Latest Posts by allpurposeramen - Page 4

When you're divorced to Price, you're not divorced to the team

Johnny still tried and invite you to everything they're doing, whether it is some kind of celebration or simple hangout.

And you felt rude to deny it, just because you're divorced.. doesn't mean you should stop having mutual friends with your ex-husband right?

Kyle still texted you from time to time, asking if you baked anything today. Making not so subtle hints of him- and the others, missing your baking.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw John walking past the door. You didn't know why, but you did save one cupcake. So as the others were occupied, you snuck away to put it on his desk.

So you visited their base, carrying a box of cupcakes in the rec room as you watched them demolish your work- oh god the cupcake wrap isn't edible Johnny.

And Simon?

Well.. before you were divorced, John used to make him keep an eye on you since he was too busy with work. Being your guard dog when you hang out around the base, or to take care of stuff if you have any trouble at home.

Like right now.

"Simon, i'm so, sorry about this- i already called a plumber and for some reason they canceled last minute, and I just can't wait another day to get it fixed-" You rambled as you watched him look at what's wrong with your washing machine, days worth of laundry piling up near it.

"It's alright" He simply responded. "Don't bother calling them next time, you have me" he added.

Then there's Laswell.

You've always got along so well with her, so it wasn't a surprise when she invited you to a ceremony where she would renew her vow with her wife.

It's been a while since you doll up properly and wear a dress. But you try to not feel self-conscious as you stepped out of your car. You didn't want to give your ex-husband the satisfaction. You wanted to look fine, more than fine, like the divorce didn't affect you.

It was easier said than done with the way you could feel his eyes from across the room as you tried to ignore him and focus on your conversation with Kate and her wife.

Goddamn, can he stop that, he's really making you nervous.

Sighing, you took a sip of a champagne that was served. Maybe the alcohol would help.

...

You woke up with a throbbing headache and turned your head to groan at the fluffy pillow. Fuck, you drank too much.

Opening your eyes slowly, you blinked when you saw a figure lying beside you.

John.

John?!

Your head throbbed even more when you sat up too fast. Looking under the blanket, you sighed when you see that you're clothed at least. Even though it wasn't the dress you wore last night.

Sighing, your gaze shifted to the man beside you and took in the scene that was too familiar to you once upon a time.

Against your better judgement, you laid back down. And for some reason, you didn't move away when a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist.

Why did you divorce him again?

cleanse me (bsf!johnny mactavish x reader, fluff with groping)

it had been a rough mission. the kind where the team gets out by a hair, bleeding and scraped as they ran to exfil. the kind with a silent ride back to base, neither you nor johnny able to fill the air with a laugh or two. the kind where you think of what could have happened if things hadn’t fell into place at the last second, who you could be mourning now.

johnny’s your best friend, and maybe something more. late night cuddles, waist hugs and forehead kisses all feel like a little more. that night with the drunken marriage pact (you both were only tipsy, but you like to use alcohol as your reasoning for stupidity) that you both ignore to this day.

so when you see him in the communal showers, a man whose seen you naked in every way, you can’t help but seek comfort from your other half. you strip your clothes into a pile on the floor and walk over to where this scottish god stands under a shower head, letting the water wash off his sins.

he hears you come up from behind him and tenses a bit, still in fight mode from the mission. you take a hand and smooth out his tense back muscles, his body relaxing at the familiar feel of your calluses. his mohawk has grown out, almost breaking regulation standards, but you like the feel, sliding your hand from his neck to his longer strands. your nails scrape his scalp, every movement reminding you that you didn’t lose him, he’s still here. you reach your other hand around him, and he silently squirts shampoo into it.

you take your time massaging his hair, getting out the dried bomb residue and drops of blood. the water finally runs clean after a few minutes, and you finish him off with your own conditioner since you know he doesn’t own one.

you move on to body wash, massaging him up and down until he’s covered in suds, in soap. you take your time with his back, tracing scars and healed-over bullet wounds. you crouch and get the back of his legs, kneading tense muscles. he turns around and you choke back a whine, coming face to face with his hardened cock, but now isn’t the time. instead, you lather the front of his legs and slowly stand, giving his cock a couple pumps to make everything gets cleaned.

finally you clean his torso, playing with his light chest hair as you work in the last of the soap. his arms are so masculine, thick veins protruding as you work him down to the fingers. and now you’re done.

you make eye contact nervously, for the first time since this entire endeavor started. his blue eyes sear into you, a world of want and understanding found behind them. johnny grabs your chin and pulls you closer, forcing you into the cleansing stream of water. “leannan.” darling. love. you had looked it up before, his tender nickname for you, never really understanding the breadth of it until he looked at you like this. like you were his love.

“johnny.” he was cleaning you now, with the same care you gave him. the hands of a soldier, a bomb maker, an engineer, practiced in deft and slight movements. “ye take care of me so well.” you nodded, choking back some unknown emotion. he was cupping your pussy, muttering sweet nothings about treating her right and my wet little thing, things in his language you didn’t understand.

“how long do i have to wait to marry ye again?” he moved from your cunt to your breasts, memorizing their feel. storing it for later, in the darkness of his room, fist pumping his cock with rough strokes. “five-“ his hand gripped your throat, thumb stroking your jaw, distracting you for a second. “five years.” he hummed. “i’ll marry ye tomorrow if ye want, just say the word.” your mouth opened and closed, resembling a gaping fish. he laughed and gave you that cheeky grin, slowly returning to himself. because of you.

“cmon, let’s get some food in ye.”

—

best friend!johnny GETS ME

(Last) Sunday supper 🐇

bro. bro you are romantisizing the secret history. bro you are enamored with the greek class just like richard. bro you are ignoring the bad things and creating aesthetics based on a book telling a murder of a young man. brother.

johnny ⊹₊⟡⋆

Price is literally so gross. silver fox seeking a pretty young thing after a divorce to the MAX. his ex wife comes over to drop off their son but you open the door instead, cotton-plated in one of his shirts and hair damp from your recent shower. Price takes over and you can hear his wife’s voice from the foyer—“how old is she? she barely looks an undergraduate, John” and he acts sheepish but Lord knows he doesn’t care. Ou.

How I think the 141 would be with you being pregnant.

It’s the way that I know in my heart of hearts that Price wouldn’t tell his team until after the fact that he got you pregnant and also about the baby already being on your hips. Like??? The men have to suddenly stay at his place for some reason and he minorly forgets about the bomb that’s gonna go off once he gets home since he’s bloodied and bruised with possibly cracked rips. He planned to mention you and his baby to the team in a more controlled setting…oh well… “Here’s my wife(“WIFE?!?”) and my baby(“BABY?!?!”).” None of the men, except Ghost, were pleased to find out so late but they knew it’s because the man’s protective of you.

