Latest Posts by allpurposeramen - Page 2
Simon Riley, who discovers (and accepts) that he has a raging Mommy kink on a random Saturday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly as he checks out the new flavours of Ramen noodle cups.
And his spine goes rigid, when you address him directly.
"Big lad like you needs a proper meal," you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. "In my humble opinion." You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.
Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.
His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a "Have a good day, love." and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.
By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.
And he doesn't quite know what he's feeling in this moment, but he puts the Ramen back into the shelf, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.
Oh, Simon's going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping you'll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.
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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.
Gaz is drowning with bitches, and Johnny is envious of it coz he can't pull.
So when you came out of Gaz's quarters crying, Johnny grinned as he preened before approaching you.
Because stealing Gaz's favorite bird is a hell of a way to one up the casanova.
cw: manipulation, possessive reader, suggestive language
You told him you didn’t do casual.
You didn’t make it a big deal. You just said it like you meant it, not trying to sound dramatic or emotional about it. Just honest.
“I don’t do casual,” you said, eyes on your drink. “It always ends up messy, and I’m not built for that.”
Simon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s alright,” he said eventually. “I’m not looking for anything serious.”
You nodded. No reaction on your face, no shift in tone. “Then we can just be friends.”
He raised an eyebrow like he was trying to figure you out. “You sure?”
You smiled a little. “Yeah. I like hanging out with you. We don’t have to fuck.”
“…Alright,” he said, after a pause. “Friends.”
And that was the start.
Except friends don’t show up to his gym when he’s meeting a girl for a workout date.
Friends don’t slip him a text during his Tinder dinner like,
“you left your hoodie here again. i’m wearing it. smells like you.”
Friends don’t show up to the pub when he’s got plans with someone, all dolled up like you just rolled out of a damn music video, giving his date a once-over and offering a tight smile that says run, babe.
You’d always act surprised when things didn’t work out. “Oh no, she ghosted you? That’s so weird.”
And Simon? He wasn’t completely oblivious. But he was tired, and lonely, and honestly kind of lazy when it came to trying to figure women out, and you were just so easy to be around, so warm and funny and low-maintenance and somehow always around when he needed someone.
So when he started seeing you more than anyone else, it didn’t feel weird. It felt right.
He told himself it was just friendship.
Even when you leaned against him on the couch. Even when you started sleeping over. Even when he started feeling a little sick thinking about you with anyone else.
The night it finally changed, he had just come back from a shit deployment — nothing too dangerous, just long and annoying and cold, and you’d been waiting at his place (with your own key, because somehow that had happened), and you were in his clothes, curled up in his bed with takeout, and when he saw you like that he just… stopped thinking.
“You’re perfect for me,” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself.
You blinked, looking up from your phone. “What?”
“I was so fucking stupid,” he muttered, dropping his bag, walking toward you like something magnetic was pulling him in. “I didn’t see it. I don’t know why.”
You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him for a second, then smiled, slow and easy, like you’d been waiting for him to finally figure it out, like none of it really surprised you, but you were still happy to hear it out loud.
From there, it was easy.
The relationship happened fast. Slipped into place like it had always been there. He’d gone from “I don’t do serious” to leaving his toothbrush at your place, to falling asleep with his face buried in your neck, to holding your hand in public without even realizing he was doing it.
He was happy. Stupidly happy. The kind that made his friends suspicious and his coworkers tease him. The kind that made you look like the hero of some cozy domestic fantasy where nothing ever goes wrong and love is enough.
It wasn’t one big moment. It was a bunch of little ones that slowly added up until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Like how you always just showed up when he had plans, how his phone would buzz with a text from you right before he left for a date. Or how you’d casually mention how certain girls “weren’t his type,” even when he never brought them up to you.
And then one day, while you were going through an old playlist together, you said, “God, I remember this song. I used to listen to it every time I thought about you with someone else.” And you didn’t even blink after saying it.
And the more he thinks about it, the more it starts adding up.
You’d played him. You’d baited him.
And now he’s sitting on the couch, watching you walk into the room in one of his old T-shirts, holding a bowl of snacks, looking like home, and he honestly doesn’t know whether to laugh or be pissed off or bend you over the arm of the sofa and remind you who he is.
You plop into his lap like you do it every day (because you do), nestling in like you’re settling into your rightful throne, and he wraps his arms around your waist automatically, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.
“You know what I realized today?” he asks, voice low.
You hum. “What?”
He tilts his head like he’s thinking it through. “We’re together because you manipulated me.”
You pause for like… half a second. Then?
“Yeah,” you say, nonchalant. “And?”
He squints at you, mouth twitching like he can’t decide if he wants to smile or frown. “You sabotaged every girl I tried to hook up with.”
“I did,” you say, and lean forward to grab the remote. “Most of them were trash anyway.”
“You tricked me into thinking you weren’t interested.”
“Mhm.” You don’t even look at him. “Worked, didn’t it?”
There’s this long silence, and then Simon groans and lets his head fall back on the couch dramatically.
“I should be mad,” he mutters.
“You’re not,” you say, smiling down at him like he’s your prize. “You love me.”
“Fuck, woman,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours. “That turns me on.”
You grin, shifting your weight so you’re straddling him properly, hands sliding up his chest slowly until your fingers curl around the back of his neck. You squeeze—not hard, just enough to make him feel it.
“You belong to me,” you whisper against his ear. “Always have.”
He shivers. Actually shivers.
“…Jesus.”
You kiss his jaw, slow and smug. “Say it.”
“…Yours.”
“Good boy.”
And yeah. He is.
PART 2
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@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6
King Price assuring his pretty new bride that it’s tradition his most trusted men be there for the consummation of their marriage. It’s just part of the ceremony and to be expected. Nothing to be nervous or shy about. His inner circle are strictly professional and all about upholding the sanctity of marriage.
Now just lay back and let Johnny work your pretty little cunt open with his tongue. Your king would hurt you if you weren’t ready, and we can’t have that can we? We need you relaxed and pliant. It’s okay if it feels good, no need to fight it. Johnny is here to please you as much as he is there for John. You are the new queen after all.
Kyle can help you keep your cries down, just open your mouth nice and wide for him. Just like that. Let him stuff his cock down your throat to muffle you. We don’t want the maids in waiting to hear you scream. Scare the poor dears to death thinking you were in pain.
Then when you’re ready John will bully his way into your slick hole. He knows the stretch burns but he keeps going, assuring you it gets better. As he bends your knees up to your ears he whispers to you about how good you feel. How pretty you are with tears in your eyes and his name on your lips. That it’s okay to claw at him as he punches against your cervix as he pushes in hard and deep when he comes.
