Falls To My Knees Crying THAT FUCKING COUCH SNIPPET JM GOING TO EXPLODE

his teeth snap, jaw grinding and nostrils flaring. tipping over that sweet heavenly bliss, had his veins coiling and nervous system running hot. he was almost angry, fingers curling into fists, and he’s sure there’s blood pooling beneath his fingernails.

“s-stop, no… n-no.” his syllables crush in a soft whimper, voice stiffening into a cutesy high pitched gasp. he can feel the tears build on his lower lash line as your hands slips up the hot length of his cock.

it feels so painfully euphoric, a winding knot that he knows you won’t let snap. he’s begging, gasping, body shivering up with every passing second. and you watch his hips, twitch, a heavy groan slipping past his lips.

and though you pull your hand off him, simon focuses, feeling his balls go taut, unaware to the stumbling, spasming of his thick thighs. and his cock jumps, pretty ropes of pearly sweet cum roping from his cock, just to land and pool right beneath his belly button.

you don’t even let him finish before you’re slapping at his cock, so so disappointed in your luvie. “i told you on my word, si.” you scowl, tightening your fists around his sensitive cock.

and he gasps, throat pulling up a broken sound that hiccups out. his legs jump, back bowing up when you pick up a quick angry rhythm. he can’t breathe, the only sound filling the room is his agonizing cries, his pathetic pleading.

“shut the fuck up,” you snap, pinching the tip of his cock between your fingers just to have him in hysterics. “this is what happens when you don’t wanna listen to me, you deserve it, ‘member that, baby?”

price with reader who never got much attention as a kid/growing up??

very self indulgent but hear me out. price is a lover man. he takes his time for his partners, gives them what they need, even if he's busy. you on the other hand are simply used to being put aside, people only listening to you half heartedly, not looking at you and getting distracted when you talk, other things were always more important than you and you felt that. you got used to it, it's normal to you.

but when you're with price he's the total opposite. he looks at you intently when you talk (if not hes leaning his head towards you so he hears you better), putting things down when you ask him something - hes attentive. he listens. and its absolutely strange to you, it makes you feel flustered, kinda watched. at some point you ask him why hes looking at you like that, the tv running in the backround. he furrows his eyebrows at you, with a confused chuckle. "what do you mean, love?"

"you're starin' at me." you accuse him, your cheeks getting hot.

"you're talkin' to me. where else would I be looking?" he jokes with a soft chuckle, wondering what the hell you're on about.

"your show's on." you say, gesturing to the tv. he looks at you like youve got three heads.

"I'm listening to you, love."

tommy knows the second simon comes home on his most recent leave that something’s up. that something’s different about him. and it only takes the briefest exchange of looks with beth to know exactly what it is.

there’s a dumb, lovestruck glint in simon’s eyes that wasn’t previously present.

of course, simon still greets his family in his usual dry tones; with his characteristic dismissiveness when asked about work. he still rolls his eyes when tommy pokes fun at him, and his shoulders still seem like they’re weighed down from carrying the world, but it’s all done with this look. this expression tommy has never seen on his brother’s face before.

it’s hard to decipher and impossible to find a reason for—at least, until simon is asking if one of his work friends could join them for dinner one night since he’d be in town, during his own transit home in a few days’ time.

as he asks, that spark returns. beth and tommy talk later that night in hushed voices, crawling into bed, and decide immediately that this work friend has something to do with simon’s nearly undetectable change in demeanour.

when they’re introduced to one john mactavish, that assumption proves itself painfully true.

even being the near complete opposite of simon—chatty and loud, though not unpleasantly so, and all smiles—tommy thinks john is perfect for his brother. he must be, if he can get simon to look at him like that. like tommy looks at beth. like john had hung the moon and stars just for simon.

john brings out some unique, hidden part of simon that had maybe never existed before, or had been buried deep. it’s sickeningly sweet, the love with which simon manages to infuse into the nickname johnny whenever addressing him. it’s terribly heartwarming, how john gets simon to open up more than he has in years.

and when john leaves, that spark dims, but never dies. tommy and beth say they’re happy for him, which is met with a confused look and a wave and a disgruntled goodnight.

huh.

clearly the story goes deeper than tommy thought.

he and beth (and maybe even joseph) will certainly be questioning simon about john over breakfast the next morning. if simon thought he could escape, well. he thought wrong.

it’s only fair that simon tells his family about the man that put that new light into his eyes.

f!reader

Johnny lost his dogtag, and sent you a message asking if you've seen it at home.

Only for you to send him a picture of yourself wearing it.