Gaz is a little secretive about his wife’s pregnancy, the team knows he’s married. He gushes about you nonstop to the guys and proudly wears his ring. But your pregnancy is something he wanted to keep hidden for a bit. He eventually made mention of it and suddenly all three were announcing themselves uncles to their soon to be nephew/niece. Gaz has you and his baby, once the sweetheart is born, as his Lock Screen. The men came like a day after you gave birth to drop off flowers, goodies, food, baby supplies and just about anything they could stuff in the hospital.

Soap is loudly talking about his bonnie wife and barin. The men were there nearly every step of the way of your pregnancy since Soap would go on and on about all the milestones. Even the small ones. The Scot proudly parading his bairn and you up to base once you were rested and probably saying some stupid shit like “I made that. Look at’em, just as bonnie as my wife!” His family is his pride and joy and he’ll be loud about that to anyone that will listen. Spoilers: they have no choice. He’ll yap for hours about you. Price bans your name from being mentioned after he had to sit through 2 long hours about his bonnie wife and wee one.

Ghost tells not a single soul that 1. He’s married. And, 2. His kid has already been born and a year old already. Not even torture can get that info out of him but it’s you that decides his most trusted men deserves to know. You show up to base with your toddler on your hip, Soap and Gaz’s jaws dropped to the floor when you introduced yourself as Mrs. Riley. The absolute chaos that shook the base was astounding. Price had been the one to ask Ghost why he’d mention the two of you now since he understands the most for the need for secrecy. Ghost simply grunted out, “the misses wanted to meet you,” while his toddler sleeps in his arms.

simon riley who drives the random girl he knocked up in a bar to a random secluded plot of land so he can show her where he’s gonna build their house and where the tyre swing is gonna be and the pond that he’ll build a fence around so all your little ones don’t go tottling down there

Fuck, marry kill with: the concept of Willem Dafoe, the smell of a bandaid floating on a pool, and an oil painting of George Washington jorkin’ it to the movie “National Treasure”

every word had my jaw dropping further, anon

I guess I’d fuck the Washington painting since he’s already going at it(??? lmfao), I refuse to marry the smell of a pool bandaid so I’m killing it and I’m buckling up and saying my vows to the concept of Willem Dafoe

first of all i love womens hockey, strong ladies slamming up on the glass, amazing.

i went to a pwhl game and a man with his like teenage daughter were next to me and THAT MFER LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE JOHN PRICE hat and blue eyes and beard and everything it was nuts. anyways john price is a hockey girl dad of a scary 13 year old who kept staring at me the whole game.

just needed people to knoww

(fuck that mans gorgeous irl)

also i love your writing. Thank u for sharing ur brain w the internet.

That makes me think like. Imagine being John’s neighbor. You haven’t spoken more than pleasantries to him, introduced yourself to him and his daughter, made small talk at block parties.

And one cold day after school, his daughter is sitting on the front steps shivering, because she forgot her house key. You don’t have a spare, and John won’t be home for hours— so you tell her to stay inside your place until then. You call John and leave a message to let him know.

She’s a little wary of you, which is good. It’s not like you’re a total stranger, but you’re also not necessarily trustworthy yet. She just parks herself on the couch and watches whatever you’d had on tv, a little awkward as she sips the cup of tea you’d made her so she could warm up.

She ends up getting kinda attached. You joke with her that you watch the show that’s on because of the hot guys in it, and she smiles. She’s at that age, but of course she doesn’t really want to talk about it with John. You remember being 13, and she likes talking to you. John comes by once he’s home, thanks you profusely and apologizes for having to take up so much of your day. You tell him it was no trouble at all, and that she’s welcome any time.

She ends up taking you up on your offer. Usually after school, when her dad is still at work. You just leave the door open. She asks you questions about boys, about makeup— things she’s a little curious about but her mother isn’t around to answer. You get invited to all of her hockey games, with John insisting you sit next to him (when he can make it, that is).

You do holiday baking with her. She invites you to her birthday dinner. You’re welcomed over to John’s for every Christmas and other holiday they can manage to throw together a little gathering for. You’re so focused on her that you completely miss how John stares at you every single time you’re with his daughter.

Such a natural with her— and he’s had such a hard time connecting with her now that she’s becoming a teen. They’ve always had hockey, but it’s hard for him to accept that she’s not a baby anymore (even thought she’ll always be his baby). She storms over to your place every time they fight, and he’s eternally grateful she has somewhere to go for comfort when he doesn’t understand her.

She’s over at yours so much that he thinks it might be easier if you just moved in. That it would be a big age gap, but his daughter might like to have a little sibling. That if anything ever happened to him he’d want you to have every right to look after her. If that’s what you wanted, anyways.

And he loves his girl more than anything in the world, but it hasn’t been easy. Between raising her and his work, he doesn’t hardly have any time for dating. Whenever he’s tried— his daughter had found a problem with whoever he’d brought home, and that had signaled the end. It was hard enough to find anyone interested in dating a single parent.

So when you’d moved in next door, he couldn’t help himself. You’re pretty, single. He can see you through his window almost any time he wants. You don’t close your curtains nearly as much as you should, either. He’s just a man, y’know?

So, yeah, he’s made himself cum thinking of you more times than he can count. And it only gets worse once he has those fleeting thoughts about you being a mother for his girl. Maybe a few more kids if he can manage to get a ring on your finger. Insane thought to have when he’s never even asked you out on a date.

another gaz study ehe

best friend!simon ‘ghost’ riley x single mom!reader

NSFW 18+ MDNI

You knew Ghost would be upset with you once you returned home. Not just because you had tricked him into coming, but because you had tricked him forced him into babysitting. Your best friend that has always insisted he hates children, babysitting your 1 year old.

However, he decided and stay to help you out. After all, you were his best friend. He would do anything for you. Even if that meant spending time with the thing he hated the most.

Once you were home you quickly made your way to the nursery, expecting an angry grumpy ghost to deal with. Instead you were met with the big man sitting in your rocking chair, holding your little one in his strong arms.

You were shocked to say the least. Not just because of his usual dislike for children, but because you had never seen him so domestic. The look in his eyes was soft, just as his voice while he whispered to your child. “I’ve got ya, sweet thing”

For a moment you stood frozen in the doorway. Not necessarily out of shock, but taking in the moment. It looked and felt so right. It was unexplainable, but Simon Ghost looked like a natural.

Though the second he noticed you his demeanor shifted, back to his usual bluntness. He was quick to get up, gently putting your baby back down in their crib. “Y’re late. Don’t ya dare ask thi’ of me again. You said ya’d be home by midnight”

He would never admit what this awakened in him. Not even to himself. But he could never avoid where his thoughts wandered off to as he fisted his cock, wishing he could fill you up with his cum and get you pregnant again. He wouldn’t just pack up and leave, he’d be there for the entire ride. He wouldn’t mind seeing you sick and swollen (the latter might turn him on) with his child. The thought made him finish instantly, cum spurting all over his stomach and hand.

He might not hate children so much after all.

——————————————————————————

This is my first work so…don’t expect it to be good. English isn’t my first language so ignore any mistakes lolol.

