Latest Posts by allpurposeramen - Page 3
"Nobody writes of Holmes and Watson without love." - John le Carré
Some more of the boys… recon hugging 🫶
makeout sess with a big dude but im LOWK groping his thighs and ass
gazghost needs to be talked abt more. need to be the rookie recruit who catches ghost bottoming for gaz and having to lick the cum out of his hole
omg i got so lightheaded i had to lie down for a bit. bottom ghost is so scrumptious and i should start writing about fucking him until he's gaping more often. red u get it so bad
hnngnhhh just being tugged over by gaz after he's pulled out and pushed down to your knees right behind your lieutenant's dripping asshole. he's reaching back and spreading himself open for you, peeking over his shoulder with those sweet, teary eyes, silently demanding (pleading) you clean him up.
gaz has a firm hold on your nape, guiding you forward, and you flatten your tongue against ghost's balls to follow the streak of cum that leads back up to his hole. he's so pliant like this—both body and personality—as you lap at his stretched rim. whimpers real airily too when your tongue dips inside, mind still a jumbled mess from gaz's rough fucking, and you just about make the same noise when your head is pushed closer.
"atta girl," gaz sighs, replacing ghost's slipping hand with his own and spreading a fat ass cheek so he can really see how your tongue works. "tha's a good pup, make him feel good."
you're so eager—angling your head better so you can shove your tongue as deep as possible, making all these soft, keening noises, hands squeezing at his meaty thighs. you're practically making out with his hole, sloppily mopping up as much cum as you can while he rocks back, white-knuckling the desk beneath him.
meanwhile, gaz is watching intently, lazily pumping his still-hard cock as he murmurs praises to the both of you. he guides you when you get too self-indulgent (play with his balls, too, eh? simon loves it, look how much his cock's leakin'), and he prods a finger around your tongue, chuckling when ghost arches his back into a lovely little bow.
him leaning over to check on his lieutenant and smiling when he finds the bigger man damn near cross-eyed and drooling right through his mask...
john making simon watch you get the pounding of your life because the two of you got into a nasty little argument, resulting in simon taking his anger out on johnny's ass.
he didn't even stop when you walked into your shared bedroom to see johnny getting his back blown out by your man. he only ordered you to sit and watch as johnny's moans and whines and the sounds of skin slapping filled the room, cum and drool staining your sheets.
simon had the audacity to groan when he saw the tears welling up in your eyes, bottom lip quivering. he always did get off on making you cry.
now he sits with a hard, leaking cock, hands restrained behind the back of the chair as he's forced to watch you get fucked by his captain. despite the way he snarls and grits his teeth, he still twitches and drools in his pants when your cunt gushes around john's cock for the nth time, the desperation to join becoming unbearable. it doesn't help that you're making the prettiest noises, writhing as john folds you into full nelson, your body on full display. simon's seething, so pissed off because he can't touch himself, and he can't even lap at your sloppy pussy or suck on your pretty clit.
"dirty mutts like you get nothin'," john barks when simon pathetically demands to be allowed to touch you, his hips effortlessly working to bring you over the edge again. "you'll never fuckin' learn if i don't teach you how to play nice with your toys; what kind of captain would i be, eh?"
you're babbling incoherent nonsense, not a thought in your head as john's gravelly voice coos sweet things into your ear, calling you his perfect girl while he kisses away your tears. you feel like you're floating right up into the ether, another orgasm ripping through you when he rubs tight, firm circles over your sensitive clit, drool running down your chin at the immense pleasure tingling all over your body.
you aren't sure if you actually heard it before you passed out in john's arms at the end of it all, but you swear he grunted, "i fuckin' own you, so i own her. my pretty pussy, my pretty girl."
(meanwhile, kyle's sorting johnny out in another room, edging him nice and long for being such a slut. if he wanted a good fuck, kyle was right there, and he's feeling offended.
"is it cause i'm not taken?" kyle huffs, cruelly twisting his fist around the head of johnny's cock and grinning meanly at the broken sob he gets in return.)
