Latest Posts by allpurposeramen - Page 8

Eirēnē

price x reader one shot

cw: femme, soldier reader. implied fit body type. pegging. slight spit kink. mild angst but a happy ending. MDNI

"Oh, big stretch." It's playfully patronizing; an affected air to hide the undercurrent of genuine pride. John's always liked watching you push your limits, but raw affection has no place here in his bed - always kept carefully at bay, dropped with his tac gear by the door, or maybe even further back, in the field, when he ducked his helmet against yours with a quiet 'well done, love,' barely audible over the din of exfil, ripped away in the impending whorl of hele blades. 

He praises you here as well, but never as an equal. You're a plaything when he's got you pinned under him. He toys with you the way you imagine he's toyed with cute little things all his life. John doesn't strike you as a bully by any means, but you've seen first hand how he can turn a compliment into a debasement by simply dropping his pitch a few octaves. It leaves you unmoored, dragged in and out of your arousal by self-conscious turns which he soothes with sweet kisses and gentle touches.

They sting worse than the words.

He's got his thumb against the seam of you now, pushing at the tender skin where it is indeed stretched wide around his cock. He's overconfident when he mouths off about how good it must feel, but his eyes betray him as they always do: reverent, tender, yes. And envious.

It took you months to see it. As a rule, by the time he got like this, you were already too fucked out to notice. You fear you never would have, had this slippery slope you'd both found yourselves on not started declining further by the day. You might slip more often, but he's bigger. Falls harder.

It's the vulnerability that tips you off. 

'You're only ever satisfied when you're taking my cock, aren't you darlin'?' it began, a mocking smirk pressed against your lips as you pouted about being given nothing but his fingers. 'That feel good, love?' he'd ask, palm grinding into your sex as he fucked you shallowly, watching himself disappear within your body. Then 'tell me how good I make you feel,' turned into, 'tell me how good it feels,' while 'need me to fix it?' became, 'fuck, sweetheart, please.'

Now you watch him back, entranced by the way he cannot look away from where your bodies meet. It's early yet. He has all his faculties. Still, his gaze is anchored to the stretch of your cunt. "You could cum like this, couldn't you?" he asks, thumb tracing up to your clit. "So full I don't even have to work for it. Just stuff you up and press this button, eh?"

You nod but he's not looking. His thumb pushes against you cruelly as punishment for your perceived silence. "Yes," you hiss and he hums, eyes bright with mischief.

"Show me, then," he says casually, rocking himself that final centimeter deeper as he starts playing with your clit exactly the way you like it. You bear it in stillness and silence for as long as you can, but the quiet sigh he eventually earns himself is like a floodgate. Once your mouth is open, jaw relaxed, your soft noises continue, and then your hips are canting just enough to work against his rhythm. You don't last long enough to test your theory that night, not when John stays as buried deep as he can get, rocking shallowly into you just so he can feel the head of his cock drag under his palm where he keeps it pressed into the soft flesh of your belly. It's vulnerable, makes you feel field dressed, gralloched. 

His own tummy jumps when you palm him there in turn, his cock twitching within you as he groans like he's been gutshot, falls limp over you just the same.

You find out days later that you can make him a desperate, gasping mess by just leaving teeth marks there, working him in your fist while you hide your bite among the soft hair of his underbelly, the most defenseless part of him - too low for his vest to cover; mobility at the cost of exposure. But he trusts you here, holds you close after the first few flutters of his panic settle. His cum stripes your chin when your free hand palms his heavy sac, one finger settling lower, along the seam of him. 

John does not ask you. You wonder sometimes if it would be a bridge too far, playing into the role more than he is comfortable with. Then, John being comfortable with any of this is a stretch, as evident in the tension of his brow when you finally get him on his back, the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat when you work your second finger in alongside the first. You think it's more than he can take, but he outright whimpers when you go to pull back and you can't help but laugh when he wraps a strong leg around your waist to hold you close, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer when he chokes out a quiet, 'don't you dare.'

Don't laugh, don't stop - you're unsure so do neither as you settle yourself deeper within him, fingers probing, just exploring. Taking your time.

The toy he'd bought you - ostensibly - is bigger than he is. Will sit deep within him, proportionate to how he fits inside you. You're not worried it will please him, but it's hard not to be at least a little jealous of his big hands when your fingers can't reach deep enough to do anything but press fluttery pulses against his prostate, only make him tense and sweat when you want to make him cry and beg. It's an instinct that grows with each passing minute, John's impatience - and ability to articulate it - damn near hurting your pride.