RILEY.

making posters for my room, and why not share them with the world? ( ദ്ദി ˙ᗜ˙ ) note: I've been trying to upload the poster for a damn hour, because it exceeds tumblr's file limit, I'm gonna cry right now.

simon dating a pornstar? 18+

simon got shoved onto the dating app because of johnny, soap would not shut up about it and simon did it. he didnt really use the app for a good few weeks just allowing it to fester and that one bored friday night he went on it.

he got a match, a cute little doll like you giving him a heart eyes text. his texts were brief but yours were suprisingly detailed and funny. the gentleman that simon (sometimes) was asked you on a date.

you didnt open his message for a day or two, maybe it was nerves because dating apps were fun and for your latest shoot not because you were into the guy. and maybe you were slightly curious of the size of his dick. but nonetheless!

you did reply and tell him your occupation, scare him off early. sending that text to him while he was at work aswell didnt help, as a tent began to grow - thank the lord he was in his office.

your first date was at the local restaurant, something casual nothing too special.

it was extremely awkward until you finally addressed the issue of you being a pornstar and he was suprisingly interested in why you do it. once that had happened conversation flowed extremely well.

dates went on like this for a while before the first time he stayed over at yours. it was steamy and passionate. you were obviously good at it and it had him moaning like never before. the fact you could actually take his dick had him fucking you for the entire night. then once more when you both woke up.

he wouldnt say he was in love but when your cunt took his entire cock and came just from his size? he wouldnt deny that he did have a little moment of ‘i have found my soulmate’ so.

you guys started dating, simon struggled with the idea of you doing porn shoots with other men, he didnt care if it was other women or by yourself but other men? really ticked him off.

he brought it up and you very bluntly said ‘well i have to fuck guys so who else? you?”

the next day ghost was on set getting ready to fuck you on camera. anyone on set could tell this was going to be a good shoot. he said his corny little lines before you did too.

simon riley became an overnight success, the camera showing as he talked you through it, fucking you with such lust and such passion. women everywhere were waiting for their turn.

anyway lets just say simon loves his little pornstar but him being one full time wasnt what he wanted but every once in a while he would.

omg imagine soap finding the video and watching it before realising its his lieutenant, i cant

masterlist

daddy cool ⋆˙⟡

john price x fem!reader summary: “I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.” ↪or the one in which hairy muscle daddy john price asks you to show him your skills disco style tags/warnings: 70s clubbing, body hair is a central theme, scent kink, daddy kink, deepthroating, rough oral (m), cigars, some alcohol, manipulation if you squint,vaginal fingering + sex, a bit of exhibition kink but not really at all (one line), 'little' not used as a size indicator, dom/sub, oral (f), tiny gape mention

“I think he’s interested in you,” Debbie whisper-screams in your ear. It’s hard to hear her over the boom of the drums, over the four on the floor beat and soaring voices. 

“Really?”

“Girl,” she laughs, incredulous. You look over your shoulder and sure enough he’s fixing you with a stare hot enough to burn through steel.

He’s flanked by two others, but you hardly notice them. You’re staring right into the deep V of his open shirt, at the fur peeking out of it, at the pink of his tongue as it swipes his bottom lip under his mustache. Sinful.

The booth he’s sitting in is draped with orange translucent curtains, creating some illusion of privacy. No overhead lights, either, just a soft cave and dark burgundy leather. Perfect for a bear like him.

“Should I go over there?” you whisper-scream back, curling closer to Debbie, “he’s a bonafide stud.”

She laughs, throwing her long hair over her shoulder, “yeah he is, and he’s looking at you, girl.”

You peek again. He’s smiling this time, like someone who knew you’d look twice. Beyond his shirt, his pants are so goddamn tight you can see almost everything. Christ, who let him out of the house looking like that?

“I’m gonna go over,” you say before you can stop yourself.

A saxophone disco beat booms through the club, thrumming right through you down to your toes, which you move to dance your way to him. Debbie laughs behind you, disappearing into the crowd.

Your hips go side to side, your teeth bite your bottom lip, and you fix him with what you hope is a clear message; you’re hot.

He stays exactly where he is. There’s a smugness about him now, the same smugness you saw when you looked twice.

You can’t really blame him for it. Someone that looks like that is bound to expect attention, desire.

God, he’s just your type. A quiet kind of arrogance, one arm slung over the back of the booth as he lifts a cigar up to his mouth and puffs. Lazily, like a big lion that knows he doesn’t have to hunt to get his food.

“Hello, love,” he says slowly when you get close enough. You’re still bouncing to the music, but you lean forward to hear him better.

“Interested in me, are you?” you’re going for a coy, simpering kind of approach. Something about him makes you want to lay it on thick, want to seduce. To preen a little.

His knuckles are dark in the lighting, hairy and tough like he works with his hands, which you catch as he pats the booth beside him. 

You hadn’t even noticed his companions leaving.

“Saw you dancing,” he lifts a glass from the table, dark liquid, his mustache getting wet, “thought you might be interested, too.”

“You thought right,” you slide in beside him, the leather seat cool even through your tight bootcut pants. You tilt your knees towards him, lifting an elbow to match his on the back of the booth.

Reds, yellows, oranges dance on his skin. The occasional sparkle of the disco ball peeks through, but mostly it filters through the orange booth curtains and spreads into an archipelago of little bright spots. This lighting agrees with him, accentuates the best parts, makes them look darker and more defined. You’d feel like a pervert looking down his shirt if he wasn’t also doing the same to you.

“Name’s John, love,” and when you tell him yours he says, “that’s fitting.”

“So, what do you do?” boring, typical– but it’s all you’ve got. You’re surprised you can get words out at all with the drool pooling in your mouth. This close, you can see how his shirt strains where his shoulders move. A little too small, but it’s probably on purpose.

Should be illegal, honestly.

His eyes crinkle in the corners. He’s the kind of guy whose entire face changes when he smiles, who looks disarmingly more approachable that way.

“I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.”

“Talent?” you cross one leg over the other, trilling internally with satisfaction when you see his eyes fall to your thighs.

You know you aren’t being subtle in the least– and you aren’t trying to be. But you won’t say anything outright, not yet, not while the anticipation feels this tasty.

The booth isn’t private, but it is insulated. The music is loud, but not too loud, just enough that it thrums through you, that you can hear him. Anita Ward croons in your ear, encouraging you. He can ring your bell, that’s for sure.

“That’s right,” he puffs again. The smell makes you lightheaded.

“Moviestars, you mean?” you roll your ankle around, watching him watch you, wondering if he likes the polish colour you picked. 

You like that he’s visibly affected; licking his lips, that meaty hand climbing higher up his thigh.

“Something like that, love,” he smiles again, leans back in the booth and launches a counter attack to your leggy flirtations – he spreads those legs, feet pointed out, hunched just so that his belly starts poking out of those sinfully tight pants.

Motherfucker.