When John rolls off you, Simon’s fingers are there quickly replace him, making sure none of the kings spend goes to waste. He knows your overstimulated and sore but don’t try and crawl away. Unless you want a sharp smack to your abused clit. And as your body clenches around his fingers you can rock your hips to match his movements pushing into you, no need to be shy.
And as you lay there on display in the bed, hips up on a pillow to keep everything in that Simon pushed back inside, Johnny will clean you up. Wipe away the left over spit and come from your thighs with a deliciously warm cloth. He’ll use his tongue again for the especially tender parts if you whine prettily enough. Kyle does the same for his King as John lays next to you, grinning as he watches.
Meanwhile, Simon leaves to tell the Court it’s done; his fingers still glistening as the evidence.
currently thinking about the time i absently mindedly started humping his leg cause i was worked up and he was being a fucking tease. didn't even realize i was doing it till he ASKED if thats what i was doing. i went to stop cause fuck that's embarrassing and he just pressed his leg harder against me and told me not to stop till i finished
the whole fucking time he was making fun of me and shit i need him so bad man i am horrendously into everything that man wants
lasted maybe 3 minutes, and he mocked me when i finished.... please.... god please do it again i need that in my life
anyways, now i have to write a fic based on this experience because im just THINKING so hard about it rn.... god damn...
Ghost never defines your relationship, and in a lot of ways what is allowed is determined by him. And he’s fine with the loose boundaries of your relationship until he realizes that you also have other people in your phone. It only really crosses his mind when you ask him to come as your date to some event and when he inevitably declines that offer what does he look like getting dressed up and forced to go talk to a bunch of fucking idiots you hit him with a shrug and mention that you’ll ask someone else. You don’t even look up from your phone but he is staring a hole into the side of your head cause who the fuck else would you ask?
For a friends with benefits reader/possessive best friend Soap, I'm imagining reader trying initially to set some boundaries so things don't get messy and the lines don't get blurry (like maybe no kissing during sex) and Soap "I have no intentions of being just friends or just a fuck buddy" overriding each and every one of those boundaries.
Johnny "Soap" "Red Flag" MacTavish absolutely kisses with tongue whenever they hook up, even though you told him at the very start that this was purely physical / a way to relieve stress.
He'll send nudes, blow up your phone at all hours of the day, sleep over after you've hooked up even though one of your boundaries was for him to go home after sex ("hen, ye cannae make me go home in this state," he'll complain, flopping over on the bed. "It'd be cruel to send a man home after that."), surreptitiously delete the dating apps off your phone.
He absolutely greets your mom at the door to your flat in his boxers because he invited her and his mom over for Sunday brunch and didn't tell you. Pure beaming when they coo and fuss over their two babies getting together because he knows you're way too embarrassed to correct your mother and tell her that you're just sleeping with Johnny.
Johnny Mactavish x Kyle Garrick x female!reader, threesome, facesitting, oral, overstimulation
Thinking about riding Soap's face and yanking him around by his mohawk while Gaz blows him, watching his eyes roll as his hips buck and tongue fucks into your hole, smearing slick all over his face, driving him into overstimulation as he begs to come, cock leaking and Gaz lifting your hips to spit a mess of precome and saliva into his mouth before you sit back down. Gaz swallowing him all the way down and milking the come out of him with a finger in his ass, mercilessly pressing on his prostate as he shouts against your clit.
Letting him lay there moaning and come drunk as Gaz drags you back onto his cock, pounding into you, the both of you coming hard, Gaz moaning and biting your shoulders as you lick into Soap's mouth, sucking on his tongue, his hands squeezing roughly at your breasts.
Gaz licks sweat from your neck as you lift up off his cock, and you wait until he has Soap's arms pinned before you slide your cunt back over Soap's face. His moan is garbled, bubbling up through the mess of slick and semen, drowning between your thighs as you get your rhythm going again, Gaz working two fingers into him this time, using his strong gorgeous body exactly the way he wants.
Thinking about Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley who’s with a reader who’s never sucked dick before…and he’s a little too excited to stuff her mouth full of his fat cock.
“Simon, I’ve never— I’ve never done this,” You stuttered over your words, fingers digging indents into his thighs as you stared up at him on your knees.
His thumb in your mouth, nudged right up against the wet flesh of your cheek, staring up at him with dewy eyes and shallow breaths.
He knows.
Knows you’ve never had a cock in your mouth, so innocent, so sweet. And here he was, thick cock in hand, reddened, swollen, precum beading at the tip. Desperate, eager, throbbing in his massive palm because he was the first to ruin your innocence, defile your purity, take it as his fucking own. A cock too fat for your first time, he knows that much.
“I know, baby,” He murmured, smearing the fat of his cock head against your plump lips, “Let me show you, yeah?”
You nodded earnestly, precum glistening on your lips.
“Yeah?” He chuckled, but it was anything but remorseful, “Want me to teach you how t’suck cock, dove?”
✎ᝰ.ᐟ
cw: somnophilia, dubcon
They’re his favorite shorts.
Cotton. Gray. Plain.
Hug your ass perfectly.
Fabric resting just right above the curve of your cheeks, reveals just a little of the mouth-watering skin he wants to sink his teeth into.
He thinks he might’ve been able to control himself, climb into bed next to you, and pull you in his arms instead of defiling you. Sleep the urge away and take you in the morning when you’re proper awake. That would be the right thing to do, let his sweet girl get the rest you deserve.
It’s not his fault, really, not when you’re also wearing his shirt, makes something possessive curl in his chest at the ‘RILEY’ printed in bold on your back.
You’re too tempting for your own good; how is he supposed to let you sleep when you’ve gone and done such a thing?
He runs a calloused hand up your calf, spreading your pretty legs just a smidge more so he can crawl his way between them. The jostling doesn’t wake you, never does, but when his fingers brush against the backs of your thighs, spreading his touch wide over your skin you make a sleepy noise, not quite awake yet.
When his hands find claim to your ass, kneading the supple flesh, he has to physically stifle a groan as he watches the fat give away under his touch. Another noise comes from above him, his greedy hands pulling you closer and closer to clouded consciousness.
You feel it, he’s sure, a slight tickling on the backs of your thighs that doesn’t quite make sense yet, not when you’re still in the tight confines of sleep’s grasps, wound in a thick fog. Must be even more confusing when his thumb dips lower, smears against your cloth covered cunt.
That makes another noise slip past your lips, a little more coherent this time, leisured strokes waking you enough that you shift slightly, fingers tightening in the sheets under you.