(18+ MDNI)
As far as roommates go, Simon Riley isn’t a bad one to live with
Rarely in the flat, gone for weeks at a time, you sometimes forgot you even shared the rent with someone when you first moved in
And when he is around, he keeps out of your way, tidies up after himself, will offer to run to the shop when you’re running low on something for tonight’s dinner
All in all, you get along well
Especially after a few months go by, and he starts sinking his cock into you whenever he’s home
Every chance he gets, he’s got your ankles resting over his shoulders, or your legs locked around his waist, or your tits in his mouth, or your ass squeezed between his fingers or your hips against his as he bounces you or-
Once he’s had his first taste, Simon is insatiable, never not fucking you every opportunity he gets
He has you feeling like you’re on top of the world, while simultaneously about to tip over the edge of it at any moment
Your time spent together consists of bursts of pleasure and passion tangled together in a mess of limbs and lips, visions of scars and tattoos clouding your dreams at night
And while these rendezvous consist strictly of an outlet for stress, a means to an end that leaves you both more than satisfied, you can’t help the slowly blossoming feelings growing in your chest that whisper to you that you might mean something more to him, that you might just be something more to Simon
It’s on one such occasion, while Simon is balls deep inside you, about to put an end to his teasing and let you finally cum on his cock, when reality slaps you hard across the face
Your moans and whines, his grunts and gasps, combined with the sounds of skin slapping repeatedly, are nearly loud enough to drown out the ill-fated sound of his cell phone ringing from the pocket of his discarded jeans
“Simon, please! I- I’m so- Si, I’m close, I’m close! I’m gon-” You moan into his ear, ankles locked tight around his waist and fingernails scratching at the exposed skin of his back, pleading with him to deliver you the ecstasy you’ve been promised
Your begging comes to a stop however, when his own movements halt entirely, hips stilling against yours as pauses, looking back into your eyes though his mind is obviously suddenly elsewhere
“What are y-”
“Shh.” He shushes you all too quickly, just in time for the faint ring of his phone to reach both your ears
“Simon, wait. No! Can’t we-”
“That’s gonna be work.” He grunts out, sweaty palms slipping down your thighs towards your calves to try and disentangle himself from you
“So? It can’t wait 60 seconds? We were about to-”
“Doesn’ matter.”
“Are- are you serious right now?” You question, stunned by his reaction. In all the months you and Simon have been falling into bed together, he’s never told you what his work is, and you’ve learned not to ask him anymore
He pays his rent on time and contributes to the grocery runs, how he earns his money hasn’t been any of your business thus far, but it’s certainly never gotten in the way of your escapades before
Simon’s apparently decided he doesn’t need to entertain you with a response, because he’s pulling himself out or your embrace without a word, standing off the bed and pulling his cell out of his haphazardly thrown pants before the ringer ends
“Simon! What kind of job-”
“Alrigh’?” Is all he says into the phone, nodding along momentarily to whoever is on the other line, before he’s affirming something or another and hanging up, tugging his pants back on without so much as a glance back at your naked form sprawled out on the bed in shock
“Simon-”
“See ye when I’m back, birdie.”
And with that, Simon is out of your room, out of the flat, out of your life for who knows how long, a reoccurring event you should have grown used to by now, but never has he left you high and dry like this before
That was the day you learned, as special as you might feel when Simon is grinding against you, caressing your skin and grunting sweet nothings into your ear, you were not Simon’s priority
You would always come second
Another idea dump
Soap x Reader
tw: smut
You, who willingly let yourself be escorted home by this cute stranger with a mohawk, eager to get over the misery of not being able to move on from your recent ex..
You broke up through text, because well- he wasn't available most of the time anyway, too busy with his job to give you the amount of affection you wanted.
Well, he hasn't responded yet- but still.
So you let this man, Johnny, help you forget about your ex.
You weren't picky, and he was very interested in you, even after you overshared about your ex to him, a stranger. A bad habit you often did when you were a bit tipsy.
A second after the door was closed, he was on you. Moaning into your mouth as he kissed you messily, getting you weak in the knees before he lifted you up and brought you to bed.
And as he started pounding into you, as you were gripping the bedsheet with your eyes rolling to the back of your head- you heard a continuous buzzing along with a familiar ringtone.