Looking back up at him, his eyes are crinkled at you, head tilted forward. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Which movies have you produced?” you lean your head on your hand, looking at him through your lashes, “anything I’ve seen?”

“I hope so,” he hums. His eyes flit down to your feet again, up to your midriff, then back to your eyes– it’s hot, but it’s also not just a flirtation. He’s assessing, “have you seen Swan Lady? The Nun and the Two Vikings?”

You frown, “no, I haven’t heard of either.”

“How about Call of Duty: Servicing the Captain?”

Ah, it clicks. Your eyebrows go up, into your hairline, “you make pornos?”

“Aye, smart girl,” he gruffs.

Pornos, huh. You could laugh– he looks the part. A little sleazy, unabashed. Masculine not to the point of parody but it’s close. The ‘stache is in style, but in combination with everything else is just the cherry on top.

You only have one question, “you don’t star in any?”

“I prefer working behind the scenes,” something about the way he says behind feels filthy.

John tells all. He does scout, finds girls who want to have a good time (like you), and gently (or so he says) nudges them in front of the camera. I can always sniff ‘em out, he says. The ones that’ll do well on film, that have star quality.

“How can you tell?” you ask, lips pulling on your straw. John has ordered you a tequila sunrise.

You can’t help but trace the skin of his neck with your eyes, roving at the bob of his Adam's apple as he explains. Girls who can take the gloves off, so to speak. Says he can tell by the way they move, how free they are with their bodies.

A little dubious, but it’s honestly doing it for you. You wonder what he saw when you danced up to him, if the sway of your body was free, liberated.

Doesn’t take long at all for him to invite you out either way. John puts his hand on your knee and squeezes, gets real close, gruffs that his place is nearby.

“What do you say, sweetheart?” and of course the only answer is yes, please.

Boney M. soars around you as you follow him out, your hand holding his, your fingers stroking the hairs on his knuckles. 

She’s crazy for her daddy!

On the drive over, he keeps that big paw on your thigh, squeezing almost subconsciously. Just the flex of his fingers.

You widen your knees, hoping for that rough palm to slide upwards, glancing at John as he drives one-handed. Not your first rodeo going home with a man from the disco, but it sure is the first time you’ve felt so keyed up about it.

He’s huge, takes up an absurd amount of room in the car, knee knocking into yours. He even drives sexy, so sure and in control.

“You think I could be in one of your movies?” you say, impish, looking to provoke.

John glances at you for just a second too long, too intense. You can tell he’s picturing you in front of the cameras.

“That what you want?”

“Just picturing it,” you simper, shifting your knee to deliberately touch him again. His fingers flex against your thigh again, jaw moving.

The air is warm, breezy, lights passing by like twinkling firebugs. You roll your window down, smiling at the feeling.

“Picturing it, aye? Is that making you wet, sweetheart?”

Fuck. It certainly is now.

“Only if you can be my co-star.”

“Is that right?” he laughs, low and deep. His hand climbs higher, “‘fraid I’m just the recruiter, but I’ll have to do a quality test.”

“Quality test?”

“Mm,” he hums, “need to make sure you’re ready for the camera, don’t I? You think you’ve got star quality, then prove it.”

Your panties are sticky.

“I can do that,” you breathe.

“Yeah? Can you prove you can be a good girl for me, sweetheart?” his fingers slide, achingly slow, to the gusset of your pants, “that you can look into that camera and show the world you’re a good girl?”

They press against you, right up against your clit through the fabric. You fight to stay still, to not come across like you’re desperate, but god it’s hard. You ache.

“Mhm,” you breathe, subtly tilting your hips forward as he idly pets your pussy.

“Not an answer,” he says firmly. Butterflies dance in your stomach, the air slowly being siphoned out, leaving you hot and bothered. John is barely affected, it seems, driving still, gliding through the night.

“Sorry,” you swallow, “I can do that, daddy.”

“Much better.”

“Still want to prove it to me, love?” he moves to a glass cabinet, pulling out a little box. It opens with a click, revealing a neat row of thick cigars.

“Yes,” you stand in the middle of his living room, appreciating the atmosphere he’s made; low lighting, oranges, reds everywhere. Brown leather and the heady smell of cigar smoke, of leather polish and an incense-y kind of musk.

He walks back towards you, brand new cigar between his fingers, steps heavy on the carpet. You’re made aware of the height difference when he stands right in front of you, looking down not unkindly.

Your skin prickles at his gaze, the same one from the club; that assessment. Like he’s measuring you, testing you, scanning you.

John leans forward, breath puffing lightly across your face. He smells like his house does, only there’s a bit of whiskey mixed in.

You can’t help but squirm just a little, thighs rubbing together, both to relieve the pulsing ache of your pussy and that it’s impossible to stay composed under that gaze.

“Drop down,” he says finally, “to your knees, sweetheart.”

From your knees, you get a good fucking look at those tight pants– at the bulge in them. The hair on his chest sticks out a little, too, peeking at you from above. Hot. So hot.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, daddy,” you bite your lip again.

“Keep those hands down, alright?” he leans to the side and picks up a cigar lighter, watching you as he lights up.

John stands over you, new cigar lit, plumes of smoke drifting from his fingers. His expression is neutral, though he hums in a pleased way as he strokes the softness of your cheek.

“Take me out,” he commands.

You lean forward with your mouth, unable to resist giving him a good long sniff before you pull at his zipper with your teeth. He smells good, musky and strong, a little cologne there but mostly it’s natural.

When your teeth gently take his briefs, pulling, he cups the back of your head with a big hand and strokes your hair.

“Are you going to take it all, sweetheart? Right down your throat?”

You let his cock flop out of his underwear, heavy. The bush surrounding it makes your mouth water. It looks so good, long and a little curved, bouncing as if it’s teasing you.

You nod finally, hands squeezed into fists in your lap just the way he asked, “yes, daddy.”

“That’s my girl, aye? Are you going to give daddy’s cock a little kiss first?”

You lean forward, lips pursed, planting a little kiss on the mushroom head of his cock. Though you ache to lick your lips, to taste him, you wait.

“That’s a good little girl,” he murmurs, “open your mouth.”

You do, holding your tongue out.

He grips the base, holding his cock up, tapping your tongue with the head. You almost whine, before he grips your head firmer and holds you still so he can slide the entire length of that monster right to the back of your throat.

Your nose hits his pubic bone, buried in the coarse hairs there, overwhelmed, hands balling into fists.

“That’s right,” he grunts, “hold it right there, sweetheart, show me you’ve got what it takes.”

God, he’s all the way in, a perfect fit. You try to stay still, anchoring yourself to him, to his palm, to the possibility of hearing good girl.

You gag a little, coughing around him, tears burning at your eyes as drool plip plops onto your chest.

Finally, he pulls out, stroking your hair, “good girl, such a good girl. Ready?”

“Yes,” you garble around the heady of his cock, clit swollen and needy, hands pressing hard into your thighs, “please fuck my face, daddy.”