And now, his brain malfunctioned, and he froze, staring unblinking at his phone with his mouth open (and is he.. drooling?).

All of his focus was directed at how the piece of metal (which has his name on it) was resting nicely between your boobs (because of course you're wearing the sluttiest top with a very low neckline)

• I love this trend sm!! 💫

tw: self-shipping; male masturbation

I'm terrible at edging when it comes to my own self, but I'd relish in making Johnny lose his composure, his mind, his own damn soul.

He's a very sexual individual. Always ready to go with little to no effort. I have to give him a look and his cock is chuffing in his pants.

The poor lad is just sitting on the couch, minding his business and watching a rugby match when I approach him, just staring and admiring until he quirks an eyebrow.

"Take a picture, lass. It lasts longer."

He's getting hard in his sweatpants. I can see his cock give a curious twitch and I feel my own pussy buzz with excitement as if the two are calling out to each other.

"Are you mad that your team is losing?" I tease, slowly approaching the couch while he squirms already, like a dog waiting for pets.

"No," he huffs, gripping the remote control tighter as he glances at me out of the corner of his eyes, "What's yer mission 'ere? Ye wee minx."

I kiss my teeth, crossing my arms as I watch his cock get harder; his neck flushes and it creeps up his stubbly cheek. Damn horny brat.

"You should pull your dick out," I make a gesture at his crotch and make a jerking motion with my hand, "Play with it a little for me."

His eyes light up, his chest heaves as he inhales sharply, and his Adam's apple bops when he swallows hard.

"...'scuse me? Ye ovulatin' or sumthin'?" He snorts a laugh, but his hands are already untying the laces on his sweatpants; one meaty reaching inside as the other rolls the grey fabric down below his balls. He rucks his white T-shirt up to expose his muscular, bulky torso, covered in coarse, dark hair.

"You're a good boy, right? So, do as I say, Johnny."

His brows furrow, his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth, annoyed, but his cockhead is flushed an angry red and his shaft throbs with need.

"Gimme sumthin' ta work with, then." He clicks his tongue and nudges his chin at me as his fist moves, up and down, up and down, "Show me yer tits."

I tilt my head back as I laugh mockingly, and he curses me under his breath.

"Fuckin' tease," he grunts, "Always fuckin' teasin' yer poor man." He pumps his cock faster, the friction sounding painfully dry.

"Wait," I say, still snickering as I approach, nudging his legs apart with my foot before I kneel between his thick thighs. I grab his wrist, make him stop pumping his cock and hold it at the root instead before I lean over his tip to spit a generous glob of my saliva on his cock.

"There... much better."

He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, head tipping back against the couch with a groan. The thick tendons in his neck strain while I can watch his slit dribble with pearly precum that mixes with my spit.

"Now suck it f'me, aye?" He hisses, pupils blown as he peeks down at me. His thumb brushes along the curve of my cheek, trying to coax me closer.

I shake my head with a grin, sitting back on my haunches, "Nah, you go ahead and jerk it for me. You know I like watching."

"Bloody minx." Johnny huffs, but does starts pumping his fat cock for me anyway. I'm squirming, my panties getting damper by the second; pussy gushing with arousal as the wet sounds of his hand working his cock, his hitching breath and shameless moans, drown out any other noise... and thoughts in my head.

I feel like a kitten watching a pretty toy twitch and wiggle in front of me, stimulating my hunting instincts until I'm ready to pounce.

"And remember... don't cum until I allow it, Sergeant."

I enjoy hearing Johnny whimper. His deep, breathless voice makes my stomach flip and flutter, and my pussy throb in anticipation.. Sometimes it's enough to get me all hot and bothered for him.

Perhaps I'm just as bad as he is.

On domesticating Simon Riley.

Simon knows people, knows how to read them and how to get what he wants out of them, in a general sense. He also knows women, their bodies and how to handle them. How to pick one out that wants the same thing he wants, how to approach them and then how to cut and run.

What he doesn't know is how to stay. How to let someone else know him, even see him. What makes a home.

So you're going to have to teach him.

He has the most minimal wardrobe you've ever seen -- a few pairs of jeans, a handful of t-shirts, a couple of hoodies and one pair of boots. After a few weeks of watching him lace up those boots every time he takes out the trash, you check them for his shoe size then order him a pair of crocs to wear around the house and when they arrive, you leave them by the door, where he keeps his boots.

"The fuck are these?" he grumbles that evening when he goes to grab the boots while you're cleaning up after dinner. They're too big to be yours, but he knows they're not his.