You whined when you felt Johnny slowing down his pace, and through the tears, you saw him reaching for your phone before tossing it to you.
He smirked at your confusion, deliberately slowing down even more, savoring your frustration. A desperate whimper escaped your lips as you pressed your heels onto his back, a silent, needy plea for him to move faster.
But he only smiled. "Answer it".
Somehow, you managed to grab your phone and read the name flashing on the screen. "Boyfie ❤️".
Oh, right. You haven't changed his name in your contact.
"Johnny-" You gasped, your breath hitching as he bucked his hips against you, the velvety head of his cock nudging right against that blissful spot deep inside.
"Do it, Bonnie" he purred lowly before dipping down to capture your nipple between his lips. "Make him hear just how damn good yer feelin' without him".
He rolled his hips slowly, making sure you felt every inch of his shaft dragging against your sensitive walls.
Knowing it would leave you to be desperate for more.
And he was right.
So you complied, and with shaky hands, you swiped the button on the screen before the phone slipped from your grasp as Johnny slammed into you again.
The other end of the line remained silent, but you knew someone was there—listening to every sinful sound echoing through the room.
Until..
"Luv?"
At that, you whimpered—not just from the gruff voice that still sent shivers through you, but from the way Johnny’s movements momentarily faltered.
"S-simon.." You mewled in response.
A needy whine escaped your lips as Johnny suddenly stilled.
Before you could ask what was wrong, he pressed your legs to your chest, gripping the backs of your knees before slamming into you—fucking you hard until all you could do was squeal and sob.
As the seconds on your phone ticked by, the call remained connected.
laughing crying thinking about calling price “bro” after sex that he pauses mid-lighting up his cigar to look at you with that really deep frown, before murmuring, “don’t call me that—i just came in you.”
the simon and kyle blurb?!!! hello?!!! I rarely see this duo together and it’s so unfair 😣
Sugar and spice is the best way I can describe being sandwiched between Kyle and Simon.
Just imagine the sexual tension between them and the reader and how it just... comes to a head.
It's you three, shooting the shit, and the conversation somehow veers over into shotgunning. Next thing you know, you're in Simon's lap, Kyle's scooted a little bit closer and they teach—demonstrate, rather—the basics of shotgunning.
Which turns into Kyle's tongue down his Lt.'s throat.
Which then turns into Simon's tongue down your throat.
Which THEN turns into you sandwiched between the two, you and Kyle making out, your tongue down his throat, and Simon leaving hickies on your neck and groping you wherever he can.
Cheers, darling.
Simon trying his damndest not to cum so soon, but it's a fuckin' uphill battle when yours and Kyle's pretty glossy eyes are looking up at him as you kiss, suck, and make love to his cock.
I love the paradox headcanon of TF141
noticed this in many fics i saw
Price who's obviously more than okay being around strong independent women. he works with Laswell, Farah, and many others in his life that he didn't understand the saying of 'women should just stay in the kitchen'. he believes in women's right (and wrong), would step in and speak up if he saw anyone, even someone he knew, speak badly of them. But, not you though :/ why do you need to work? nonsense, just stay at home and sit there looking pretty while he does everything.
Soap, a raging feminist, grew up with sisters, taught to always respect them, and would definitely kill any men who didnt. One time, he appeared at his sister's ex house with some c4 when he heard him slapping her butt in public- but anyway. good man he is. until, he saw you. all manners thrown out the window as he slides to your side and rizz you up. relishing the way you squirmed as he leaned in closer. not making it subtle when he ogled your tits either.
Gaz, the sweetheart. proper gentleman who's a total boyfriend material. He's very handsome, and charming, knows his way with words. Someone you'd want to introduce to your parents asap. And with that, he could get anyone he wanted. which means.. he's actually the most unsuspecting fuckboy. so beware.
Ghost, big man, scary man. tough guy. you'd think he would be so dominating in bed, but no. he's a bottom and he whimpers.
Ex husband!Ghost that just shows back up in your house (no matter how many times you've moved without saying a word) anytime he's on leave.
