Soap lets his arm off your shoulders, rests it against the back of your chair for a moment, then nudges you to lean forward in your seat. You look at him, frowning, then over to Laswell- and her nod to you makes you bite your lip, fuck he wishes he was the one doing that- and then you lean forward, resting on your elbows, giving him enough room to slip his hand down to your ass.

Gorgeous, thick and strong, he's been watching this ass bounce in his field of view since you joined the squad. He gets a palmful of each cheek, squeezing, and wiggles a finger between to push through the layers at your pussy- he can feel the vibrator now, buzzing against his finger, but it's not enough. He wants more than this over- clothes teasing.

Slowly, carefully, he drags his hand back up, slipping it instead into the small space made at your belt when you leaned forward. It's not enough room, but you jerk a little, readjust- and Soap is granted the near-silent whisper of a zipper sliding down, and the waist of your pants opening just enough for his whole hand to slide down, fingers between your cheeks, where your skin is so hot and so damp-

-and your pussy has leaked everywhere, so slick and slippery Soap just clings onto his own composure and reminds himself fucking you on the table right now wouldn't be a good idea. His middle finger just catches on your hole, and he rubs the rim of it, his own face flushing when he bumps up against the vibrator, thick silicone that he maps out to find where it extends in a fat little wand against your clit. Fuck, no wonder you're about to cream your pants, Laswell has been winding you up like crazy.

Soap rubs again around your pussy, teasing, and when you gasp a little again and bite down on your lip, takes it away- and feels the vibrator back off as well, gently thrumming. Laswell catches his eye with a little grin. Oh, the game is on.

His finger pushes back down, then away again, as Laswell does something to make the vibrator settle into a soft rhythm, barely going, just enough that you're kept on edge, waiting for it- and when she suddenly bumps up the frequency, your thighs jumping and hands pressing to your mouth, Soap takes the chance to get his middle finger up against your asshole, and pushes in.

It's hot and wet from your pussy leaking everywhere, so tight he can't get further than the first knuckle, but fucking hell that's all you need. Your eyes squeeze shut and he feels it, the deep muscle clenches and waves, the way the vibrator shifts as your cunt squeezes so tight, your breath coming in sharp little pants muffled against your fingers. The way you come with his finger in your ass and Laswell's toy in your cunt.

Soap's cock, neglected and straining, twitches and spurts precome into his boxers, and he bites his own lip. Fuck, he won't be able to stand up.

The vibrations slow, then stop, and Soap teases your hole a little as you come down, drawing out only when he hears Price start his usual end of meeting spiel. Fuck, he's not paid any attention- who could?

The others gather their things, and Soap slips his hand away before the lights come on, leaning over for a pencil to give you some cover to fix your pants.

Thank fuck, Laswell stands and says you and Soap need to stay behind for a few minutes more. When the door closes with a click behind Gaz, Soap throws his chair back, palming his cock with a moan of relief.

He looks you in the eye when he sticks his damp finger into his mouth, sucking, and God the way you whine and stutter at the sight is enough to give a man a complex.

Laswell leans on the back of his chair. "Need a hand, MacTavish?" She murmurs, and Soap grins in delight.

"Aye, sir, think I could do with some extra support right now."

He's expecting your hands, long fingers and soft palms- and nearly chokes on his tongue when you get on your knees instead, opening his pants to pull out his cock, and set to sucking at the head like it's water and you're dying of thirst. His hand flies to the back of your head, gripping the soft strands, and Soap lets his head fall back, soaking in the hot, wet mouth licking his cock. You're damn good, too, working your way down the shaft, lips stretching out in a wet ring, tongue flicking over his head. Laswell is just leaning against him, and he's never thought of her sexually but damn, today is a day for discoveries. The way she watches you swallow his cock, approving, the strength in her hands and arms as they come up to rest over his shoulders.