He wants to be made vulnerable, has entrusted you alone with the task, though you can do little more than tease him on your own.

But you've always been resourceful. Learned from the best.

When you do pull away, John's hole tightens around your fingers so hard you imagine you would be unable to escape if not for the copious amounts of lube you'd used while working him open. He doesn't pout the way you would have, his frustration instead leaving him with a strangely bull-like huff. You shush him anyway, soothing the emptiness with two thumbs quickly hooking into his rim, testing his stretch with a quiet, disapproving hum.

"I don't know, cap. Don't think you're ready for this cock."

John's neck flexes when he tilts his head back, the thick cords on full display when he swallows heavily, jumping past the strain in his throat. "Oh, fuck you."

"Not tonight," you counter absently, sinking your thumbs to the knuckle just to watch his hole try to wink around them. When you remove them completely, you drag slick trails of lube through the coarse hair there. "It's these little fingers of mine," you pout, wiggling them at him illustratively. "Not gonna cut it, I fear. Be a doll and open yourself up for me, hm?"

He looks like he has something to say to that, but it gets caught behind his teeth and to your surprise he only rolls, gets his knees up under his hips so he can kneel before you, brace most of his weight on his left hand which he plants firmly on the bed. You don't comment on the practiced ease with which he reaches back and coats his fingers in the sticky lube which drips from his hole, nor the way his breath catches when his fingers do. Whatever this is, this practiced confidence, this was never intended for you and you're loathe to have taken it from him.

You're more loathe he's kept it from you at all, but you stay just as silent as him.

John works efficiently, doesn't even take enough time to let the pleasure build. You think about guiding his hands but falter, too scared to take too much control. Instead you keep his cheeks spread for him, warm extra slick between your fingers before letting it slip from your grip, watch as it slips into his greedy hole. You want to tell him how good he looks, but you don't want to embarrass him, either, and your words die in your throat, dry and brittle, because John is not usually so quiet as this during sex and if he needs the silence, you will not be the one to break it.

He doesn't speak when he's decided he's stretched enough, either. Simply lays down on his belly with his legs stretched out between your own. You hum appreciatively, chance to ask if he's ready for you with a quick, assessing swipe of your finger across his loosened rim. With the muscle lax and unfurled, your digit catches and tugs, draws a low, startled grunt from him before he clears his throat and nods, voice thick when he says he is.

You remember the way his stomach tensed under your palm, the way he cradles the back of your head when you get his balls in your mouth, pressing the ring of your teeth closer. John does not ask for this, at least not verbally, but you know what he wants. John's never led you astray before, and he doesn't now, so long as you know what to look for. He does not want to be responsible for this, to tell you when he's ready. The added tension of it, your expectation that he make a decision at the one time he wasn't expecting to, it collects tangibly in the iron of his spine, the clench of your jaw. In the silence of the room, you hear the spiderweb break of the fragile gift he's given you and you still, coltish legs on too-thin ice. Misguided. Not a concept you've had to worry about since coming under John's captaincy. You've grown lax

"Tell me how good it feels."

And maybe it's okay that you've let him crumble, just a bit, because he shatters beautifully when he knows you'll keep him together.

John's voice is still tight when the head of your cock catches on his rim, the words pulled from him like tangled fishing line, each confession pulling clotted debris from the silt of his vitals. It's good, a stretch, he's full.

You can't help the cruel laugh that builds at that last, flex your hips down into his to sink incrementally deeper. "Not yet, you're not."

The quiet snarl is the only warning you get, John's palm reaching back to wrap around your hip with the same quick reflexes that have kept him whole so long. He rips back whatever control he's ceded with just as much ease as he pulls you into him, a rough grunt the only indication he gives of any potential discomfort from the sudden intrusion. Still, you lean against him heavily so he can't move you manually again, create a rhythm for himself that you haven't authorized. You don't let the doubt overcome you, know this is no less than the last desperate gasps of any bound animal. 

You settle him just the same, warm hands on his flank and soft reassurances, your low murmur spilled across his shoulder because he's far too tall for you to lean over properly. "Easy, baby. Give yourself a minute to adjust."

A dog that's slipped his muzzle, John still shows his teeth. "I can take it."