“Simon?”
He doesn’t say anything, just presses his thumb a little firmer against your cunt. You buck into the touch, a small patch of the gray fabric staining darker, your arousal seeping through the shorts even through your sleep-fuddled mind. You rustle your cheek against your pillow, blinking bleary-eyed down at him, lids still heavy, drowsy and dazed.
You’re so docile, sleep still weighing your limbs down, that you let him slip your shorts and underwear down your legs without a fight. Your pretty cunt bare to him, drenched and clenching around nothing as he returns home between your thighs again. Eager to be stuffed even when sleep borders your irises.
When his fingers nudge along your wet folds, the noise you make is so pretty, that it makes his cock throb painfully in his boxers.
He finds his fingers in your half asleep cunt more times than not when he comes home late. He can’t help himself, not when you’re so pliant and soft, handing your obedience over to him, and letting him bend you as he pleases. Let him take his time without complaint, work you nice and stretched while you just lay there and take it. Lazily rutting your hips in the sheets, too tired to do anything, but enjoy the stretch.
“Simon?” You whimper again.
“Yeah, baby,” He finally hums, “Jus’ relax f’me, yeah? Jus’ wanna play with her for a bit.”
reader at a bar being approached by johnny ‘my wife thinks you’re attractive’ mactavish but his wife is 6’4, 250lbs, wears a skull balaclava in public and is staring you down like you killed his mother
141 with reader on their team
You’re a soldier like the rest of them, but know quite a lot about medicine and therefore share the role of both soldier and medic. You’d been with them ever since the task force had been assembled and the rumours flying about on base never really died down.
You, Kyle, Simon and Johnny. Were you friends? Lovers? No one knew. Some swore they’d walked in on you and another kissing, but none of you had ever denied or confirmed that. John didn’t comment on the whispers he heard so frequently, letting his children live peacefully.
Heaven forbid one of them saw John sitting on the sofa alone; because they’d join. If Simon innocently sat down beside him, Kyle would then find him and sit next to him. Then Johnny would find them, dramatically laying across the three of them who had already fallen asleep. Eventually, you’d sniff them out and lounge on top of Johnny, only lightly disturbing him as he rests a hand over your back.
The team worked perfectly together, like a puzzle with all the pieces. A father and his four chaotic children, causing havoc with one another as laughs and giggles filled his office where they lingered after missions.
Even some nights, when Johnny would complain about his sore muscles, he’d always convince one of you to join him in the shower. That’s why peoples opinions were always so mixed on the four of you; how could a group that close not be romantic? Others just suspected friends with benefits and left it at that.
During missions, if any of the boys got injured, you’d be next to them in a heartbeat, staying calm as you patch up a non-fatal bullet wound or force an oxygen mask over their mouth after suffering a concussion or close explosion. You’d kiss their cheek, sometimes with a little too much force, after you knew they were fine and would recover well. Johnny would sometimes ask for one on the lips (and you’d sometimes give it to him).
Gaz would demand massages everywhere after the mission, and Simon (although wouldn’t say directly) appreciated when you sat with him afterwards in silence, and enjoy when you’d yap about random things. It kept him entertained and focused on something other than his negative thoughts. He’d act annoyed when Johnny, Kyle and you would squeeze into his small bed on base and refuse to budge, all lying in the small space, limbs tangled and bodies pressed close together.
However, when they all went home, you’d never mention anything about what you were doing, if you were meeting anyone, seeing family. You were always quieter on the plane ride back to England, more distant and lost in your own head. They knew where you lived, on the outskirts of London, but wanted to know more. One day when Kyle asked if you’d be seeing family, you shrugged your shoulders. “Dunno,” was all you responded with.
So John invited you round his house. Then Johnny found out, claiming his apartment was too far away and convincing John to let him stay round his house as well. Then Johnny forced Simon to stay with them (he didn’t need much convincing); and when they arrived at the airport Kyle somehow ended up in Johns car as well (influenced by you).
At Johns house, the four of you ended up falling asleep over one another on his sofa as he cleaned up the mess of the food you’d nicked from his cupboards. Johnnys snoring woke you up multiple times, but he made up for it in his own ways.
————————————————
this was a random idea I had that I needed to get down 🙂↕️. Interpret it how you want, they could be just friends or they could all be secret lovers. Who knows? 🤷♀️🤷♀️
John Price with a health obsessed wife. She always wants to make sure his health is at its best.
So it’s how John finds himself getting lectured at 6am because he’s drinking coffee. He couldn’t sleep, the poor fella, but you insist that a glass of water wakes you up more than caffeine.
“Water’s way healthier, caffeine can give you an irregular heartbeat.”
“Mhm, I’ll keep that in mind darling,” he mumbles from behind, his fingertips tracing over the waistband of your pyjamas. He plants a kiss on the back of your shoulder and gently nips it. “But I wouldn’t want to waste my coffee.” He picks it up again and quickly finishes it before you can protest. However, it doesn’t stop the cute, annoyed expression on your face.
“You take such good care of me, love.”
“Well you never listen to me anyway so I don’t know why I bother,” you replied saltily, brushing past him after leaving a glass of water on the side in front of him.
He grumbles as he picks up the glass and drinks it. Never would he want to ignore his wife so he obediently does what he’s told before reaching to grab you back and chuck you over his shoulder. “Back to bed, angel.”
This might be a wild one.
But hear me out okay.
Simon has his hand somewhere intimate at all times whenever it’s the two of you together.
NOW okay stay with me…
At first, it was somewhat innocent. You’d both be watching a movie on the sofa, he’d deliberately have you lie across him just so his hand can rest on your ass. Casual couple things y’know.
But as your relationship progresses and he’s very used to being able to touch his pretty girl whenever possible…he tends to stray to more intimate places.
There would be one time, you’d be standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner for him on the rare occasion he gets to have a home cooked meal for once. And he’d stand behind you, humming some dumb song that’s been stuck in his head for days. But his hands will be on your tits.
Now, there’s nothing sexual about it really. He just likes holding them. Likes touching you. He’d probably give the occasional squish now and again because let’s face it he’s a man and they’d all do it.
But the only time his need to be touching you would turn sexual, is by complete accident.
(Hear me the fuck out okay?)
So you’d both be lying in bed, you’d be scrolling through your phone as he’s reading beside you (he reads, it’s obvious).
But his hand, would be down whatever pants or shorts you’re wearing for bed, underneath your underwear if you are wearing any at the time…and his hand would simply be resting on your cunt.
Like I said, it wouldn’t be sexual at first and it was an accident this time around.