Laswell lifts her phone up as you moan, slurping, and shares a smirk with Soap as she thumbs up the little digital toggle- and Soap holds your head in place as you whine and jerk, eyes tearing up, the vibrator coming back to life between your thighs.

One of your hands flies between your legs, for relief or pressure he doesnt know, but Laswell stops you with just a shake of her head.

"Keep your hands on his thighs," she says, and you whimper and lave your tongue over his cock, "and if the nice sergeant says you've earned it, I'll let you have another." Soap moans as you redouble your efforts, all but choking yourself- and oh, there's a thought.

"Permission to handle things a little, sir?" He asks, and gets his own approving nod that goes right to his dick. "Relax your throat, love," he tells you, and waits for your hesitant nod and deep breath before he adjusts his grip and drags you down, down, wet mouth sliding until your lips reach the base. Fucking hell, so tight- so hot, wet, throat gagging and flexing around the head of his cock- there's a grunt and he feels your chest convulse, a ripple going right through him, and tugs you back off to pant.

And you, good girl you are, get a breath then go right back to sucking.

"Good girl, baby," Laswell croons, and Soap drags you down to throat his cock again, moaning at the squeeze before letting you go. "Treating MacTavish so well, you love it, don't you? A cock in your mouth while I play with your clit like this. I don't even need to touch you and you're soaking through your pants." She moves the toggle again, up and down, then in a circle that makes your eyes roll back. "Make him come, sweetheart, but don't you dare come yet on your own."

Soap nearly comes at that, the command in her voice, and pumps his hips back and forth over your tongue. You're a mess, spit and precome frothing up over your lips and hanging in strings to soak his open pants, tears in your eyes, flushed red as a berry. The thick hot smell of cock and cunt fills Soap's nose. He wants to come down your throat, and when Laswell settles her hand around his throat and pulls his head back he doesn't hold back a whine. "Laswell- please- can I-"

Laswell bends and breathes his ear as your head bobs frantically, moaning, the vibrator going so hard Soap can clearly hear it now. "Come down her throat for me, Sergeant."

Soap moans and thrusts and comes, cock shoved past your tongue and into your throat hard, balls drawing up tight as you choke and spit on him, eyelids fluttering, fuck the way your face contorts and stretches around his cock- the bulge he can just see past your chin, how your thighs are spread as you hump the air desperately- Laswell in his ear and fingers on his throat like his mic- there's fucking stars in his eyes as he pants, trembling, and when he heaves a gasp and relaxes his grip you pop off his cock, come drooling over your chin.

"Fuck, fuck please, Kate, Kate sir please please please, I'm gonna come, gonna come come cumming~!" and when Laswell snaps the vibrator to off. You actually wail in despair, letting go of Soap to collapse to the floor, hips jerking.

Laswell nudges you with her boot, and you roll over, a vision, a come-covered slut, and Soap's cock tries to get back in the game.

"Pants off," she orders, "give us a show," and Soap kicks the other chair away to give her room as you yank pants and panties down to your ankles, thrashing, unzipping her own enough to kneel over your head. Soap can't see between her legs, but fuck he can smell her, rich and thick, the scent of wet pussy and hair all riled up together. You make a sweet little moan when she settles over your face, and the wet sucking sounds Soap hears immediately wake his dick up the rest of the way.

He's too sensitive to stroke fully, but he does palm himself, cupping the head still wet from your throat. The bright pink end of the vibrator sticking out of your cunt calls his name, and he slides down to the floor, holding your thighs open. Amazing view, pussy all wet and swollen, slick smeared around your thighs and ass. The little wand part that sits over your clit is quiet for now, but Soap thumbs over it anyway, making you squeak as silicone rubs your bud. You squeak again when he smacks your thigh, and Laswell laughs breathily from her position on your face.

"Go ahead, have some fun, she's earned hers," she says, and the vibrator buzzes to life as Soap smacks your other thigh. He can see the clench of your belly muscles, the way your ass flexes as you rock, chasing down the orgasm that's finally within reach. He wets two fingers in the fucking puddle of slick, sucking them clean, mm, delicious, and then soaks them again before sliding both into your ass.