"Don't care what you can do," you counter, bearing more weight down on his back as you slip your free hand under his thick chest - a poor approximation of the way he effortlessly comforts you in this position, the tenderness he doesn't even mean to give. "Just care about what you want to do."

Though he remains unsettled, John's voice is less clipped now despite his words. "I want you to move."

Impertinence sits on your tongue - begging for it already? - but you know better than to test his patience when he's already got himself so wound up over nothing. He's a man unused to this position, figuratively and literally, and you take pity on the perceived bruising of his ego, even if it is self-inflicted. "I'll take care of you," you promise instead, and have to bite back the swell of pride in your chest when the tension of his back slackens incrementally.

"Know you will, love."

The first slow pump of your hips is shallow, experimental, your body acquainting itself with this new movement. John offers no encouragement, but you take his lack of objection for it anyway and gain confidence with each thrust, your strokes growing longer as you learn how to properly brace your weight. 

The harness you've chosen rests low on your hips, the base of your cock digging into your mons each time you bottom out within him. It's a low simmer of pleasure, not distracting enough to keep you from your main aim, but enough to get your hips snapping slightly into him, a rhythm you double down on when John's breath stilts and he shifts subtly, bracing himself to ensure your movements are well met. It's unnecessary - his bulk far too much for you to move with so little engagement - but appreciated all the more because of it.

"Feel good, John? You like having me so deep inside you?"

When he looks over his shoulder, you can see the pinpricks of sweat collecting on his temple. "Let you know when you fuck me proper."

You laugh catches in your throat, more a startled breath than true amusement. "Cheeky," you grumble, then shift up onto your knees and brace your feet over the backs of his calves, using your too-wide stance to your advantage when it means you can't hold your weight on your own. You sink further into the clutch of him, the base of your toy flush tight to his rim, and John swallows thickly, throat flexing. 

The angle is difficult to work but worth it, the way John's head hangs limp between his shoulders the only encouragement you need to plant your hands on the back of his tight waist and feel the way his abdomen flexes each time you let your weight drop back into him. You keep a steady pace even when he tries arching back up under you, inviting you deeper without speaking.

He didn't ask, but you knew.

You don't give him what he wants until he's biting back moans, his voice so low and shot you'd mistake them for the traffic outside if not for how acutely attuned you are to him, your pace quickening just to chase the harefooted pulse in his neck higher. 

When he bites your name out through clenched teeth, his breath condensing in the hairs of his forearm, you tell him to beg. 

"Shit… fuck." You see the muscles of his back bunch when he plants his hands under his shoulders, the tension in his spine when he debates bucking you off of him. And then you plant your feet under yourself, sacrifice depth for power on your next thrust and he whimpers, dropping back to the mattress with a reedy whine. 

You give him a few more, exact copies - the movement already imprinted on your mind like a ballroom basic (Quick learner. Lethal. Brutal. You'd read his reports on you) - and peter off you hear him choke off the next thin groan. 

"If you're not gonna beg for me, at least let me hear those pretty sounds." To prove your point, you grind in hard against him, hips angled to hit that spot that had earned you a whine to begin with. You chuckle when it works again, voice dripping with a cruelty you didn't know you were capable of when it came to your captain. "I've earned 'em, haven't I?"

Another noise bubbles in his throat, pops with a breathy huff. You slip away from him, snap back, and revel in the clench of his thick fist against the sheets. "Fuuuuck. Yeah, love. Just like that. Alright. You've earned it."

He's a veritable font after that, tongue loose and spilling every thought. You feel carbonated, fizzy and staticky, listening to each noise and bitten off praise tumble past his lips. You want to kiss him, get frustrated when you can't reach him. The hand around the column of his throat to arch him backwards surprises both of you, kiss forgotten as you pant against his lips, your glutes burning as you try to maintain your pace. Silent now, John's throat can do little more than flex weakly under your palm as his jaw works, swallowing the spit you want to drink from him. You can't help a whine of your own when the harness grinds too low, too hard, and you bunt your forehead against his cheek, spine sagging just slightly.

"'S'it good, love?"

He doesn't even sound like your captain anymore, voice too quiet, vulnerable. Sinking for a moment into that soft space with him. But when you open your eyes and see his own looking back at you, expectant and eager, you steel yourself again, lips feather light against his ear.