"what the fuck are you doing here?" (18+)
he's standing outside your new flat. he's still wearing his gear and that god-awful mask that you hate so much. if his eyes could change color, they would be red—they're dark with something foul, something that is your fault, but you have no obligation to this man anymore.
that doesn't seem to register with him.
this is the fourth new flat you've moved into within the last year. you keep signing very short leases, picking up and leaving again, but he finds you—every time. he must have sewn a tracker into one of your things; maybe a beloved purse of yours or inside some valued heirloom that he knows you'd never part with. he's such a sick bastard, you don't know what you ever saw in him, you don't know what ever made you feel like you could stand in front of him and God and make factitious vows about a future that never would be.
he's disgusting. he smells like the desert, and his boots are caked with mud. his clothes smell like they've been worn for days, coated with dried sweat and grime, and he reeks like the cigarettes you see peeking out from his jacket pocket. he walks into your flat anyways, not bothering to take anything off, and he sits himself down on your couch and spreads his legs like he's been here before, numerous times, like this is where he lives.
you threw away all his things. you burned the papers that remained. you tossed the rest of his shit that didn't fit in trash bags out the window of the last place you lived, so why the fuck is he in your flat, and why does he seem so fine with it?
"get your dirty ass off my couch, and get out."
ghost is like a fixture there. he picks his head up from where it was laying against the cushions, and he glares at you as he lays his palms against his thighs. he clicks his tongue, sucking on his teeth, and he just stares at you.
the audacity.
but you can't help it. when he thinks you're not looking, he looks at that photo in his wallet—the one with people who aren't here anymore, the worn, scratchy picture that's fading with age and use, and you get that pit in your stomach all over again, the same one you got when you served him the papers for the first time.
ghost is all alone.
he's all alone.
that's why he's at your table. eating your food. that's why he's in your bathroom, having a hot shower, that's why his clothes are in your washing machine (the only ones he owns anymore), and that's why he's laying in your bed, on his side, masked face against a silk pillow as he pumps his cock lazily.
he has no shame. he groans audibly, he says your name, and he hums with delight when you shriek with anger at his cum on your fresh cotton sheets.
but he's all alone.
it feels like way when you hike your sleep shirt up and sit down on him. it feels that way when he pushes you to sit up on his lap, chin against his chest so he can watch your hips shift and your tits bounce as you hold it up with your teeth and whine. it feels like he's lonely when he thumbs at your clit and comes too fast, making a mess between your thighs as his thick cum coats his unkempt hair.
when you try to pull off, he digs his thick fingers into your ass and holds you there.
he's lonely. so he's not done yet.
it's a nasty sight. ghost keeps you there, fixed on his cock, and even when you whimper from overstimulation, he holds you down and tugs at your pebbled nipples as he mumbles about how warm it is here. ghost can't waste another minute, especially not with his name attached to you anymore—he needs to make every orgasm count, so he doesn't have time to hear you whine, he needs to keep you there, and he needs to keep you fat and pleasured and sticky.
he likes missionary the most. he likes feeling your thighs tense up around his hips, and he likes being able to pin you down and keep you underneath him. but most of all, he likes pressing against your tummy, and he likes closing his eyes and grunting, feeling the tip of his cock just underneath his palm. it gives him a sick sense of satisfaction knowing he's so deep inside of you, branding you like he knows only he can. there's a shape inside of your cunt that he fills better than anyone else, and your wobbly legs and curled toes and open-mouth moans only encourage his disgusting sense of ownership.
you can sign whatever fucking papers you want to sign, he's carved his name in your pussy, and that's for life.
Ghost wasn’t even looking for you two. He just needed to grab a goddamn med kit. That’s it. A simple in-and-out trip to the supply closet.
But the moment he opened the door, he knew.
Grunting. Breathing. Whispers. The thud of something hitting metal.
He paused in the doorway, completely still, staring into the dim room as his brain registered what he was seeing.
Soap. Shirt halfway off. Neck covered in bite marks. Mouth open in some silent, stunned expression of praise the lord and ruin me more. Hands gripping the edge of a crate like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
And you? Pressed against him. One hand buried in his hair, the other dragging slowly down his back, nails scratching like you were claiming territory.
You didn’t even look away when Ghost appeared. You just kept your body flush with Soap’s, breath brushing against his ear as you looked directly at Ghost and said,
“Occupied.”