Because this man can’t sit still at home, it’s too quiet…too calm…he needs something to do.
So what does he do? Play with your cunt.
The pad of his middle finger would idly rub up and down over your clit, not even trying to put any effort in all whilst he focuses on reading. Even if you’re there slightly squirming from the pleasure that the rhythmic motion of his finger creates, he wouldn’t really notice straight away.
He’d circle it a few times, all the while you’re trying to keep quiet as to not disturb him. Having to hold in every moan or soft sound your body aches to let out.
And for the most part, he seems completely focused. Even when his finger would slide down and gather every drop leaking out of you and bring it back to your clit just for more stimulation.
It’s only when you’re close to cumming from the lazy but constant stimulation that he’ll lean down slightly just to whisper in your ear.
“C’mon…give it to me love…please…”
He knows.
He always knows.
gaz who learns sign, and never had to use it extensively until he met your daughter. abrupt ending.
kyle’s on his designated leave grocery run, wandering the dairy section with a sparsely filled basket. he’s without earphones, a habit built from military grade anxiety and the ritual of checking his six every 10 seconds.
it’s how he hears the squeaking of her shoes.
he turns. she’s not much older than a toddler, staring at the chocolate milk and grinning from ear to ear. she whips around, but when she finds an empty space behind her, her lips morph into a pout.
the early morning grocery is empty, and kyle can’t help but worry for the small child and the large maze she’s found herself in.
approaches her slowly and asks where her parents are. she stares at him, before tapping her ear gently. his chest swells.
he sets the basket down and signs, where are your parents?
her smile could melt butter. my mom was in the bread aisle.
he nods slowly. that’s not that far away, and she’s most definitely noticed she’s missing her child by now. poor woman.
i see. let’s wait here. what’s your favorite color?
kyle entertains brief and simple conversation, mainly to distract her from her missing mother and the tears that would likely follow. it was a kind of endearing he was entirely unfamiliar with, but experiencing it for the shorter portion of a minute left him disappointed when he saw you approaching from behind an aisle.
it fizzles out, though, when you wrap her in your arms. struck by just how beautiful the two of you were.
you sign with one hand. never do that again. didn’t know where you were. i was so scared.
your daughter points to Kyle, signing, i was safe with him.
he waves sheepishly, before signing, your mom’s right. safer next to her.
you offer him a grateful smile, and speak aloud to him. your voice is as smooth as the milk that your daughter ran for. “thank you for sticking with her. you know sign?”
he shrugs. “a little.”
you nod. “im glad. not many do, must’ve been luck,” your smile softens, “for her to run into you.”
kyle brightens, before picking up his basket. the girl’s eyes brighten, pointing at it and signing wildly. kyle barely catches it, but you smile like it’s easy.
you want chocolate milk? that’s why you went away?
she nods. both of you laugh.
you adjust your daughter in your arms, before reaching through the door and grabbing a carton. the girl takes it and delightedly put it in the basket.
she glances between the two of you, and then turns to her mom and signs,
you’re wearing his favorite color.
Lately I’ve been haunted with the idea of keeping Soap company after he sustains a major injury, asking if there’s anything you can do for him, him smirking that you could ‘do something to take his mind off the pain’ with a bit of a brow wiggle. The same kinda thing he’s always saying to you.
Color him surprised when you actually lean over and start unbuckling him, and he kinda panics— tells you that you don’t really have to do this (he wants you, fuck, he wants you— but he needs you to actually want it)
And you look up at him like “🥺 I just hate seeing you in pain and I wanna help” so innocently, like he hasn’t imagined your mouth around him in excruciating detail since day fucking one, like he hasn’t stained his boxers with pre at the mere notion that he could have your saliva dripping down his shaft because you wanna be his sweet little nursemaid while he’s hurt.
More angst
Ghost who lives after Johnny dies, Ghost who wishes the bomb went off so he didn’t have to face a world without his Johnny. The one he didn’t get to tell he loved, foolishly believing they’d both make it back when it seems neither did truly.
Or angstier:
The same Johnny he wanted to marry, the ring burning in his bedside drawer in his room in the barracks. He had made a plan after this mission he was gonna propose to Johnny, he even asked for Price’s blessing, he was even going to ask him to officiate their wedding? What he wasn’t expecting when cleaning out Soap’s room? An engagement ring with their initials cause of course Soap’s sappy like that, a note that had written down Johnny’s plans, how he was gonna propose, how he was gonna get Price’s blessing besides definitely already having it and oh no..just like him Johnny was planning to ask Price to officiate their wedding, so now, weeks later Ghost wears a chain with two rings on it, Johnny’s plans in a picture frame so Simon Ghost never has to forget how he wrote, his handwriting, cause he despite knowing he wouldn’t ever forget, also didn’t think that mission was gonna take Johnny away and yet it did, and he refused to let the world take one more thing of Johnny away, or his memory away.
(So post is on main)
Anyone want some angst? Cause I found some random angst laying around. With the bonus of Martin and Gabe interacting for the first time.
It’s 7am when Gabriel gets the call. The one he’s spent the last ten years dreading, knowing full well that sooner or later it would inevitably come.
-
Gabriel walks through the halls of the large hospital in a daze. Trying his best to follow the directions given by the nurse down at the front desk.
He pauses outside of what is supposed to be Noah’s room, staring at the door. His hand shakes when it comes up to twist the handle.
The figure in the bed at the far end of the room wouldn’t be recognizable if not for the fact that Gabriel could pick Noah out of a crowd with his eyes closed.
His face is so swollen and bruised Gabriel doesn’t think he could open his eyes even if he’d been awake to try.
His lip is split in several places, blood hastily wiped away.
His knuckles must be busted too, if the bandages covering his hands are any indication.
Gabriel sinks down into one of the free chairs in the room. There are two beds in here, separated by a thin curtain. The other bed is empty. Maybe just because it happens to not be needed right now, or maybe intentionally left as such, considering Noah’s case is likely a police matter.
Just a few more hits short of being a murder case.
Gabriel reaches out and rests his hand on Noah’s chest. Feeling the slow and steady beat of his heart against his palm. Just to remind himself that Noah is still alive.
In the countless times he’s imagined getting that call in the past, he’s never once imagined Noah still breathing at the end of it. It just hadn’t seemed likely.
But he’s here. Lungs inflating in his chest, rising up to meet the gentle touch of Gabriel's hand.
Noah is going to survive this, just like he’s survived everything else he’s put himself through. There is no other option.
Gabriel just hopes he won’t be too changed for it.
Gabriel sits with him for a few hours. Just watching him rest. Hands never leaving him for long.