"So good, baby. Taking me so fucking well. Look pretty like this, John," you admit, rambling on over the whine it incites. "Should get you under me more often, hm? Let you take this cock the way I know you want?" He slinks back to the bed when you let him, your palm petting heavily along his spine as he slips away from you. He doesn't try to muffle his noises in the pillow this time, breaths heavy and high as you build your rhythm back up, ignoring the way the harness slips against your sweaty skin. 

With your hands braced against his waist again, it's easy to watch the stretch of his hole where he accepts you so greedily. Even now it glistens in the low light, hair matted with the generous amount of lube you'd plied him with. Your cock is skin-toned, natural, glistening as if with slick when you work it free of him. You make it as loud as you can manage when you spit on him, delighting in the way his hole winks around the tapered head of your cock when he flinches in embarrassment, making it worse by taking the base in hand and slapping the head against the wet of it until he can't take it anymore, reaching back to try and grab your hip again. 

You're ready for him this time, slap his hand away easily, an odd contrast to the way you coo filth at him, call him greedy and just to watch his hole clench down again, a futile attempt to keep you out. When you spit on him this time, a half-hearted bid to ensure he could still take you despite his tension, he groans unabashedly and flops back down, boneless.

"Whore," you chide, and slip back to the base in one steady move, filing the way your gamble makes him keen for later.

Despite his submission, rigidity coils low in John's spine as you work yourself deeper, the muscles under your hand pulling taut as he accepts you. It pools in your own as well, a baseline pleasure you've done all you can to ignore. Your thumbs trace his ilium, feel the tightness of his fascia. One palm pulls the meat of his cheek away to bare his hole to you and then that same thumb slips lower, past the seam of him, and presses softly against his rim. 

You accuse him of being greedy and bite back a smile as John accepts this new intrusion with a slack-jawed moan, drool pooling on the pillow beneath him. You tell him he's being so good for you when your first knuckle slips past his slack hole, but you don't think it even registers, given the fucked out look on his face, the tight pinch of pleasure between his brows. You keep praising him anyway as you begin to fuck him again, your words a low undertone to the high pitched grunts he emits each time you slam home. With your hook him, John can't help but work his hips against yours, aborted little thrusts which you allow because there's not much you can do to stop him, not when he's so far past listening and you're no match for the powerful contraction of his thick thighs. It's a struggle to stay atop him but you manage, pushing him back down as much as you're able with your palms planted on his flexing glutes. To his credit, he regains some sentience when his cock receives sufficient stimulation, tucking his arms up under his chest to better work down against the mattress, slurring vague encouragement through spit-slick lips.

"C'mon, sweetheart, give it to me, please - fuck."

"Need more?" you ask, unsure how you could even give him what he needs when you're on the verge of collapse, untested musculature flagging by the minute.

"Just like that. Shit -!"

He cuts off with a cry when your second thumb slips lower, prods threateningly at the tight ring of muscle you've already worked too loose. "Big stretch," you warn, but make it no further than your nailbed before he's cumming with bitten off shout, hips stuttering as if he can't decide if he wants to fuck down into the mattress or back onto you more. You take the choice from him, bearing down with enough force to work your mound against the base of the harness, taking the edge off your own pleasure with deep grinds that have John babbling beneath you.

In the silence that follows, you slip free of him gently, massaging his glutes as you lay your toy between them, just listening to his breathing even out. For a moment you think it won't, and you slink down to lay across his back again, chest pressed to the lax muscles there to give him the same kind of grounding weight you love so much from him. John just reaches back to sink lazy fingers along your scalp, though, a satisfied hum leaving him when you tip off him sideways to spoon up next to him. Between you, your cock bobs ungainly, an unwelcome intrusion that keeps you from clinging to him. He laughs when you huff in frustration, watches you with one eye open as you fiddle with the clasps until you're free. He's good enough to roll onto his side when you lay back down, welcoming you into his chest with a warmth you're not used to seeing post-coitus, and despite the easiness of his hold on you, it puts you on your back foot, sends you spiraling back into reality - to your place behind him in the field, never his equal. 

He mistakes your stiffness for dissatisfaction at first, his palm sliding down your front unprompted despite his obvious exhaustion, his whole body wrung out and relaxed. It fills you with pride that you were able to do that for him, but it's a sour sort of pride, a noxious gas which bubbles within you, has you pushing his hand away before he's even grazed the thatch of hair above your sex. John grumbles, peeks down past his nose to look you over. His free hand finds the nape of your neck when you avoid him, tilts your face for his inspection.