Soap finally realized they weren’t alone, eyes wide as he choked out, “*Ghost—fuck—*this isn’t—”
Ghost held up a hand. “Nope.”
Just turned around and closed the door without another word. Stood in the hallway for a moment. Processing.
Then muttered, “They’re gonna burn this place to the ground and call it foreplay.”
He walked away. Found Gaz.
“Don’t go in the supply closet.”
Gaz blinked. “Why not?”
“They’re in there.”
Gaz paused. “Doing what?”
Ghost didn’t stop walking. “Pick a verb.”
Captain John Price cock hypothesis
18+ MDNI
A/N: Written at the request of @velvetyhydrangea. After much deliberation and research, these are the conclusions I’ve come to regarding Price’s cock.
Captain John Price cock head-cannons:
Naturally, he’s uncut. No surprise there. (I’m pretty sure that’s the norm over there in the UK. Can’t speak form experience, but if I ever get the chance to cross the big pond, I’ll be sure to investigate thoroughly and report back with my data.)
Price is hairy almost everywhere, so of course he’s sporting a full bush. Man so furry he could be mistaken for a bear. I need to suffocate myself in his chest hair. He doesn’t shave, either, and honestly, I think the world is better off that way.
Price is 8 cm long when soft, and 14 cm long when hard. So he’s slightly shorter than Simon, but he’s still packing something in his pants that you should be afraid of and I’m not talking about the glock. (Source: trust me bro)
Price has one of those cock where the tip is relatively normal sized, but it gets disgustingly fat in the middle before tapering off slightly at the base. Perfect for impaling yourself on. (If you know you know)
We begin with a diameter of 4 cm, but swiftly expand to a diameter of 6 cm and a circumference of 18.85 cm at the midpoint. For reference, that’s as thick as a can of Monster Energy. Good luck trying to fit that thing in your mouth.
Breeding balls… fat, fucking breeding balls packed pull of swimmers as hardy and resilient as he is. He’s the reason my IUD is only considered to be 99% effective. Johnathan Price is thee one percenter of breeding.
If you make Johnny a loaf of chocolate banana bread, warm, sweet, dense, and moist (srry), it's like you've put a ring on his finger. He'll watch with a giddy smile, leaning against the counter as you slice off a piece for him (it's his loaf, why can't he just rip off a chunk and eat it?), equally full of adoration and anticipation. That first bite of soft, chocolaty bread has his eyes rolling back, lids closing as a deep, satisfied groan rumbles through his chest. Savors the taste as your face lights up with pride, watching as he shoves another bite into his mouth.
"You like it?"
Hw scoffs. "Gonna get ye a fat, shiny rock for your pretty lil' finger, Christ-"
"That good?!"
"Make me another one 'n I'm puttin' a bairn in ye"
it’s late when he gets in, the flat dimly lit, the smell of something warm still lingering in the air. ghost kicks off his boots, rolling his shoulders, aching from the weight of the day. but when he sees you waiting for him—curled up in one of his jumpers, blinking at him all soft and sleepy from the couch—his chest does that thing again, that tight little squeeze that reminds him he’s home.
“you waited up,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rougher from exhaustion as he steps toward you.
you shrug, stretching a little, letting his jumper slide off your shoulder just enough to make his hands twitch. “had to make sure you ate.”
his gaze flickers to the coffee table where a plate sits, covered, waiting for him. he huffs, shaking his head, but there’s no real bite to it. “yer too good to me, love.”
“well you deserve it.”
that gets him. it always does. because deep down, there’s still a part of him that don’t quite believe that. but you do, and fuck, if he won’t let himself have that—have you.
you tug him down onto the couch, settling onto his lap with practiced ease, pressing the plate into his hands. “c’mon, si. eat please.”
he grumbles, halfhearted, but doesn’t argue. not when you’re so warm against him, not when your fingers brush over his jaw as you lift a bite to his lips. he pulls his mask up just enough, lets you feed him, eyes fluttering shut as he hums at the taste.
you watch him with that sweet little smile that turns him to mush.
“perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, arms tightening around you. “just like you.”
the match on telly plays in the background, but he doesn’t really watch it, too busy savoring the way you feel against him, the way you fuss over him, the way your free hand smooths over his chest absentmindedly.
and by the time he’s done, you’re barely keeping your eyes open, soft and warm against him. he shifts himself slightly, pressing his face into your neck, inhaling slow.
“y’fallin’ asleep on me, sweetheart?”
you hum softly in response, burrowing closer, and his lips twitch at the feeling.
“go on then,” he mutters, pulling the blanket over both of you. “i gotcha.”
and he does. he always does.
favouritism.
been actively avoiding posting this but fuck it , modern au time ( i just wanted to draw hux in a tweed suit jacket)
anyways, this thing took me two-ish weeks to finish cus 70% of the way through finishing it i scrapped phas and hux's pose and redid it from scratch, so if you want to see that here's the link for it + alt colors
warm up doodle of my wife
Asexual m!reader who took a nude modelling gig at some art school
And art-student!Soap who was immediately attracted to you at first sight, and made it a mission to make you hard as you pose in front of everyone
Only for you to sit there, unbothered, looking at him with a glint of amusement in your eyes. Because he was so shameless..
With how he didn't even try to hide the way he oggled at your body while biting his lower lip, letting out sensual grunts while making it seem like he was simply making noises of frustration
And when he noticed that you seemed to be unaffected, he pushed it further and started biting on the end of his pencil before flicking it with his tongue.
His eyes locked onto yours, silently telling you that he imagined his pencil to be your cock. Jeans rode down his hips, showing a tantalizing glimpse of skin, a hint of hipbone and happy trail
He must've thought that he loooked sexy as fuck
..but to you, he looked ridiculous
His classmates seemed to have splitting opinion on that, based on how some frowned at his shameless behavior, while the others discreetly checked him out
And your dick stayed limp
Eventually, he gave up. Huffing with a shade of red decorating his cheeks as he glared at you before focusing back onto his sketch with a pout
And while you never understood the appeal of sex, it didn't mean that you didn't know how to pleasure a pretty boy. Really, he didn't need to do all that embarassing act, he just needed to ask
You definitely didn't mind rewarding him for making your day by making a fool of himself
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 can imagine AbsoluteBastard!Johnny keeps his ear out for casualties on base so he can get in on that grieving widow action
He’ll show up to the funeral in his best, tell you some tale about how your man was a good one— saved his ass a few times, didn’t deserve to have things cut short, to be pulled away from such a beautiful woman—
It’s easy for him, in your vulnerable state, to charm you into letting him be the one to take you home from the service. Sits on your couch with you, lets you serve him tea to keep yourself busy, talks about all the things you miss about your man, inching his way closer and closer— comforting hand on your thigh, gently stroking.
It’s not long before his tongue is down your throat and he’s putting the framed photo of your man face down so the poor bastard doesn’t have to watch Johnny ruin you.
photos of simon you took:
photos of simon that johnny/kyle send you:
photos simon send you:
(the guys in the photo are johnny and kyle)
Please enjoy this smutty little scene based on a discord convo I had earlier today about sex after IUDs. Unedited and abrupt - if you know me, no you don't 😌
Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Reader
*As always, 18+, Minors DNI*
When you'd gotten your IUD a few months back, you'd been prepared for the worst. You'd heard so many horror stories before you'd decided to bite the proverbial bullet and get yours, and you thought you'd prepared yourself for every eventuality.
But you'd never heard anything about the increased sensitivity afterwards.
"C'mon hen, keep your hips up."
When you'd met Johnny, all you'd been expecting was a quick fuck. It was supposed to be a one night stand, the perfect way to test everything out, a practice run before your next longterm relationship. That was before he'd gotten you on your on your tummy, legs splayed wide around his hairy thighs as he slid into your aching center.
You'd struggled against it at first; it had never been your preferred position with past partners, especially ones as... blessed as Johnny. Most of the time, it hurt, your cervix too sensitive to last long as they pounded into you.
However, in between your last partner and your current situation, something had changed. Rather than the sharp pain you'd been expecting, there was a soft, dull ache where Johnny rested inside of you.