He does, his pistoning, fucking your mouth like it’s a cunt. His hand cradles the back of your head, pushing you, hips moving, grunting when he’s not taking the occasional puff of his cigar.

You throb in your panties, body scorching hot, gagging every so often around the thick meat of John’s cock. Drool falls in viscous strings, tears following, the world dropping away. 

Nothing else but the slide of his cock in and out of your mouth exists, matters.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he pants raggedly.

You have no idea how long he lasts, only that when he’s finished you're an absolute mess. Wet faced and panting.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, wiping the tears from your cheeks with his rough thumbs. You look up at him through your clumped lashes, mouth open, “did so well for me, hm?”

“Thank you, daddy,” your voice is a little gravelly, but not painful.

John pulls you up with a hand at your bicep, walking you down a hallway off his living room and towards an open door. 

It’s his bedroom– and it’s decorated exactly as you’d imagined it.

The bed is huge, kingsized with a radio inlay and a thick, padded headboard that extends all around the mattress in a kind of cradle. His sheets are silk, dark, and dark orange.

“Nice digs,” you laugh, “you sure you aren’t a pornstar?”

He laughs behind you, setting his lit cigar into the ashtray on the bedside table. He slowly strips out of his clothes, getting totally naked. Then he slides in, and leans back.

“Give me a show, sweetheart.”

You hum, swaying again. You aren’t a pro at this kind of stuff, but it’s fun regardless to pull your shirt up and over your head like you’re a dirty dancer.

“Like this, daddy?”

John hums.

You slowly slide your pants down, turning so he can watch your ass move, kicking them away. You hear the slick sounds of him jerking his cock as you do.

“Should I take my panties off?” you ask, thumbs slipping into the elastic.

“Yes, take them off,” he grunts, “turn around.”

You do, then slowly slip your panties off. He licks his bottom lip again, quick.

“Come here.”

You slide onto the bed, on your knees, then crawl forward until you’re beside him, where he pushes you to lay on your side.

His heavy palm finds the naked skin of your hip, squeezing, “still want to show me your star power, sweetheart?”

“Yes, daddy,” you’re back in it, eyes half lidded. Your pussy is making a wet spot on your thighs, “I wanna show you.”

He pushes you to your back, slaps your thighs until you open your legs and hold them out. Then he pauses, hand at the junction of your thigh and hip, thumb inching towards your pussy.

“Look how wet you are, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You clench, tilting your hips up. Your clit throbs.

“Ah ah, get back down,” he tuts.

Your ass touches the bed again, hips forced down by sheer willpower. His thumb finally reaches you, pulling aside your pussylip to gaze at your wetness.

It gushes out of you, and you’re sure he can see the way your hole clenches.

“Desperate little cunt, aye?” he uses his other hand, two two fingers coming to pull the hood of your clit up and just watch as it jumps needily, “awe, poor thing.”

“Please, daddy,” you could cry, “please, touch me.”

“Touch where, love? Touch this needy little clit?”

“Yes, please!”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he abandons holding you open to bring his thumb to your exposed clit, rubbing in circles. You shout, a tremor immediately beginning. It’s too much and not enough at once, electric and icy-hot.

Then he slips those fingers inside you, slow and testing at first, but when he realizes just how wet and soft you are he curls them inside you deeply and oh, fuck, your eyes roll back into your head.

“That’s the spot, that’s it,” he grunts, shaking you, taking you apart.

John only fingers you long enough to let your wetness spill out of you, wetting your thighs, soaking his fingers– until you’re ready for his cock.

“You’re ready,” he lays the length of it against your pussy for a moment, letting your swollen lips hug his length, before he shifts back and nudges the head at your hole, “yeah, you’re ready for it.”

He stuffs you fucking full. You’ve never been so stuffed in your life, thankful for his diligent attention earlier or you might be really feeling the weight of him.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, back arching, nipples rubbing against his chest hair. It sparks pleasure from your tits right down your cunt, body aflame, hands scratching through the hair at his back.

It’s like fucking a bear, or a werewolf. He’s relentless, too, without mercy. Plows into you hard and long, thrusts measured, never faltering.

John fucks like a pornstar, there’s no doubt about it. He takes up so much space on top of you that without his arms holding him up you worry about being crushed– you crave it, too.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarls, lip curling, mustache going with it, “want to be on camera, do ya? Let me hear you.”

You let loose, mouth open in one long drawn out sound, interposed only by the gasps you let out each time he hits you deep.

You tilt your head back, bearing your throat, taking each heavy thrust and crying out with them, squeezing around him.

“I’m gonna give it all to you, sweetheart, fuck,” he snaps his hips faster now, “and you’re gonna take it all like a star.”

You nod desperately, feeling his pubes each time he thrusts to the hilt, wet with your juices. You’re so fucking close, one breath to your clit and you’d lose your mind.

He straightens, hands going to your hips, tightening, as he snaps one, two, three times and tenses–

His head snaps back, neck bulging with veins as he comes, teeth bared in a growl as he curses, “fuck, good girl, that’s right– good fucking pussy–”

Hot come shoots inside, heating you up further, making you whine with frustration and satisfaction both.

When the taut line of his body relaxes and he pulls out, a flood of come following him, he slides to his stomach and spreads you open with his thumbs.

“Let daddy make it up to you, sweetheart,” he murmurs to your pussy, “he’s not usually so selfish.”

John looks down first. Your pussy is swollen, well-fucked, and you can feel a slight gape.

“Poor little pussy,” he murmurs, then seals his mouth over your clit until you fall apart.

“You sure you aren’t a pornstar?” your cheek is pressed to his chest, basking in the furriness, arm and leg thrown over his body.

He laughs, “I’m sure, sweetheart. But I will say–” he pauses to lean down and kiss the corner of your mouth, mustache still damp, “you’ve definitely got star quality.”

Price

Found this on an old flashdrive and you cannot tell me this isn't Captain John Price coded. Like could you just imagine John has been home for a few months, meaning he hasn't been working out as much, his stomach becoming a bit heavier with all the foods you've been cooking.

And you just can't get enough of it. Don't get me wrong, no matter how he looks, John's body is incredible. But there's just something so...domestic about him when he starts looking like this.

It’s the same routine every time now. You fuck on his couch or on the bed or on top of the wash machine, you let him clean you up, you put your clothes on, and you leave. Same time Friday?

At first you tried to break down the ‘Fortress of Riley’ as you referred to it as. You did the whole spiel, bring him dinner, wash his clothes, watch tv together, spend the night. But when he never once reciprocated the energy you put into it, you learned your place.

You got over your little crush on him quickly. One too many disappointing nights made you realized that he wanted nothing more than a quick fuck after a long day. So you stopped bringing over dinners, stopped turning the tv on, left your clothes in a neat pile signaling they’re ready for your exit.

And then there was the question of: Is it because you are fat? Is he afraid to be seen with you? Is he disgusted by you and is just desperate? No.…Maybe? The ongoing questions circle in your mind as you contemplate your situationship with a fucking 32 year old.