He thinks about the last time Noah was at the studio. How happy and carefree he’d seemed. Gabriel had known from the moment he’d turned up, exactly where he’d come from, could always tell when he’d been spending time with his cowboy.
Gabriel blinks. Martin.
Unlocking Noah’s phone is an easy matter. There are no secrets between them, not even pin codes. The phone is thankfully accounted for in the plastic bag holding Noah’s small collection of items.
Gabriel steps out into the hallway to make the call, he’s not sure why. It’s not like Noah is going to hear him. But he needs a moment to himself anyway. Needs to take a breath.
Finding the right name in the contact list isn’t an issue, there aren’t that many names in there, but actually hitting the call button is harder than Gabriel was expecting.
He rips the band-aid off and brings the phone up to his ear. Cracked screen rough against his cheek.
It rings for a long time, long enough to have him second guessing himself. He’s almost sure no one is going to pick up when finally the line connects.
“Noah?” It’s urgent. Scared. “Noah, where are you, what's wrong?”
Gabriel’s chest aches. He can hear himself in Martin’s voice. Knows that if Noah called him out of the blue like this he’s be saying exactly the same words. Knows that he too would be fearing the worst.
“Noah! Talk to me.”
Gabriel shakes himself. Shuts his eyes. “Martin Hart?”
“No.” Martin’s breath leaves him with the word. “No, no, no, no, please-”
“He’s alive.” Gabriel is quick to clarify. “He’s alive.”
He can practically feel the relief in the silence across the line. He opens his mouth to continue, but no words come out. Martin’s fear for Noah’s life has rocked him. To know that someone else cares as much about Noah as Gabriel does- it’s stunned him.
“But he’s hurt?” Martin asks, finally breaking the silence between them.
Gabriel nods before he realizes Martin’s can’t see him. “He’s-” He swallows. “He’s unconscious. Broken a few bones too. They don’t know how long he’ll be out for, or if he’ll be himself when he wakes up, or-” His voice cracks. He hadn’t realized he was crying, but his cheeks are suddenly wet. “Can you-” He’s not really sure what he’s asking for, just knows that this is too much, even for him.
“I’m on my way, Gabriel.” Martin says, he must have assumed who was calling, there aren’t that many people in Noah’s life, after all. “You keep him company, yeah? I’ll be there as soon as I can, just tell me where you are.”
Gabriel rattles off the address. It’s a six hour drive from wherever Martin is, apparently. The thought of sitting in that hospital room alone for six more hours is enough to have Gabriel feeling sick.
He listens to Martin move around on the other end of the line, likely getting some things together before he heads out. The sound is soothing, less lonely, but then Martin tells him he has to hang up, that he only owns a landline, and Gabriel swallows down his dread and lets him go.
A nurse stops by a few hours later to check Noah’s vitals and to make sure he’s comfortable.
Gabriel watches her work with a numb sort of detachment. She’s humming and chatting, seemingly to the both of them, about nothing in particular, and Gabriel doesn’t bother answering her. He just gives her a tight smile when she comes to give him a pat on the shoulder before she leaves.
He can’t help the way he keeps checking his watch. He’s subconsciously counting down the hours until Martin gets here. He feels childish. Like he’s a kid waiting for an adult to come help them through a situation they can’t handle on their own.
He doesn’t even know this guy. Yet he sort of does. Noah is always talking about him, about his farm and his animals and the way Martin cooks for him. Real, actual food when Noah rarely gets to have anything besides junk food.
He remembers how distrustful he’d been towards this Martin guy when Noah had first told him about him. He'd imagined some older creep, manipulative and taking advantage of a young man desperate for his own place in the world.
He’d expected Martin to try to pin Noah down. Or to use him and discard him when he got too much. Wouldn’t have been the first time. But it’s been four years now, since Noah first met him. And every time Noah finds his way back to Gabriel’s studio after having spent time with the guy. He’s happy. Happier than Gabriel ever gets to see him.
Gabriel can always tell when Noah is leaving him to go stay with Martin too, even if he doesn’t let on that that’s where he’s headed. There’s an excitement to him that is unmistakable. Like he can’t wait to let his bike eat up the miles between them.
Of course there are times when Noah comes to him in a bad mood. They have their fights, every now and then. Mostly it’s Noah’s fault, but even so, Gabriel always feels a twinge of anger directed at Martin too, even if it’s almost never warranted. He just can’t help it.
With almost an hour left on the clock, there’s a timid knock on the door.
Gabriel doesn’t bother calling out or standing to open it, and he doesn’t have to, because only seconds later a tall, weathered man steps into the room.
He looks so much like your stereotypical cowboy it almost makes Gabriel want to laugh.
He’s wearing a red plaid shirt with an old work jacket pulled over it. He’s clutching a brown hat to his chest, just as dusty with red dirt as his well worn jeans and boots.
He freezes in the door, eyes going wide at the sight of Noah on the bed. He looks like he’s been physically stuck by the image.
Gabriel wonders then, how often Noah comes to him with bruises on his face. If he reserves that privilege for Gabriel alone, or if it’s just as common of an occurrence for Martin as it is for him.
“Hey.” Gabriel says, his voice comes out hoarse, raspy with disuse.
Martin doesn’t startle exactly, but he snaps out of his shock enough to look over. He blinks. “You Gabriel?” His voice is deep. He almost sounds stern, except Gabriel can tell he isn’t trying to be.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “You speed all the way here or what?” He has to have been, to have gotten here this early.
Martin just shrugs. He slips out of his jacket and pulls up a chair, sitting next to Gabriel, facing the bed. He stares at Noah for a long time, silent.
“He woken up at all?”
Gabriel sighs. He reaches over and places his hand back on Noah’s bandaged one. “Not yet. They don’t know how long he’ll need. Something about the swelling on his brain going down first.”
Martin nods. “Do you know what happened?”
He knows Martin must have drawn the same conclusions as him. That he must have assumed Noah had a wreck until he saw his injuries. The way they don’t line up with those of an accident.
“Not really. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. Thought he was out your way.”
“He was. Left a few days ago, said he was heading this way but, you know-”
Gabriel does know. Noah has always been bad at keeping him in the loop. He knows he’s even worse about doing so for Martin. “Thank you for coming, by the way.”
Martin smiles at him, and for a second he understands why Noah was drawn to him in the first place. He has a warmth to him, a steadiness that is sorely lacking from Noah’s life. He feels like a rock, sitting beside Gabriel like this, even as he’s clearly going through a lot in his own head, he projects an outward calmness that does a lot to soothe Gabriel’s worries.