"You're so warm - feels like heaven inside ye."
You couldn't stop the whimper that bubbled up, and you were grateful he couldn't see your face; you were sure you were blushing. As you began to rock back, your hips pressing into his, you savored the new sensitivity, the ache adding to the pleasure starting to build. Your movements became frantic, both of you pushing towards your own orgasms.
You crested as you heard him curse behind you, his hips flush with yours as he pulsed inside you. You couldn't stop your hand from creeping between your thighs to press gently on the skin over your womb - the dull ache lingered for a moment, gently pulsing with the last aftershocks of your orgasm.
Oh yeah, you could get used to this.
The way soap would lose his goddamned mind if you told him he had boyfriend dick
He’s already like 1% away from complete thoughtless ecstasy when he gets to watch you ride him, and then?
“God, you have such a boyfriend dick— I could take it every day, it fits so right—“
And like, you’re not dating. But he sure is looking at rings anyways.
Uhm maybe this is too evil but. I’m thinking about getting a divorce from Price. It’s not angry and it’s not contested— in fact, it’s him who makes the suggestion.
You’ve been trying for a baby for years, with no results. And it’s put a strain on you both. Broken the love you shared. You can’t help but feel guilty— you wanted to have a child, but family was his dream. And you couldn’t give it to him. Blaming yourself just widened the divide wedging between you.
He insists you take the house. You’re the one who tried so hard for so long to make it home. Spent your time there alone when he was deployed. You sell it— not able to bring yourself to face the empty nursery, no matter how many coats of fresh paint it had.
Simon helped you move. As John’s right hand, it was almost like he was still with you. And it’s true— John had asked Simon to make sure you were alright. That you’d had everything you needed. But Simon would’ve done that whether he’d asked or not. He’d always been fond of you. Spent holidays with you both, helped you with Christmas dinners. He knew from the moment he met you why John had fallen in love with you. You just made it so easy.
He keeps visiting. Helping you unpack. Set things up. Do little fixes John used to take care of for you. Taking you out places so you don’t sit in the grief for too long.
It doesn’t take long for something to develop. Maybe something had always been there, like a dormant little seed in cold winter soil, waiting for a spring. It comes to a head right before he ships out for a deployment. The night after you sleep together for the first time is the best night’s rest you’ve had since the separation.
But a few weeks later, you don’t feel so well.
And two little lines look back at you from a tiny screen as you grip the bathroom sink to keep your balance.
Honorably discharged partially disabled Simon, who swears he is perfectly fine and capable of doing everything himself. But it doesn’t really matter what he thinks says because Price sees differently. He sees the way Simon’s hands shake and how he’s started fidgeting when he’s never done that in the past, he can see Simon’s right side, the side that was crushed under rubble during an attack, he sees it shake and almost falter every time Simon puts even a little bit to much weight on it, but what worry’s Price the most is when Simon zones out and stops paying attention to his surroundings or whatever he’s doing. Not to mention now Simon has to go back and live in civilization, when all he’s known is military life since he was still a teen.
So although Simon claims he’s fine, Price gets him live-in-help, you. You’ve been with him the past week and although he rarely talks you’ve learned a few things. The blinds always need to be fully open unless he’s sleeping, he needs to be able to see what’s happening but it’ll keep him up when he’s trying to sleep, so they close at night. He gets very tense when he can’t see your hands, it hurts you a little to know he doesn’t trust you but you understand. He can't cook at all, unless you prepare food for him he’ll only eat a prepackaged dinner nothing else, of course that isn't healthy so you've started fixing him both breakfast and lunch which he accepts with a grunt but he doesn’t eat till you’ve started. He never takes off his mask around you unless he's eating and even still only up to his nose. Lastly you've noticed something always sparked in his eyes when you called him Simon, you haven't been able to figure out what it is so instead of risking offending him or something, you've stuck to calling him Ghost.
Price chose you for two reasons, you were quite, something he thought Simon would like, he was very wrong. It’s probably the oddest thing about him, he doesn’t like when you're super quiet you've learned it cause he doesn’t know where you are or what you’re planning the other reason is Price hired you is because you were a military nurse for quite a bit so you would always be there for Simon. This was something Simon actually did like it meant he didn’t have to leave his flat just to see a doctor, what he didn’t think about though was the cut and bruise on his face that he would have to remove his balaclava for.