Simon didn’t notice the shift at first. You’re such a sweet little bird. Bringing him dinners, tending his home, letting him have a nice warm cunt to fall into after a long day. Slowly though, the dinners stopped coming. You would turn the tv off once you came over. You kept all of your things in a small pile by the door. You wasted no time putting your clothes on and leaving. It was starting to piss him off. Were you seeing someone else? Is he not good enough for you anymore?

—————————————————————————

You sighed as pulled your panties on. Simon stares at you from his spot on the bed, a cold calculating stare piercing through your back. Throwing your jeans and over size sweatshirt on, you turn around to look at him. “Thanks. Same time Friday? I have plans on Thursday.” His stare only intensifies as you slip on your socks and shoes. You look at him expectantly, waiting on a confirmation for the later in the week plans.

“I’m taking it as a no if i don’t get verbal confirmation.” You say when you get no response. “Th’as fine.” You nod as you head towards the living room. Rising from the bed, he pulls on his discarded sweatpants as you grab your coat and purse from the living room. He walks out to you standing by the door.

“See ya Friday.” You say as the door opens to reveal his hallway neighbors valentine’s day door decor. “Stop.” He says gruffly behind you. Stopping in your tracks and swivel your head around to meet his gaze. “Can we talk?” You raise an eyebrow before scanning the hallway. “Can it wait for Friday? I really need to get home to feed my cat.” He clicks his tongue before sighing deeply. “Alright.” You smile at him before closing his door and walking away from the apartment.

As he hears your footsteps move further away, he plops down on the couch. You’ve been sleeping together for almost a year, minus deployments. Did he miss something? Has he said something to upset you in the past to make you so cold? Simon shakes his head. He needs to figure out how to tell you the truth. How to express to you that you are the only person he lets see him in this way. The only person he ever wants to let see him this way again. How do you tell your fuck buddy you are actually in love with them?

a/n: hey yall!! slow day at the office ❤️‍🔥 i have some ideas for situationship simon riley. i’m cooking over here y’all give me some time 🤍🤍 i did proofread this, but i probs missed something. I’ll come back later and double check. feedback is always appreciated!! likes, comments, and reblogs are kindly appreciated as well ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 xoxo, lollie

18+ minors do not interact!

john price who's still a virgin at the age of 48. somehow sex never happened for him, sure he'd dated, he's kissed people but nothing more than that. his dates never calling him back or sending him messages that they don't see this going anywhere because of his work. always seems to be because of his work, it's almost like a curse.

then he meets you and it's different, you stick around for a second date that becomes a third then a fourth and a fifth and eventually you're a couple.

the first time time you bring up sex he goes quite, glancing away as he rubs his nape and softly admits he's still a virgin, pink flush across his cheeks as he waits for you to laugh and tease him. that never happens though, instead you ask why, listen to him as he talks, take his hand and kiss him as you ask him to let you be his first.

he almost cums the second he sinks into you, the heat around his cock, the feeling of you clenching around, the way your breath hitched and your eyes went glassy all too much for him. he doesn't though.

grits his teeth and sits back to take a breath before ever so slowly pulling almost all the way out before punching back in, a loud broken moan leaving his lips as you gasp and grip his biceps, eyes rolling back because you just feel so full. he's so big and stretches you out so much there's no room for anything else, you can feel all of him inside you, twitching and rubbing against you.

it only take a couple more thrusts before he's hunching over you "just feels too good" as he's caging you in his arms. "i'm sorry" leaving his lips like a chant as he jackhammers into you, panting and whining with his face buried in your neck as he starts to drool. your fingers gripping onto his back so hard they leave bruises and he cums, his whole body shuddering as he moans so loud it echos in the room.

he finally sits back on his legs, slowly pulling his twitching cock out of your hole and watching his cum leak out before he's pushing your legs to your chest and burying his face in your hole. lapping up his cum as he mumbles that he's going to make it up to you for not making you cum, his hands leaving your legs and wandering down your body and between your thighs.

Gaz who frequents your flower shop

I think he’s a big believer in getting ephemeral gifts. Things that are so so good that have a short window of time to enjoy. Fresh fruit, freshly baked breads, flower bouquets.

So he’s at your place for almost every occasion. Promotions at work, birthdays, holidays— even if it’s just a single rose, fresh flowers always brighten things up, don’t they? He thinks it’s a tradition that needs to make more of a comeback.

Anyways, one Valentine’s Day, one of your busiest days (full of rush orders from rude people whose romantic relationships apparently hang in the balance, and probably for good reason), you see Kyle coming in around closing. For anyone else, you’d say you’re afraid you’re closing up for the day, but for him? You can stay open a little while longer and do a quick arrangement.

Only he’s already got flowers in his hands. Beautiful ones. You recognize the work and the signature filler— it’s from an extremely nice shop. Not a competitor— because it must be at least a 3 hour drive from yours.

The bouquet is dwarfing the little teddy bear that’s got its arms wrapped around it, backdropped by the satin ribbon on what looks like a beautiful chocolate assortment. You smile, a little puzzled.

“I’d ask for your order, but it looks like you’re already kitted out for the holiday, hm?”

He almost looks a little nervous.

“Well, I— these are for you, love. I figure you spend the whole year making romance come alive for everyone else, I wondered if someone thought to get you a little something…. Then again, maybe you have a boyfriend and I look like a right prick right now,” he says with a little smirk, realizing he kind of just assumed you’d like the gesture. “Or maybe you’re a bit tired of flowers, hm?”

You take them gratefully from his arms into yours, the sound of the cellophane and tissue gently crinkling. “I… I don’t remember the last time someone got me flowers.” You look closer at the arrangement. Smell them. Bleeding hearts— an appropriate choice, but not very popular in the arrangement world. “Would you… would you want to come back to mine? Help me pick a vase to put these in. In my line of work, you tend to accumulate them, and it becomes so hard to choose. I can make coffee,” you offer hopefully. He sighs in what can only be described as elation and relief.

“I was hoping you’d say something like that.”

Nah that bluecollar!simon au except he knows the exact moment your relationship with your fuckass bf starts going downhill cause the lunches aren't quite so catered to your bf's tastes anymore. He doesn't open the bag to begin with, so how would he know that you've started packing them for Simon and he's just doing the hard part and delivering it?

Idk I just think the most loving thing you can do for someone is cook for them. What does that say about me.

Simon who’s into cuckholding lame men but instead of fucking their girlfriends he’s eating their cooking like a starving animal. He’s like lol look at the fuckin idiot being my free post mates boy.