"I got them for you," you answer, coming to stand beside him. "Just something to wear when you need to step outside for a minute or if your little feet get cold and you wanna wear something around inside."

"I don't have ... fucking hell," he says, pointing down to the shoes. "They've got holes all in them."

"That's so you can accessorize!" you say proudly, pulling out a little bag full of charms that you picked out for him.

It's ridiculous. It looks absolutely absurd. But he wears them anyway, because he's learning that when people care about each other, they make little gestures like this, and if there's a way that he can wear your love for him around like a badge of honor, then no matter how goofy it looks, he'll be proud to do it.

Simon chews his fingernails down to the quick, a nervous habit that he's had for as long as he can remember. After catching him with a couple of bloody fingers after one particularly bad evening, you tenderly pull him into the kitchen, wash his hands and dry them, then sit him down at the kitchen table and leave for a moment, only to come back with nail polish.

"Really, love?" he asks, looking up at you with a smirk. "Gonna give me a manicure?"

You roll your eyes, pulling one of the chairs closer to him and reaching out for his hands, replying, "What, too manly to have your nails done?"

"Yeah, that's what it is," he smirks, all sarcasm, then says, "Why though?"

"It's the taste," you explain, shaking a bottle of black polish before taking the cap off and carefully leaning in to start on his right thumbnail. "The idea is that when you go to bite your nails, the polish will make it taste bitter so you stop."

He can't help but smile a little to himself as he watches you work. He doesn't care one way or the other about his nails, but it's cute, watching you so focused on him. Still, something about it nags at him, because while it feels good, having you care, it doesn't quite feel right, not all the way. Not just yet.

"Not hurting anyone with biting them," he says quietly, his eyes on his hands as you finish up.

You give a little sigh, capping the bottle before meeting his eyes, and you tell him, "You're hurting yourself. And that's not ok, not with me."

He doesn't do birthdays, not his anyway. Not in a dramatic "I hate my birthday" way, it's just not something of note to him. He knows the date, acknowledges it to himself when it comes just as a reminder that he's 40 now, not 39, nothing more. The first birthday he has with you comes after you've been together for several months, and you only hear about it after the fact.

"My sweet boyfriend," you coo at him one night in bed, a little tipsy from the wine you'd had with dinner. "My beautiful, beautiful boyfriend."

He chuckles, still marveling at how much you seem to marvel at him. Your hands are on him, gentle and doting, and he hears you giggle as you ramble on.

"Sweet and kind and handsome and strong," you say, running a hand through his hair. "He always watches out for me. He always takes care of me. My favorite person."

"You're drunk," he points out, smiling softly, cheeks red.

"Am not," you reply. "Even if I am, the truth is the truth."

You go on, praising him for everything you can think of. Pretty blonde hair, pretty smatterings of freckles, pretty dimples that only you ever get to see. It's almost unbearable, hearing how much you adore him, but in a good way. Like it's stretching something in him that's been closed for far too long.

You're breaking him in, slowly and carefully.

"Have you ever," you ask him at one point, "ever in your entire 39 years, thought that you'd get a girlfriend as thoughtful and loving as me?"

It's a playful question, but of course he's never thought that. His chest aches at the thought of just how much you've given him, and how much you let him give you in return. So instead, he dodges it.

"Not 39 anymore, sweetheart," he says softly.

Your brow furrows immediately, not understanding, and he laughs quietly, his hand on your stomach under the blankets sliding to your side to pull you closer.

"A few weeks ago," he explains.

"Your birthday was a few weeks ago?"

"It was."

"And you just ... didn't think to say anything?"

You're serious now, almost concerned, and he can't stand it.

"It's not a big deal, love," he says, leaning in to press kisses against your forehead and temple. "Just another day."

"It is a big deal," you argue, pulling back to look at him. "I would have ... I don't know, I would have gotten you something. Treated you special. Thrown a party, something."

"One, I don't like parties. Two, you treat me special everyday. Three, you've already given me more than you know, I don't need anything else."

All those things are true, but it still takes much longer than he'd like to get the frown off your face.

The next day, you ask him to run some errands for you. You need the oil changed in your car, some things from the big grocery store on the other side of town, but you need to stay home and take care of some things that need done around the house. He agrees easily. He likes taking care of you.

When he comes back later that afternoon, he goes for the kitchen, ready to put up the groceries he'd picked up, and there you are, leaning against the counter and smiling at him like you were waiting for him.

The homemade cake on the counter beside you, with candles sticking out and "Happy Birthday Simon" written in icing on top, tells him that you were.