When he asks if you're broken, your throat constricts, the words like a mallet knocking your panic loose. Your voice falters, stuttering past a protest which you can't quite form. John frowns down at you and that insufferable feeling of disappointment, of having let him down yawns beneath your feet, your axis tilting you over the edge -.

"What's wrong, love?"

It's too quiet to be the voice he uses in the field, too soft to be that patronizing tone he adopts when he's got you underneath him. Closer to the quiet murmur he imparts on you when he drags you close before exfil, those secret words meant just for you, his softest soldier who needs the gentle touch. You shake your head, not trusting your voice, but he's not having it, dragging you closer so you've no choice but to hitch your leg up over his thigh, expose yourself to him fully.

"Can't fix it if you don't tell me," he reminds you, and even that aches - the knowledge he'd trusted you with all this, and he still has to keep you together. 

"It's nothing," you assert, desperate to let him enjoy his come down. "I'm just being silly."

John just squints at you, testing. When he moves your hips down against his own, he tracks the slight flinch in your expression with open interest. "Doesn't seem so silly, lovie."

You still his hands, ask him to stop with regret tinging your voice. "I'm sorry, it's just -. I just -."

"You what, sweetheart?"

"Oh, don't call me that," you blubber, floodgates opening despite your best effort. 

To his credit, John seems to take it in stride, pulling you into his chest and tucking you under his chin. His hands are heavy and warm on your back where they soothe along your spine. "Okay, no sweetheart. How 'bout lovie? Or honey? Or -?"

"John," you whine, pushing yourself away from him with a firm hand on his chest. "I can't take it anymore! You're so… so…"

"So what?"

"So sweet! And it hurts too much, knowing I can't keep it, and -."

"Can't keep it?" he mutters, but you're too wound up to listen, rattling on about not know what this is, spilling your heart out about how you keep blurring the lines. 

John silences you with a kiss, far too slow and sweet to have been listening to a single one of your concerns. When he pulls away he doesn't let you go far, keeping you in the tight ring of his embrace so he can pepper bittersweet kisses across your cheeks. "You were being silly, weren't you, love?" he starts, and chuckles meanly when you swat at him, trying to squirm away. "Easy. Listen to me, sweetheart, okay? It's important." He waits patiently for you to settle, heat boiling under your collar as you meet his eyes. "Do you think I'd have let you do all that if this were just casual? Hm?"

Clarity swells in you like ocean tide, briny and bitter where it creeps up your throat. You open your mouth to answer but close it just as fast, afraid of what might come spilling out. 

"Just casual," John scoffs, pulling you closer and saving you from further embarrassment when he tucks you back under his chin. "If I find out you've been casual with any of the other lads I'm going to be quite cross."

You want to tell him it would be his own fault, or lie just to teach him a lesson. Mostly, you want to be offended. Instead you just shake your head adamantly, lips dragging across the coarse hair of his chest. 

"Good girl," he rumbles, and must feel the clench of your cunt against his hip because his hand drags down to your rear, pulls you impossibly closer. "Now, let's drive those nasty thoughts out of your head, shall we?"

Soap who’s so fucking nasty

Soap who does every single thing that your other boyfriends refused to do.

He kisses you after you suck him off. Eats his own cum out of you. Pins you down to get a taste of you when you’ve just come home after a long day— doesn’t let you shower. Likes you unshaven. Doesn’t want you wearing deodorant or perfume on his birthday.

He likes to fuck you when you’re sick because fevers just make your cunt even hotter than usual. And he’ll still shove his tongue down your throat— he doesn’t give a damn if he gets sick.

When you wake up he’ll start making out with you, smearing his cheek against the drool you left on the pillow.

He tells you he can practically smell your sweet, wet cunt. Then when he gets you undressed, he just buries his head between your legs and breathes deep.

Every time you go hiking he wants a pussyjob from you. He wants to leave a sticky mess for you to feel in your panties on the way back down. The leggings you wear just drive him crazy like that.

He likes for you to get each other off while you’re still clothed and then swap underwear.

ohhhh.... All those Pictures in my head from your Piercing HC's.. why do you give me more and more to dream about when I should Work?

But, the thought alone of running my tongue along those ladders, or bite Just above or below that Belly Piercing... Mhmm...

Anything Else? You fixed me with horny thoughts, i would Like to have more please.