You make a garbled moan under Laswell, who moans as well, grinding her pussy down onto your face. Soap keeps his fingers deep, forcing them past the tight little ring. The vibrator is pulsing strong, constant waves through your flesh, he can feel it clearly through the thin layer between your ass and cunt, and when Soap curls his fingers and begins fucking your hole to the rhythm of the vibe he sees it happen- the high panting moans, the way your hands clutch at Laswell's thighs, how your thighs spread open and all the deep inner muscles squeeze in waves down to your little holes and throbbing clit.

Soap releases his aching cock, grips the base of the vibrator, and shoves it in hard, deep, as you begin to come.

You scream, all your muscles locking up tight, a long carrying sob of a wail that is muffled by Laswell's cunt, slick squirting out over Soap's hand and wrist, ass tight enough it hurts around his fingers. It feels like it goes on forever, and he can't help himself- he leans in, swipes his tongue over the drooling cunt presented so prettily for him. Even better straight from the source, he thinks, and looks up at Laswell as she moans and shudders over you, bouncing enough that he thinks you've got your tongue in her.

"Gorgeous, sir," he says, winking, and she swats at his head, which turns into hauling him down by the hair to suck at the soft, swollen folds of your cunt. You squeal between her thighs, your own thighs shaking, and Soap fucks the vibrator in and out as you come a little more, thick and creamy, your ass and pussy clenching together.

There's a frantic double tap against Laswell's thigh, clearly a signal, and Soap eases his fingers out even as Laswell picks up her phone and taps, stopping the vibe. You're panting under her, little spasms quivering through your belly and legs, and Soap grips his cock with wet fingers and jerks it hard, biting his lip through the sensitivity, groaning deep in his chest as he comes over your pussy, decorating the base of the vibrator down to the swollen little pucker of your asshole.

Laswell leans in, swipes her fingers through the mess, and stuffs them into Soap's mouth. Fucking hell, if he were a hair younger that alone would get his cock going again, tasting his own come and yours shoved onto his tongue. He sucks her fingers clean, making a show of it, and getting an approving little smile.

She does the same to you, climbing off your face, this time gathering a little of the sticky wet smeared over you from eyebrows to chin before making you take her fingers. Your eyes are big and dark, pupils blown out, and Soap gently tugs up your pants, letting your legs relax over his lap. He just came twice in less than an hour, he's spent, and just leans against the table as Laswell whispers some sort of sweet nothing's in your ear, petting at your hair while you come down. It's fucking adorable, really, and Soap does what he can, holding your hand in his when you reach out for him.

Laswell finally stands with a groan, stretching her back, and Soap does as well. He's a young and spritely sort of man, so he helps you up too, and uses the bottom edge of your shirt to clean your face a bit.

"All right, love?" He asks, and gets a dopey smile. He gets a kiss too, to his surprise, but he takes it and sucks Laswell's come off your lower lip.

"Go on out first, MacTavish," she says, and he redoes his pants and hopes he's at least mildly presentable. There's nothing to save you, fucked out little dope you are, but Laswell looks perfectly put together already. "I'll see her back to her room."

"Aye, sir," he says, and pauses at the door. "So, ah...maybe let me know next time you plan a little party? Would love to be in on it properly," he says, and winks again when you blush to your ears. Laswell waves him out.

"I'll text you," she promises, and two days later Soap gets an invite to a private messaging group and a link for an app to download.

"She's doing laps on the west field and I'm in a meeting. Have fun."

197 notes · View notes

sgtslut69 · 2 months ago

Text

Seamstress - Part 2

Part 1 | AO3

John slips into your routine, appearing anywhere from two weeks to a month between visits. The second time he came by he apologized when you woke him from the counter again.

Cheeks pinked above his beard John stands bashfully at the counter. “Sorry, I have a job that leaves me with more paperwork than sleep.”