Also I lied. He’s fucking the girlfriend also. But to him there is a vast difference between “I fucked your girl” and “your girl cooked me dinner and I asked for thirds”. Any guy can fuck a girl. But a girl will not spend her precious time making a lovely warm meal for just any man.

being happy is so scary because there’s this underlying feeling of anxiety like when are things gonna go wrong. is this gonna be taken from me. chat is this normal

“From whence you came” is a classic place to send back a foul beast

Thinking about Reader who feels like she's never feel like she was treated like a woman

I'm talking about getting flowers, good morning texts from 'guy friends', or getting a barrage of compliments on her pictures on Instagram

Growing up, she never fit what was expected of her, always heard how she was very unladylike, whether it was her attitude or her appearance she was not soft and delicate

I'm saying, resting bitch face, being tall, also muscular

It's not like she was desperate or anything, just thought it must be nice to be treated like a princess

Getting into the military at young age, following her oldman footprints

And then she met Gaz

Gaz who opened doors for her whenever they were walking, being considerate when he touched her as he fixed her gear. She didn't want to think much of it, but it's kinda hard to when it seemed like he was looking for an excuse to touch her, with him standing behind her, hand on her hip, guiding her shot at the shooting range

Gaz who made her blush by slipping her hair behind her ear

Gaz who picked a small flower and slip it to your ear with that charming grin of his

Gaz who made sure to walk on the curbside when he was beside you as the team go out to hangout at a pub

Gaz who made you involuntarily tear up when he said you're pretty

Gaz who made you more confident in your appearance by taking candid pictures and sending it to you

Gaz who punched a recruit when he overheard him making an attractiveness tier list of the women in the base with his buddies, without you in it because you're 'too manly' (he thought the tier list itself is just weird, but their comment of you is what made him snap)

Hi!!!!! How do you think Nikolai would eventually confront you in the secret baby scenario?

It depends on whether or not you crack! But in the scenario where you don’t, I imagine he’d bring it up at a pretty terrible time.

Your baby’s first birthday, maybe. Pulls you aside to the kitchen, helping you to clean up after the smash cake while the others take turns making the baby laugh.

“Milaya, tell me the truth. She’s mine, isn’t she?”

It’s right to the point. Well, as much as it can be after he’s spent so long waiting for her to crack and confess.

“Yes. But I don’t have any expectation that you’ll be her father, so don’t worry.” You say it so easily, like it’s natural that’s what he would want. Like it doesn’t hurt him to watch her grow up without her papa.

“Why would I be worried about that?”

You set a plate in the sink before turning to face him. “Listen, Nik— I don’t want you to volunteer because you feel obligated. I didn’t write your name on the birth certificate or anything. I’ll be fine— she already has quite a lot of male role models, don’t you think? You don’t have to ruin your life just because you made the mistake of sleeping with me.” Once again, you tear out his heart with such little effort.

“It wasn’t a mistake. Not to me. You really think I’d feel that way? That I’d spend all that time chasing you and regret it?”

“Whether or not you enjoyed yourself, you’re not built for a relationship, much less a family. You know why you had to chase me? I didn’t want to be involved with a man who’s constantly in the far corners of the world fighting other people’s battles. And I definitely don’t want that for my daughter. I don’t want to see her waiting at the door on the day you don’t come back.”

“I would never abandon you—“

“Don’t you get it? You might not have a choice.”

Missionary with your fav military man, but his dog tags keep tapping you in the face, causing you to giggle. He scoffs and nips at you playfully before taking the chain in his teeth and thrusting even harder, fucking you up the bed in punishment

Thinking about patching up ex-husband Simon Riley. He comes in with the cloak of darkness not close to sunrise, a witching hour of sorts. Three slow deliberate knocks on the other side of your door. No more and no less. Staring at the mahogany frame, you could ignore him. It would be for the best.

But ghosts tend to haunt all night.

So you'll let him in.

You always do.

Bloodied knuckles with a nasty gash on his upper eyebrow. He'll hoist you onto the bathroom countertop with your legs spread as he steps between them. Firm hands grip your waist, grounding you in your stupid decision to let your ex back into your life. Again. He doesn't flinch as you swipe the alcohol soaked towel over his eyebrow wound. Determined eyes search your face in hopes you'll crack under his gaze.

"Ask me what happened." He whispers.

"No." you dab the towel more firmly on his eyebrow as it soaks the raging red liquid.

Simon grabs your wrist and leans down, his lips pressing into the shell of your ear. "Really?" Your heart pounds in your chest, as your body betrays you for your ex -- feeling a heat set every fiber of you ablaze. His teeth grazing your skin as he noses his way down the column of your neck and breathes in your unyielding scent. He knew the effect he still had on you and you hated yourself for it.

"Birdie really doesn't wanna know what I did to that bloke you went out with last week?"

soap the type of guy to pretend to give u backshots if u lean over a counter

Thinking about exbf!Ghost with Riley who doesn't understand the concept of break up.

One day the dog woke up looking for you, but you were nowhere to be found. You moved out, only your lingering smell remained.

Riley who would whine and gave Ghost a headache figuring out what's wrong.

It went for a while, and Ghost kept trying to please the dog. More treats, more walks.

Riley is a well behaved, properly trained dog. So it really took Ghost off guard when it kept pulling at it's leash until it was snapped. Then, Riley started running

When Ghost catched up to Riley, he found the dog pouncing on you. It seemed that somehow Riley noticed your scent and followed it.

You petted Riley and cooed, smiling happily before your expression changes when your eyes met his.

It was awkward, they had a pretty bad break up after all. But Riley didn't understand, it was just happy to see mommy again.

Somehow, the two of you talk about anything but also nothing about what have been.

Somehow, you unblocked Simon's number.

And now you two are co-parenting Riley (When Ghost finally figured out why it's been whining)

You dogsit Riley whenever Ghost is deployed. Eventually staying at his place again.

You don't really know what's your relationship with Ghost at this point. But you're pretty sure 'just friends' don't cuddle in the bath together with their dog

DISCORD BOYFRIEND KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas

könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways he’s never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. there’s a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at arm’s length. easier that way. safer.

that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of instagram or facebook. there, he doesn’t have to worry about photos or videos— just a username, and a presence in text.

his handle is simple: king 👑. a nod to the name he’s carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.

even in the server where he’s most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.

every now and then, he’ll let something slip— a mention of deployment, an offhand comment, disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most don’t. and könig prefers it that way. it’s easier to let them think he’s just another guy with spotty internet.

your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.

he’s back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server he’s called home for years.

it’s not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routine— an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesn’t expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.

“hi!!!!”

he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.

it doesn’t take long before you’re at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.

the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesn’t mind.

soon enough, you’re in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game he’s only vaguely familiar with. könig listens— well, reads— as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.

he’s not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-

one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.

the response is immediate. ‘king!!! 🥺’ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.

he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.

the calls are… an unexpected development.

könig doesn’t make a habit to join server calls. ever. it’s not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.

but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isn’t exactly efficient, and you’re the first to point that out.

“okay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type ‘behind you.’” he huffs, amused, but relents.

soon enough, calls become second nature— no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes it’s an unspoken invitation, a simple “call?” sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.

one time, it’s you who calls. he answers on the first ring.