Oughhhh

Ghost counting the rungs as you try to take all of him into your mouth. You try to placate the heavy push of his hand on the back of your head by laving your tongue against the remaining bars, doing your best to avoid gagging when he adjusts his hips. You whine when he tells you "that's three sweet'eart, four more." Because you know he won't let you up until you can feel the metal of his ladder scraping your throat.

Jerking your head down, surprising your gag reflex into submission and shushing you when you protest, gurgling and pushing at his thighs. "Four," he tells you, his voice rumbling straight between your legs, "swallow, swall- there you go." Petting your head like he's gentling an animal, not training your throat to stretch around his fat cock.

You go cross-eyed staring at the little jewel on his belly button piercing as he holds you at the base, the glint of it almost hypnotizing as you struggle to swallow around his thick length, making you fuzzy headed from something more than just a lack of oxygen...

Quick Sevika drawing because OH MY GOD

Warm hearts in cold weather <3

(More wips and rendered artworks (18+) on my patreon ✨)

The thing with living with a man like Simon, who's been through so much, is that you pick up habits to help the both of you. There is no tiptoeing through the house, no jumping around corners. Not like you could anyway. He's got a habit of keeping you in sight most of the time.

When he's deployed, you leave a note on the fridge saying where you've gone, in case he comes home without telling you. Sometimes you leave more information, like what time you should be home, which of your friends you left with. Sometimes its just the location and a reminder to take care of himself.

You started doing this after the first (and only) time it happened. You had been out with friends, when he'd returned home from deployment. Home to an empty house. Your car sat in the driveway (you'd carpooled with your friends), and Simon assumed the worst.

He'd torn through the house, desperately trying to find some sort of evidence that you were still there. That you hadn't been kidnapped, or left him. His search ended empty handed, and he'd had a panic attack in the bathroom, reliving the events of losing his family.

You came home thirty minutes later, almost giddy when you'd seen his truck in the driveway. That feeling quickly evaporated, when you stepped inside the house. It looked like a tornado had swept through, living room torn apart, all the kitchen cabinets thrown open.

"Simon?" you call, setting your bags down by the front door.

You've never been scared of Simon, never had a reason to be. But when he came out of the bathroom, staring you down, eye black smeared across his face, looking more like Ghost than Simon, you suddenly understood why people gave your boyfriend wide berth.

"Simon?"

He doesn't respond, backing you up against the door. When he reaches out to gently caress your face, you notice his hands are shaking.

"Thought something happened to ya," he whispers, voice hoarse. And then he's dragging you into a hug, crushing you against his chest, arms like a vice around you. It takes you a second to realize he's shaking all over, that there's tears in his eyes.

"No, baby. I was just out with friends," you reply softly, gently running your fingers through hair, nails scratching against his scalp. Guilt eats at you, feeling horrible for causing him this kind of distress. You hadn't expected him today, didn't think to leave a note or something.

"I'll leave a note next time," you promise. And that's stuck since then.

Welp, since absolutely no one asked

Here are the types of bodies I think the 141 have ✨

TF141 x Female Reader

Tags: cum eating, blow jobs, oral (fem receiving), cumming in pants, multiple orgasms

Warning: NSFW imagery beneath cut

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

As far as sheer beauty goes, Gaz might top them all. I head canon Kyle as being pretty lean, body composed of sculpted, sheer muscle. He's got a slim frame, like a runner or boxer.

Graceful. Strong. Built for endurance and agility.

What's more? It's fucking effortlessssss. Like, legitimately. When he was a middle schooler, he might have been told he was skinny once or twice. But the minute he hit his growth spur and shot up like a bean stalk, no one could say shit.

Why?

Because Gaz looks like a goddamn male model and he doesn't even have to do anything to maintain it.

Perfect skin? Yep. He uses five dollar lotion.

Legs like a ballerina? Uh-huh. The only training he does is for work.

Sculpted, mouth-watering abs? Check. They were built by McDonald's fries, Netflix, and the grace of God himself.

Let's face it. Gaz looks like he walked off the cover of a magazine purely because the lord has favorites. Let's move on.

Now, Gaz might only go the extra mile when it comes to work training...

But those muscles didn't just come from anywhere.

And the first time Gaz gets you underneath him, cock pounding into you for what feels like hours, you finally fucking understand.

Gaz's body—slick, strong, and slim—is built for agility. For endurance.