“Thank you for calling me. I’m grateful for you letting me know. God knows he’d never call me himself.”
Gabriel huffs. Doesn’t he know it.
“I figured he’d want you close, when he wakes up, even if he would never admit to wanting either of us here.”
The cowboy deflates. “I hope so. I hope I’m not overstepping, I never quite know where I stand in all this.”
Gabriel feels a stab of sadness for the man. He clearly cares so much about Noah, and true to form, Noah is making loving him as difficult a choice as possible.
“He would want you here. I know he would.” It doesn’t feel like enough, so he adds. “He never stops talking about you, you know.”
Martin looks over, eyebrows raised. “That true?”
Gabriel nods. “I think I could name every single one of your chickens by now.”
That makes Martin chuckle. Deep and hearty. “He loves those birds.”
“He sure does.”
They sit in comfortable silence for a while, just the beeping of the machines filling the room. It’s getting later in the day now. The little bit of sunlight hitting the far wall through the curtains is golden against the stark white of the walls.
Gabriel sighs. The sound drawing Martin’s attention. “I need to go see if I can track down his bike before it gets stolen, if it hasn’t been already.” He stands up, wishing he had thought to bring a jacket with him. “Call me if anything changes, yeah?”
He gives Martin the pin code to Noah’s phone and shows him how to find his name in the contact list. It’s obvious the guy has never held a smartphone before, but he figures it out quickly.
“Go.” He says, when Gabriel hesitates in the doorway. “That bike is his whole damn life.”
And isn’t that the truth.
Gabriel spends the next two hours scouring the streets of the downtown area for any sign of the bike.
He knows from the nurses where abouts Noah was found, but it was down a back-alley in an industrial area. Far from the usual kind of place Noah might haunt. And not an easy area to get a motorcycle into. He opts to rule out the more likely places first before trying his luck there.
He checks the streets around every single bar and pub and club he can find, peering into alleys and side streets with no luck.
Next he checks the local motel parking lots. No bike.
Every time he sees a parked motorcycle on the street his heart skips a beat. But it's never Noah's.
He’s about ready to give up and head back to the hospital when he decides to finally go look at the area Noah was found in. He just feels the need to see it for himself. Like maybe it will clear things up somehow. Give him some answers.
Finding the exact alleyway isn’t hard.
There’s police tape all around it. It’s a full on crime scene.
Gabriel doesn’t go beyond the tape. Scared to disturb anything that might be important to finding whoever did this to him. Even if he knows the investigation will inevitably end up closed before anything comes up. It’s not worth the resources. Not for some homeless biker with a track record of petty crime and picking fights.
Standing at the mouth of the alley, leaning over the tape, Gabriel looks down into the darkness between the old buildings.
He doesn’t even need to bring his phone’s flashlight up to see the pool of blood on the ground.
There’s a pallet by the wall that’s splintered, like something impacted it. Fell on it maybe, or was pushed. Between it and the pool of blood lays a rusty old steel pipe.
It paints a picture well enough.
Gabriel turns away before he makes himself sick. He knows he should head back to the hospital, but he can’t bring himself to go just yet. He feels like a failure, both for not having found the bike, but also for not doing more to prevent this from happening in the first place.
He should have been a better friend. Should have talked Noah out of this kind of lifestyle, kept him safe.
Not that it would have done anything except push Noah further away from him.
He walks down towards where he knows the river will be. The old docks are silent around him. The only sound the humming of the lights illuminating the area, and the occasional seagull looking for a place to hunker down for the night.
He’s getting dangerously cold. He’s been walking around for hours, having left his car back at the hospital so he could ride the bike back if he found it. Now it’s looking like he’ll be walking back too. He’s not dressed for this. He should go before-
He almost doesn’t see it.
He’s following the river back into town when he passes underneath a bridge. The rumble of traffic above him loud enough to drown out his thoughts.
It’s pure chance that he glances up and into the darkness underneath the cover of the overhanging structure.
It’s Tansy.
She’s tucked up against a massive support beam, half covered by Noah’s trusty old tent haphazardly pitched against her side on the asphalt.
Noah’s things are all there, by some miracle. His backpack is hidden inside the tent along with his helmet, and upon closer inspection, his saddle bags are untouched.
Gabriel shakes his head at Noah’s luck. It’s always a theme with him, luck. He seems to have endless amounts of it, always working in his favor. Even now, stuck in a hospital bed with injuries bordering on incompatible with life, yet he’s facing decent odds, if the doctors are to be believed.
Pure luck, they’d said, that he wasn’t worse off.
Gabriel swallows down the bile in his throat and starts taking the tent down to pack it away.
Noah’s keys feel good in his hand when he pulls them out of his pocket, and he feels a surge of pride and relief when he turns it in the ignition and kicks the bike to life.
Tansy starts up just as willingly as she always does.
Gabriel lets her idle while he puts Noah’s helmet on. It’s far too tight on him, and he can already tell he’s going to have a banging headache by the time he makes it back to the hospital.
“Did you find her?” Martin asks as soon as Gabriel comes through the door. He’s sitting in Gabriel’s chair now, pushed up close to Noah’s side.
Gabriel holds the helmet up in answer. “Pure luck. But I did, in the end.”
“Good. Here, I’ll-” He goes to stand up, but Gabriel stops him.
“Sit. It’s alright. I’ve been with him all day.” Martin looks unsure, but he nods and sits back down. The way he takes Noah’s injured hand in his own is so achingly tender Gabriel has to look away to keep himself from letting his already worn thin walls crumble.
He’s exhausted, emotionally and physically drained, but he can do this. He can hold it together for a while longer.
Sorry for asking this question, but recently I really wanted to read something very sad (mmm... suffering ☺️) so I'm turning to you.
How would John react if he caught Nikolai with someone else? What would happen to their relationship then?👉👈
Oof. This one hurt.
cw: Nik cheats; I genuinely don't think he ever would, fyi. This was more an experiment in 'what if'. I thought about doing it from the perspective of 'they're not exclusive and Nik has had mixed messages', but I went for maximum pain.
Price had wanted to surprise Nik. Turn up at his hotel room, take him out, fall into bed for a bit, and then go pick up the kids from his sister's. The usual. He hadn't expected that day for his world to be ended by a pair of blue eyes and a jawline he could cut paracord with. Maybe ‘ended’ was a bit dramatic. Sure, it felt like it, but he had survived worse. He kept telling himself that. Over and over.