Every time you do something like this, perform some little act of kindness that comes so naturally to you, it feels like something gets unlocked inside him. Like there have always been chains wrapped around his mind and his heart, keeping him tight and cold and alone, padlocks piling on top year after year, keeping all the hurt secure inside. But somehow you have the key, and you take your time, undoing them all.

Undoing him, completely and thoroughly, until he's open for the first time. And it's raw and new, and it hurts, but something in him knows that the pain will give way to something beautiful.

He watches as you step up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and leaning your head against his chest.

"Happy birthday, Simon," you say softly.

He can't say anything, not now, so he pulls you closer to him, strong arms cradling you against him, and you're close enough that he can feel when the corner of your mouth turns up into a smile

Another lock coming off. Another piece of proof that he can be something different, something better, with you.

When you blow johnny and just keep gagging and choking he'll most likely laugh at you. But because you don't just let things slide–that man needs to be put in his place anyway–you pull out one of your dildos, and tell him to suck it. He laughs incredulously at first, though not totally opposedto the idea. But once he saw the expression on your face he knows you're serious. And he was never one to turn down a challenge.

Safe to say he's gagging like a bitch. Can barely take half the thing without tears stinging at his eyes. And if you're mean you tell him, "well, that's pathetic, baby." In a mocking tone. (lt makes his cock twitch dw) and if you're even meaner you decide to 'help out'. Forcing the toy down his throat with your hand. Do it over and over. Like he does when fucking your throat without consideration. He's a mess by the end, sweaty, eyes red with tears flowing from them, drooled all over the toy, down on himself like some mutt. But some time during it he came without even being touched.

He doesn't make fun of you again.

New continuation to this

I’m sitting on the idea of Ghoap x Reader AU where Reader is Simon’s best friend that’s been with him since childhood, through thick and thin.

They leave together when they graduate, start renting a flat before Simon leaves for army which initially changes nothing. He still comes whenever he can, calls them pretty often, he’s there for Christmases (if they get leaves for it).

And then something changes. It’s nothing noticeable, he is just a little more distant, he’s slipping their Christmas for the first time instead inviting Reader to come out somewhere in Scottish Highlands (you decline partially because you are upset that he just cancelled out on you all of a sudden and partially you and Simon are two socially inept people and the thought of spending Christmas with bunch of people you don’t know is…well, not alluring).

And then at some point Simon introduces the shiny John (“Johnny”, practically purrs Simon and you feel your blood pressure rising) “Soap” MacTavish who’s beautiful and joyful and whose smile is infectious.

And you are cordial, trying to be friendly, trying to push down the “oh, so that’s who you spent Christmas with in Scotland” because it’s not fair to Simon, because Simon doesn’t owe you anything, you aren’t together after all.

And Soap is incredibly friendly, grinning wide, touchy in a way that overwhelms you at some point, discomfort probably evident because Simon pulls Soap away by the nape of his neck, growling that he needs to let you breathe.

And it would be better if Soap instead didn’t drape his hand over Ghost’s shoulders and god, you never were one to be jealous but for some reason (yeah, why is that, i wonder) you want to hole up somewhere and hide.

gaz knows he’s pretty, but he loves it even more when you tell him so.

it was a perfect saturday morning, a rare occasion where you and kyle finally got days off of your professions. so that meant sleeping in ungodly amounts of hours tangled in each other’s limbs.

it was just a quarter to 11 am when you both finally stirred. he hummed, opening his eyes to find you already looking at him. his lips split into a gentle smile. “mornin’, lovie.”

your hands reach up to frame his face in your palms, and you mirror the smile he gave you. “good morning, pretty boy,” you murmur, peppering his face in the softest of smooches.

heat rose to his cheeks and spread to the tips of his ears, a slow sigh exiting his nostrils as he accepted your affection, eyes shutting so he could only think of your kisses. “your pretty boy.”

he listens as you snicker quietly, his smile widening. “mm. my pretty boy,” you correct yourself, before pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.

nudging his forehead against yours, he inhaled a nose full of your scent, and returned your kiss with his own. “can we have waffles today?”

“of course we can, handsome.” another rush of heat to his face. he pecks your lips once more, before you both roll out of bed to start brunch together.

but of course, it’s your day to treat him. after he pulls out the bacon and lays them out in strips on the baking sheet, he turns to you. “anything else i can do, sweet’art?”

“just sit there n’ look pretty f’me, love.”

so he hops onto the counter, looking to you with heart eyes as his legs dangled and kicked like a giddy child.

gaz masterlist

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