It's built for trapping you beneath the length of his covetous frame until you're too exhausted to struggle. For holding you down until he's dripping with sweat, until every muscle in his shaking body screams for a break.

Until his long, aching cock is slowly dripping semen onto the flat of your stomach.....for the third time in the past hour.

Gaz might loathe running the track, but he'll have you fucking like bunnies until you manage to buck him off.

The man has stamina that could rival a racehorse, and god help any woman that found herself in his grasp.

"Sit still, baby," he pants loudly, wrenching the globes of your ass in two of his model-esque hands, "M'not fuckin' done yet. One more...I just—need one more."

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Now Soap? probably the exact opposite of Gaz.

When body building became popular online, Soap jumped right on the bandwagon. Perhaps he grew up as the youngest brother in a horde of boys...or perhaps he was just tired of being the shortest boy on the football team...

But the minute he was old enough to afford a gym subscription, he was there. From dusk 'til dawn, practically. To Johnny, the gym is more than just a hobby. It's a lifestyle, and one that he enjoys immensely.

Soap is bulky, built of bulging muscle, broad shoulders, and thin hips. Every inch of it, from his plush chest to his cut abs, was painstakingly earned by hours of pumping iron.

He goes lifting six days a week, tracks all of his nutrition down to the last calorie. Everything he puts into his body is tracked and monitored--and that's the way he likes it.

He'd never say it aloud, but if it were up to him, I think he'd be the type to participate in those fitness/body building competitions.

In simple terms though? Without all those fancy words? "Macros?" "BCAAS?" What the hell is that?

In layman's terms...

Johnny has arms like tree trunks and ass for fucking DAYS. With the bulk and cut cycle, he oscillates between beautifully fatty in the thighs....to shredded like a piece of paper.

You can't help but watch him go back and forth, mind reeling with the change.

In the winter, you rest your head against the soft plains of his stomach while you lap at the head of his cock, soft and squishy from holiday cookies and hot cocoa. You like him like this.

Full. Rosy cheeked. Cock leaking strings of slick in the dip of his belly button, semen thin and stringy in your mouth.

In the summer? God help you.

In the summer, Johnny's out more than he's in, running himself ragged between his diet, work, and the gym. When he comes home, he's grumpy and agitated, balls achingly full, and semen thick after months of careful water intake.

His caloric intake might be down...but he prefers a different type of eating, anyway.

Good thing he has all those muscles. All the better to hold you down while he fucks you on his tongue.

"Johnny—" you mewl, shoving at his head when his tongue curls around your clit again, "It's past five already—aren't you ready for dinner?"

His lips pop when he pulls off of your swollen clit, eyes glazed over while he watches the way your pussy leaks.

"M'not hungry, doll," he mutters, "Got more than enough to eat here, anyway..."

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Simon Riley....

Now, he's just a big fucking boy. Like, 6'4, over 250 lbs type of big.

Hear me out. Contrary to popular belief, I think Simon has more trouble keeping weight on than keeping it off. I wholeheartedly believe that when he was a teenager he was a thin guy.

Like, he'd fully grown into his height, but just didn't have the nutrition to support it. Simon doesn't cook, and...for lack of a better description, he's not great at taking care of himself. When he was a teenager, still trapped in his parents house, he probably skipped more meals than he ate. And before he joined the army, I think it's safe to say he was a lanky, underweight kid.

But the minute that man starts eating three meals a day?

GODDAMN DOES HE GROW. Like, I'm pretty sure by the end of basic training his drill sergeants were terrified of the monster they'd created.

Simon's fucking heavyyyyyy. Built equally of fat and muscle. He likes the gym, but his body isn't built for the magazine. It's built for utility. For war. For fucking blood. He doesn't care about appearances. He needs strength than can kill.

Barrel chest. Biceps bigger than your head. Stomach muscled and heaving. A trail of wispy, blonde hair leading down from his belly button into the hefty bulge at the front of his pants....

Simon's a behemoth, and anyone whose fought him on the mat knows better than to stand within his arms' reach.

Now, his weight fluctuates pretty heavily, too. A rough few months in the field could see his weight dropping quickly, in which case his hard earned muscle would show through.

But when he's on leave?

...homeboy sustains himself on granola bars and ramen noodles. He gets soft around the middle and also should probably drink more water but...good luck trying to get him to eat more than convenience store junk. He’ll set the kitchen on fire if he tries to boil some water.