He'd never been one to cry, but he had blubbered like a baby behind the steering wheel of his Landie. The image of Nik with the blond in his arms, the hickie on his neck, kept circulating in his head like a taunt. It was there now as he stood in his office, Nik in the seat behind him, bright behind his eyes as he stared into space.
Price couldn't even look at him. When he did, he wanted to feel indignant rage, but all he felt was hurt. Misery. Betrayal. He needed his anger but all he wanted to do was cry more, and he no longer felt safe showing Nik that soft underbelly. He kept his face turned away.
“John, I…”
“I need t’ get tested,” Price said quietly, like Nik hadn't even spoken.
“I wore protection. I would not put you at risk of…”
“Really, Nik? Can I trust ya word on that?”
The words cut deep. Nik knew Price couldn't. It wasn't just their relationship he had discarded, but twenty years worth of implicit trust. The idea that Nik always had his back had vanished in a cloud of expensive cologne. Price lifted his left hand and ran his thumb over his wedding band.
“It was a mistake. I was foolish, I…”
“How many mistakes? Once, twice?”
“Twice.”
The knife sank just a little deeper. “So, you had to make sure then.”
“John…”
“Just him or have there been others?”
“No others.”
Price didn't respond. He just couldn't trust him. His thumb nail caught in one of the grooves of his wedding ring. Til death do us part. Did this count? It felt like death. His heart felt like it was about to give out any minute. “What did I do to deserve it?”
“You did nothing…”
There it was. The surge of rage. Price turned to look at Nik for the first time, his fists clenched and shaking. “Don't fuckin’ lie to me. No one shags some poxy bit on the side if they feel like they're eatin’ well at home. So what? What was it?”
Nik gazed up at Price with those warm brown eyes that had made Price fall in love with him. Had those eyes looked at the other bloke like that? Price felt his own prickle with tears again, but he made himself look.
Nik said nothing at first, and then his chin dropped as he sighed. “You are a brilliant father, a loving husband, but you are… busy.”
“Busy,” Price repeated, and he hated how his voice broke around the word. He turned away again, drew in a stuttering breath, the back of his wrist to his mouth.
“I made a… selfish choice. I…”
Price had taken a different role with the Army so they could have a family. Consultancy with a few away missions. It meant he commuted to base, but he could still do the bulk of domestic shit kids needed. He was busy. Busy building the life he thought Nik wanted. Perhaps they hadn't been intimate enough for a while, or…
“I will understand if you want a…” Nik swallowed, “...a divorce.”
“No,” Price said. “You ain't gettin’ off that easy. The kids need their dad, even if he's a lyin’, cheatin’ cunt. They don' need t’ know that. They worship you. And ‘m not doin’ the single father shit.”
“Then, how do we… what…”
“Open marriage. Can't trust ya not to do this again. You can shag who ya like, so can I. Wear protection, get tested every month. Kids don't see or get told any different. Then, when they've flown the nest, we sign the papers.”
Nik sat in stunned silence for a while. Price couldn't turn to look at him because a tear had escaped. The truth was the thought of being touched by anyone else disgusted him. He felt dirty now, like someone else’s dick had somehow touched him through Nik. Nik swallowed, and spoke finally. “I do not want anyone else.”
“At the moment. You jus’ got caught. Give yerself time.”
“John, please…”
“Is it the thought of someone else shaggin’ me, Nik? Is that what's hurtin’? Good. I hope it fuckin’ does.”
Fuck, he might just go and do it anyway. Find some random bloke at a club and let him go at it. Nik would see it, smell it. Maybe feel even a tiny shred of what Price did now. The thought of another man's hands on him made Price feel sick. He only wanted Nik’s. His heart broke all over again and more tears tracked down his cheeks.
“Then I would like to go to counseling,” Nik said.
“Whot for? So ya can get better at lyin’ t’ me?” Price asked, incredulous.
“We have another twelve years together. Maybe more. They do not need to be twelve years of suffering.”
“Shoulda thought of that before gettin’ yer dick wet in some twink.”
“Not for me, John. For you.”
“Get out my fuckin’ office before I decide collectin’ on your life insurance is a better shout.”
“John…”
“Now.”
The chair legs scraped as Nik stood. For a terrible second, Price felt his weight linger near. His entire body ached for those big arms to wrap around him, offer comfort to his broken heart, but he knew that act had been contaminated now. Poisoned. Nik had taken even that.
As the office door closed softly, Price managed to hold it together. The moment the footsteps had faded, he grabbed the chair Nik had been sitting in and threw it across the room. By the time he'd finished, his office looked like the CIA had been in to turn it over. He sat in the middle of it, his knees clutched to his chest, and sobbed until he was dry heaving.
He'd survived worse. But this was the first time in his life he'd wished it'd killed him.
I think Nik sleeps naked. Not a stitch on that bear. And he gets hot so the windows have to be open, and the blankets are getting kicked off at some point in the night.
Meanwhile, Price wears the cotton t-shirt, the plaid flannel trousers and wraps himself up in that duvet like a burrito. He gets cold, and itchy, and his bollocks stick to his thighs, and it's just uncomfortable.
When Nik wants sex, he has to unwrap Price like a present. Nothing gets him going more than the feel and smell of a sleepy, bed-warm John Price that he can slowly tease into arousal, feel him flush, skin to skin, and then the soft, wrecked whimpers as Nik sinks his cock into him.
Sure, they like it rough and raw too, but there's something uniquely special about seeing that level of vulnerability from his partner, and Nik laps it up.
It's been seven months since she's stopped holding his hand all the time and started walking four little steps ahead. Simon grapples with his daughter's newfound independence.
She is his measure of time.
Simon makes sure to count every inch his daughter grows. How much bigger and looser it feels every time she holds his hand while they walk down the block to see what the new weekly special is at the ice cream parlor. His little bug’s favorite flavor changes every time they go – it was Lemonberry Crunch last week, now it’s一
“A scoop of the… Maple… Buttercream Delight.”
“Two.” she corrects him, tugging on his hand. Her eyes sparkle at him, and a soft quiver hits her lips. She got that look from you. Simon doesn’t approve of it, not at all. It weakens him and makes it harder to deny you both anything, but he pushes through today with a pat on her beanie-covered head. He’s been meaning to buy her a new one after she pulled the pom-pom off.
“No, sweetheart. Jus’ one, yeah? Two’ll make your tummy upset.”
The sulking, woeful look shrouds her face in an instant. It’s fatal. Her little hand drops from his jacket to her side, and he’d buy out all the tubs of ice cream for her if he could.