“are you- wait.” you pause, listening. there’s a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. “are you on a treadmill?”

“mm.” his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.

you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. “oh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.”

he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. “why would i lie about that?”

“i don’t know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and you’re always online at weird times-”

“you are describing yourself,” he points out.

“shut up.”

there’s a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, “prove it.”

he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.

“not stolen from pinterest.”

you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.

it happens suddenly. one day, he’s there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if he’s not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a ‘typing…’ indicator.

at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s sleeping in. maybe he’s busy. time zones are weird. it’s fine.

but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his status— nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just… gone.

curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.

“hey, anyone heard from king?”

the response is casual. unbothered. “oh, dude’s probably deployed again.”

you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”

“yeah, king’s military.”

there’s no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.

military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?

you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.

he doesn’t resurface for weeks.

you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on his presence until it’s gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.

you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. it’s stupid, you think. you barely know him. he’s just some guy from a discord server.

but the worry lingers.

and then, one day, just like that— he’s back.

his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.

no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple “hello.”

you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.

before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. “you’re alive.”

a moment passes. then— “yes.”

you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”

“i know.”

frustration bubbles up. “you could’ve said something.”

“i couldn’t.”

you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you don’t know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but it’s clear you’re not getting one.

but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. “i’m sorry.”

and just like that, the irritation dissolves.

it’s strange, the way things slip back into place after that.

he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when he’ll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, “i’ll be away for a bit.”

(it means everything.)

slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.

it goes on for months. this… thing between the two of you. könig doesn’t hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, it’s something else entirely.

something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you had whispered his real name under your breath when he revealed it to you.

he doesn’t rush to name it. doesn’t push. he lets it simmer until it feels inevitable.

in the end, it’s you who breaks first. technically. not that he’s keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.

it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?

könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twice—

“you didn’t even ask.” your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.

“didn’t want to give you time to unsend.” his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.

you huff. “bold assumption.”

“not really.”

a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.

“so,” you start, hesitant. “what’s your answer?”

könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. “do you want the truth?”

“obviously.”

he hums, considering. in reality, he’s known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.

“i like you,” he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, “and i’m very aware you like me back.”

you sputter. “that’s a bold assumption-”

“not really,” he repeats, smug this time.

you groan, but you’re laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.

könig doesn’t ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, he’s careful. too careful, sometimes. like he’s afraid of crossing a line you haven’t even drawn.

so when you finally send something, it’s your choice.

the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.

könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and then— “fuck.”

you grin. “good?”

“you have no idea.”

it only escalates from there.

könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.

“pretty,” he texts once, attached to a voice message.

you press play. his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a mile. “pretty thing,” he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. “you’re going to ruin me, love.”

the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.

you don’t ask for it. wouldn’t dream of pushing him into something he’s not comfortable with. könig isn’t shy, necessarily, but he’s private. you know that by now.

so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.

it’s cropped carefully, but there’s no mistaking what you’re looking at— bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.

“you like?” he texts after a minute.

you swallow hard. “yes.”

“good.” and then— “more?”

you bite your lip. “please.”

könig gets bolder after that.

he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes it’s his hands, sometimes it’s his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.

one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.

at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softly— your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.

“wish you were here,” he murmurs. “wish you could see what you do to me.”

the actual nudes don’t take long. not ar all. you’re both desperate. buzzing. könig’s the one who caves first.

it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.

“wanna see your cock so bad, könig…” you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.

on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. “love-” your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. “okay, okay. as long as you're sure.”

his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesn’t exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.

three minutes. that’s how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.

he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.

“oh my god.” the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. “könig…” you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like it’s weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.

“you're so fucking big.” it barely registers that you've said it aloud.

“yeah? you like it?

“like it?” you shoot back. “i want it inside me.”

his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.

“can i see you too?” he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist the knife deeper— “please?”

your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.

your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.

the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret you’ve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.

the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits you— you just sent that to him.

on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “f-fuck, i need to be inside of you-”

sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought you’d be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, it’s different. easier. less embarrassing because it’s him.

still, going from nudes to actual phone sex takes some time.

“gonna sleep,” könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.

“alone?” you send back, teasing.

the typing bubble appears. then disappears. then— “obviously.”

you grin at your phone, satisfied. but then— “but i could use some company.”

you stare at the message longer than you’d like to admit.

didn't tell him that you had woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, könig’s name on your lips too many times. didn't tell him that you had pressed your hand against your clit during your calls, to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.

in the past, you hadn't told him how many times you’d dreamt of him because you thought you'd scare him off, kept your mouth shut about the images that haunted you at night, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.

but you wanted to.

and tonight, you would.

the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.

“you sound tired,” könig murmurs, voice warm. he’s always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like he’s sinking into the sound of you.

you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. “i’m not.”

a pause. then, lower— “what is it, love?”

you hesitate, pressing your lips together. it’s too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.

“talk to me. tell me what you’re thinking.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i had a dream about you.”

the silence stretches.

you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. “i think about you. when i-” you stop. you can’t say it. can’t admit it.

könig exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. “when you what?”

your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. “when i touch myself.”

his breath stutters.

“fuck.” the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.

“könig,” you whisper.

he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, “say it again.”

you swallow. “i touch myself to you.”

“i do too.”

your stomach flips. “what?”

“i-” he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. “i touch myself to you too.”

your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. “könig-”

“all the time.” his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. “when i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and can’t stop thinking about stuffing you full.”

your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear it— the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.

“are you-”

a sharp inhale. “yes.”

“let me hear you,” you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when he’s fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin

there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowly— “okay.”

there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.

könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny.

he knows you’d cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.

“a-ah- fuck, ah-”

your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. “wish i could see you.”

“on cam?”

you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. “yes, please..”

fuck, you're so polite.

it’s over the minute you start playing hide and seek.

johnny has a big family. his siblings have kids, his parents siblings have kids who also have kids, which means a holiday leave offers limited privacy and abundant chaos.

he’s learned to embrace it. adores it, even. kids stroke his ego like no other, and the more he can see his parents the less he pays attention to the new wrinkles and the reality he only has so much time to hold their hand. to be someone’s son.

but you? the sweet, unassuming bird who he met by happenstance, who’s the first person he’s brought home for an approaching decade? he winces as he grabs your bags from the trunk- already expecting the fawning- the embarrassing prattles they’ll throw your way.

he was not expecting you to navigate it though.

the adults love you. turns out all the same charms that had him whipped works fairly well with his relatives. three glasses of wine in and he can still hear his aunt laughing. genuinely. that’s a miracle.

and don’t even get him started with the nieces and nephews.

stole all his thunder and he isn’t even mad about it. watches as they chase you in the backyard, cartwheeling around while you catch your breath.

his sister nudges him in the side and he starts.

“how’d ye catch a bonnie like tat?”

you send him a lopesided smile from across bronzing grass. you’re glowing.

yeah, he’s a goner. “couldnae tell ye.”