You smile, a small chuckle escaping.

“John don’t worry about it, you aren’t the first person to take a nap in those chairs. Men falling asleep in my shop while waiting for quick repairs is why I ended up replacing my metal folding chairs for these nicer ones from the second-hand shop down the road.”

John looks decidedly less nervous at this.

“Well, good. They never bother you though do they?”

You look at him a bit odd. Bother you? The most any of the patrons who came by bothered you was getting mad when their items were no longer available but they dodged your calls and went over the agreed-upon holding time.

“I don’t think so? I get angry customers like everyone, but if anyone bothered me too badly I would just need to scream. The Thompson family owns the cobbler shop next door.”

The small confused smile John gives you tells you that neither of you quite caught what the other meant but the care in his voice was nice.

“Anyways, if you have a moment I have your slacks ready if you wouldn’t mind trying them on? I have a back room you can change in,” you point over your shoulder to the only other door in the space.

It leads to an awkwardly shaped room where you store bolts of fabric, spools of thread, and all your scrap fabric. You added a bamboo screen after you started having clients use it for changing. The screen had been easy to move when you needed to pull out several bolts of fabric for someone to look at options. You made bespoke clothes as well as tailored items brought to you.

“I have time.”

“Great, your pants are in the back room. Why don’t you follow me?”

John steps around the counter, a footfall behind you as you enter the space and flick on the light. Stepping behind the door you quickly scan the shelves your father had helped you install when you first moved into the space. Finding the right pants you pull them down and turn and end up nose to collarbone with John.

The awkward smile you shoot up to him is met by one of his own.

“Sorry, I was just looking at your shelving.”

Glancing up at the wood again you give it a soft smile.

“It’s a good system, my father installed it for me.”

“It’s good work. I do woodworking in my little spare time. I appreciate seeing solid work in the wild,” John smiled and stepped back.

You pat the pants between your hands as you lift them to him.

“Try these on, please leave them unbuttoned and then come out when you are ready.”

John nodded as he took them from you. You close the door as you leave. Heading to the tablet at the counter you pull out your new Bluetooth keyboard and update your notes on any clients who have come by so far today. Turning at the sound of the handle you smile at John again.

“Stand on the X please,” you skirt around him pulling your chair over to him. Sitting you are close enough to his waist to pull on the fabric as you need.

Sliding from side to side you check the fit on the waist as the fabric hangs open.

“Can you do them up please?”

John does, you watch how the fabric settles on his hips. The slight gaps were where you expected them.

“Okay, can you undo them?”

Watching in reverse John leaves his fly hanging open. You lift your hands before you think better of it. Fingers inches from the zipper you look up at John.

“Can I touch you?”

He blinks down at you, “Yes?”

Folding the fabric of the waist away from his boxers you feed the button through the hole in the elastic on one side and then the other. Scooting back you look from side to side of his hips.

“Once more?”

Quick fingers button, link, and zip the pants. Squinting at the places you placed the stitches to hold the elastic in place you swivel your chair around him. John jumps slightly as you touch the top of the slacks on his back.

“Hmm. How do those feel?”

“The-” He coughs, “The pants?”

Looking up at the back of his head you feel your brows scrunch. What else would you mean?

“Yes.”

“Better, a tad bit too loose though.”

“I can see that,” you push yourself around to the front of him. “Okay undo your buttons once more please?”

John’s hands haven’t returned to his sides when you flip the waistband and adjust one button to a tighter setting.

“Okay, how does that feel?” You push back and take in the whole of him.

The man is beet red in the face, lips pursed.

You ignore it. Lots of men have an involuntary reaction when women get a bit too close.

“Good, I don’t feel like they are going to fall off if I sneeze now.” John coughs into his hand, his color returning to normal.

“Fantastic, you can wear them out or feel free to change back into your other pants. I will get your bill ready on the computer,” standing you push your chair to the sewing table before heading to the register.