“Sorry, bug. Jus’ don’t want you gettin’ sick ‘cause o’ me anymore.” he apologizes, nodding and mouthing ‘one’ to the girl on the other side of the counter to confirm. She smiles and fills the stubby paper cup up with one scoop, and his daughter sighs and longingly looks up at it as they weigh it, tiny fingers twiddling at the edge of her puffer.
“It’ll be three-oh-four, sir.”
He opens his wallet (the one his little girl made for him herself with zebra-print duct tape and neon-colored construction paper – incredible what kids can do) and pulls a tenner out. Before he can hand it to the young lady, his hand knocks on his thigh, smacking with urgency.
“I wanna give it, Daddy!” she says, buoyant on the tips of her toes, hopping up and down.
“Y’do, do ya?”
“Yes! Please!” She’s already being given the tenner, a wide smile on her face as she clumsily pushes the note into the woman’s hand. “Here y’go!”
He can’t help but chuckle a bit, thanking them before telling them to keep the change. Asks for a single pence back before they leave just because his little one’s been obsessed with collecting one from everywhere they go – she likes to tape them inside a notebook and label their source. Simon takes the ice cream and drops the coin into her waiting hands. She pockets it with a toothy grin, cheering and skipping over to their usual booth by the window.
It's been seven months since she's stopped holding his hand all the time and started walking four little steps ahead.
Simon grapples with his daughter's newfound independence.
It’s a funny thing to mull over in the middle of an ice cream shop, yet so easy to do when he watches her act so brazen with him, waving him over like he’s a servant who’s fallen behind. Not much of a difference anyway, is there?
They settle down in the chairs, and she digs into the creamy dessert.
“Oh, this is excellent.” she sighs, nodding. He’s raised an ice cream critic. Terrible influence, he is. “Five hundred stars.”
A smile tugs on his lips again, and he folds a napkin to wipe off the ice cream she unintentionally smears on the corners of her lips, leaning over the table一
She stops him and grabs the napkin. Tiny hand with a determined grip. “I can do it, Daddy.”
The words dig at his heart. He almost frowns, but lets go of the napkin for her.
“Alright, bug.”
It gets harder every time, facing the inevitable interruption of a constant in his life. He loves to see it though. Loves to watch her grow into her own person. She picks out her own clothes一has been for a while now. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t dare to. He thinks the lion on her shirt pairs nicely with the blue camo pants anyway, topped off with the purple puffer she picked out last month, and yellow, squeaky rain boots.
The rain is picking up, and he wonders if you’re still sleeping in. Should be, he hopes. You need the rest.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, love.” he hums.
“Do you want some?”
“No, sweetheart.” he chuckles. “M’alright, thank you.”
She eats until two more spoonfuls are left, not bothering to hide the unpleasant expression on her face from a full belly. Simon finishes it for her before they leave to walk it off, and again, she’s prancing ahead.
Her feet land her in every puddle she can find, her voice says a seraphic ‘hello’ to everything they pass (even the lonesome squirrel she spots at the park and the jogger with headphones in), and she’s dancing in the rain like a little drunken man with no worries or doubts in the world.
“C’mon, bug, up,” He lifts her up, sitting her on his forearm and pulling her hood over her head. “Gotta ge’ ‘ome before it starts stormin’.”
She lays her padded head on his shoulder, and he pats her back. She’s stopped gluing her hand to her father’s everyday, but she still burrows into his chest like a kitten. It’s the safest place she knows.
“Can we all huggle when we’re ‘ome, Daddy?”
“Y’wan’ a huggle, love?”
“Yes, with Mum an’ Chunky. When it rains, it’s the… the best time for a huggle.” Chunky, her beloved toy gorilla. Simon recalls catching her bathing the poor thing in the soapy water-filled sink. It took him half a day to figure out how to properly dry the toy without permanently damaging his daughter’s cherished friend.
He presses a kiss on her dampened, plump cheek.
“‘Course, sweetheart. All four o’ us.”
im running low in inspo rn i wanna do more soap stuff plz give me ops on his character i need to understand him better x
John Price and a younger reader, but one who didn’t mind that he couldn’t always give her what she wanted. One who found it endearing when he stressed over how he wasn’t performing, and was content with pleasing herself most days.
That didn't mean that he didn’t know what he was doing, or that he was anything less than satisfactory in general. In fact, it made sense — he ruined you so badly after sessions where he really got at it, essentially spearing you in two and leaving you a babbling, aching mess, that you often couldn’t stand for days afterwards, let alone have another round.
So instead of going at it like feral creatures every other minute, which was how Price assumed his subordinates did by the way they gazed at you with hungry, lust-filled eyes, you’d have sparing nights of pleasure, but you’d always make them count.
And that was just how the two of you liked it.
Had imagine giving the old man and his abilities some love without immediately resorting to his teammates <33 (not that im complaining id take any of them)
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.
cw: death
overlooking the coffin of your mate is an experience most military men share.
not johnny though, no. johnny was immortal. in simon’s mind, at least. reluctant to admit it, simon imagined growing old with johnny. maybe going back to johnny’s family farm and living off the land.
it’s so odd to see him in this state, livor mortis. lord knows johnnys family couldn’t afford the luxury costs of a good mortician so his skin maintains the lifeless, gray look he died with.
he’s still. quiet. very unlike him. it’s eerie. an uncomfortable feeling crawls up simon’s back. the sounds of johnnys mother weeping rings in his ears. a kind woman, she is. always was inviting when johnny suggested the two of them going up to the highlands on holiday. simon never accepted though… he wish he had.
members of johnnys expansive family intermingle with the somber military crowd. they all stay under a the tent. lush green grass spreads across the cemetery as light rain pitter patters above their head. some of johnnys favorite weather.
when johnny was younger his mother would have him go out in the rain. splashing in puddles, rolling around in mud, wrestling with the dogs…
everybody wears black, which is a typical choice for simon. ordinarily he’d silently commend everybody for their shared color. but now it feels wrong. like an insult.
anguish wasn’t a feeling johnny felt often and he certainly wouldn’t want his family and friends to be feeling in such a way. but johnny was a light. was. and now that light is gone.
simon takes a leave of absence from his station. the leave stretches days, which morphs into weeks, and eventually months. he becomes a brittle shell of his, already cracking, former self. he does not understand how the rest of his team could continue in this way.
simon’s behavior is unusual. when his family had died he took less than a day off. he refused to process. not even severe injuries could keep him away from work. so why now?
well, his johnny is gone. his mate, his best friend, his first and only love.
Everyone: we hate Graves. Hope he chokes and dies 🙂
Me: why do y'all hate my war criminal husband. I don't understand 😭😭😭
Rareship(?) I think Gaz x Graves would be interesting tbh