“Okay Ghost” you paused not sure how he would react to having to take his mask off “I-i need you to remove your mask for me please” almost immediately he grunted out a why “because you have a cut and bruise on your face and I need to make sure it’s healing properly” Simon stilled completely for a few seconds before he slowly pulled the balaclava completely off. You took a second looking over his entire face before you brought your hand up inspecting the area “your bruise is completely gone” you whispered slightly surprised it had only been a week, you went to write it down but the moment your hand left his face he spoke up “it’s still ere, jus can’t see it” carefully your brought you hand back to his face to carefully push on his check “does that hurt” “bit” was all he grunted out, you hummed to yourself as you removed your hand and started writing, but had you been looking at him you would have seen the almost pout gracing his face.
Once you finally looked back up, placing your hand on his face “okay let’s finish this quickly” you say looking over his scar “I know I’m not that pretty but you ain’t gotta rush” he said in the quietest voice. You looked up into his eyes quickly only to find them looking back at you with what you could only describe as curiosity mixed with need “Gh-Simon that’s not what I meant, your very beautiful I just thought you wouldn't want me touching or looking at your face any more since you always hide it behind that mask” he never replied to you, just kept staring with that look in his eyes. Finally you peeled your eyes away, finished writing whatever you needed to in your book then you got up and walked away “I’m gonna fix us some lunch, okay Simon?” you called from in the kitchen already, and that’s when Simon managed to place the feeling he had been having every time he saw you. He liked you, he had a crush, a crush! “Simon?” You called again “yeah okay” he called back, he wasn’t gonna fuck this up, not when he thinks he might have found a new purpose in life.
pt 2 here
white boy suffering in Asia's heat....
Simon Riley got his fingers fucked up. Time spent under Roba's torture messed up the joints, made his digits barely able to flex and curl and left him with chronic pain, especially once the temperatures start to drop. It's alright, not the worst thing he came out of that encounter with, he can live with it. Doesn't bother him even that much.
It's just that Simon Riley used to love knitting.
Soft, creamy white, thick yarn turning into volumunous sweaters with huge warm collars his mother and his brother's bird could wear, safe from the nasty winter chill. Stripey socks, comfortable hats, long fluffy scarves - he could and would do it all.
Roba took it from him. Knitting needles became almost impossible to hold properly, struggling over the yarn mess for more than 15 minutes pisses him off and makes him never want to pick it up again. He can barely make a couple rows of a shitty excuse of a scarf, let alone finish a single thing.
And then Soap brings his LT over to his family home for their joint leave - two whole weeks in a household full of bustling life, hearty food and loving banter. In the evenings, when Johnny and all the younglings of the family have already spent their buzzing energy and are snoring in their beds, sometimes piled up like tired puppies, Simon and Mama MacTavish both are kept up by their insomnia. In a pleasantly dimly lit living room, this beautiful woman with white hair and noble profile sits, kitting - soft white wool of Highlands' best sheep turning into a sweater in her hands.
Simon comes to sit with her, calmed down by the sounds her needles make and the hypnotizing movements of her hands. First couple of nights he just lets it lull him to sleep before Mama MacTavish sends him off to wam bed with her snoring son already sprawled across it like a starfish.
Then Simon picks up needles himself. It's a slow, torturous process, his grip slipping, threads coming apart, frustration and anger at his useless fingers building - yet Mama's hands always come to rescue. She soothes the pain in his fingers, helps fix uneven loops, tells him stories of Johnny's childhood to distract Ghost from his angry mind. It works.
By the end of the leave he presents Soap the ugliest knitted hat with pompoms stitched to it in a row resembling a mohawk, and you bet Johnny wears it all the time, flexing in front of everyone who sees him in this monstrosity. He takes it to all the places he shouldn't, stubbornly unwilling to part with the gift, and loses pompoms - yet somehow Simon constantly sees new ones pop up on the hat.
It's Mama MacTavish stitching them on, because she knows, Simon needs a little help with this painstaking work for now.