John steps into the back room, appearing a moment later with slacks in one hand and boots in the other. He sets the pants on the counter and sits to put his boots back on. Leaning on the counter you hold your hands together and tuck your elbows to your side to talk to John.

“Have any fun plans coming up?”

He snorted, “Can’t say that I do. More work for me.”

“Boo, well I hope you get time to work on your projects. Do you have anything you are working on with woodworking right now?��

John settles his first foot on the floor switching to put the other one on.

“Not currently. You in need of anything for your shop?” He pierces you with a look.

Squishing your lips together you pull them from side to side as you think.

“I don’t think so? I am looking for a new jewelry box though. The old one I had had since my gran gave it to me when I was ten and it finally bit the dust.”

John puts his other foot flat on the ground and leans back in the chair. He talks with his hands for this next bit of conversation.

“Do you need more space for rings, earrings, or necklaces?” He mimics different sizes and heights as he says each type.

“Mostly earrings and necklaces. Rings get annoying around here, with all the fluff that gets caught in any of them with gems and I don’t enjoy many plain bands.” You shrug, “I don’t really wear them.”

“How long?” John taps his breastbone and then between his pecs.

“Both, my longest is a string of pearls I inherited yet, but that has its own box so I guess here?” You touch the space between your breasts on your shirt.

John’s eyes flick to see your fingers and then back to your face. He nods once and then stands.

“It will take me a few weeks, any preference for wood or stain?”

Pushing up from the counter you stretch your back, “Not really, just let me know what I owe you after it’s made.”

Waking the tablet you quote him the price of the slacks and the three fixes made on his other pants, he passes over his card which you tap and pass back.

“It was good to see you, John.”

Your phone starts ringing. Pulling it out you see your mom’s contact on the screen. The deep sigh escapes before you think better of it. Hitting the volume button to kill the ringing you shove it back in your pocket.

“Everything alright?” John watched you.

Pulling the corner of your lip between your teeth you contemplate how much to explain.

“My mom. She made an offhand comment about me the last time I was over and I am not ready to talk to her yet.”

One of John’s brows crept to his hairline.

“I doubt whatever she said had any truth.”

That startles a laugh out of you.

“Thanks, John, but this time she might be right.”

Sensing you would not divulge any more on the topic John knocked the counter in a knuckle.

“It was good to see you. I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

“Stay safe!” You wave after him as he leaves the shop.

John waves through the window before disappearing beyond the reach of your windows. Feeling lighter after the interaction with John you pull out your next stack of fixes, singing along with your music loudly until a patron pushes open the door.

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

“Anyone else noticed how well-rested Price seems some mornings when we are at this base?” Roach dropped onto the couch next to Soap.

“Aye, comes in smiling those mornings too,” Soap groused, a hand planted firmly to eyes.

“He has less caffeine those days too,” Gaz chimed in. “What do you think Ghost?”

“Don’t think much about it yet. A few mornings with a smile could just mean he found a girl,” he responded without opening his eyes from his reclined position on the couch next to Soap.

“Wonder how much he has to pay her,” Roach muttered to himself. Everyone laughed.

The smack to the back of the head caught him by surprise.

“If you don’t have anything better to do than discuss my love life you can get your fucking paperwork done. You got thirty minutes,” Price shouted at them.

Every one of his men jumped up and scuttled from the room. John rubbed his beard, trying to release the tension in his jaw. He thought of your eyes flicking around his waist, touching him with permission and ordering him around. Thinking of you brought to mind the small smile you gave out often and the large, eye-crinkling grin he got from you this morning. Your smile had dipped when you saw the call from your mom and John had to fight down the urge to pry, determined to make you feel better about whatever had caused you pain.

John shook his head once more, he had met you all of twice. His mind tended to latch on to women who were not available for one reason or another. All the better to break his heart against. As he worked his way back across the building to his office he thought about if your jewelry box would look better in cherry or walnut.

Part 1 | Part 3

Masterlist

294 notes · View notes