Simon's big.

And he's big everywhere.

The zippers on his jeans are remarkably tight. His fatigues look almost like lingerie on his thick thighs. And if he's wearing grey sweatpants?Simon's a lethal fucking weapon at that point.

Why am I telling you this?

Because the first time you see him naked, you might be tempted to reconsider opening your legs for a man like him...your cervix will be bruised to hell and back--not to mention your ass and thighs, too. His hands aren't kind like Kyle's, nor are they careful like Johnny's.

He'll rough you up, pound into you like any reasonable woman could ever manage to take the full length of him without crying.

He'll bite his identity into your collarbones, burn his fingerprints into the fat of your ass cheeks. And when it's all said and done, he'll bully the fattened head of his ruddy cock between your lips and watch the tears drip from your eyes, swollen mouth quivering when you try to swallow his cum.

And if it's all too much to handle? Good luck getting out from under him. Because once you're there, you're not leaving unless you can push him off, match his strength, or make him cum fast enough to leave before he's hard again.

Though, nobody's ever managed it before...not like they'd ever want to.

"Mm—Simon, you're—“

"Shhhh, love," he grunts, your body shoved flat to the mattress beneath his massive frame, "Don't move. Don't fuckin' move. I'm almost there, just....fuck, sit still and let me fill you up, yeah? Then I'll let you go...I promise this time."

Captain John Price

Now, if there is anyone in the 141 that actually enjoys the food they eat, it's Price.

HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

okay so, Price, as a Captain, probably makes substantially more than the other three. That, and he's a good bit older too. He's past his prime (or so he thinks), and whether or not he has a perfect six pack when he looks in the mirror is the LAST thing he could ever care about.

Price isn't one for keeping up appearances--at least not as it concerns his body shape.

Is his beard trimmed and oiled? Always. He's damn near neurotic about it.

Is he always freshly showered, groomed, and cologne-d? Without a doubt. It's a point of pride.

Does the watch he's wearing compliment his clothing? he spends a STUPID amount of time thinking about it.

Will he gain another pound if he eats the Oreo cheesecake at the end of the night? Yep. And he'll enjoy every. Single. Second of it.

Price is as close to a foodie as a purebred military man can get. He loves cooking, and he recently remodeled his kitchen. He has GREAT taste in wine and spirits, and has spent a significant amount on amassing a good collection in his house.

If there's one word that describes Price, it's this: DECADENCE.

This man drinks, smokes, and eats as much as he pleases because he's lived long enough to learn the value of hedonism.

Why skip the cigs for the cigar when you could smoke both? Why stop at popping a just a single bottle bottle? Why not order the most expensive steak on the menu? Or the thickest slice of chocolate cake you've ever seen? What, like he'll regret it?

Price doesn't regret anything, and his body reflects that.

Of course, due to his profession, he never truly falls out of athletic shape (he's ready to be called away at a moments notice, after all). But he's LONG SINCE ditched his glory days. Like the others, his body fluctuates between highly cut to soft around the edges.

Price is thick around the ribs and plush in the chest. His weight settles around his hips and arms, making his biceps fluff up if he eats enough. His stomach is soft and sweet. So are his thighs.

The only thing that doesn't change?

The hair. Holy shit this man has a lot of chest hair.

All in all, Price likes a good meal, but he's still in elite fighting shape. Though, unlike the other three, his age stops him from being purely athletic. If anything, he looks more like a construction worker or landscaper. Someone who spent a long time building things with their hands instead of running laps around the track.

Now, what was that about decadence? Drinking, smoking, eating...

Price was indulgent in every sense of the word. Indulgent to himself, to his friends, and to his family.

But in bed?

The way Price fucks makes you understand why people let their teeth rot for another bite of Halloween candy.

Price wouldn't know moderation if it hit him in the face. And when it comes to your pleasure, to your body in and of itself, Price will be damned if you walk away without a smile on your face.

He's a service Dom through and through. Hell, just feeling your cunt clench around his fingers, your voice crying through another orgasm, is nearly enough to make him cum in his pants.

He'd done it before, too.

Was he embarrassed about it?

Not at all.

"John," you gasp, watching his length twitch rapidly beneath his jeans, a wet spot appearing at the top of his bulge, "Did you just..."

"Yeah," he groans between kisses, "So what?"

"It's—It's just that...isn't that a little—"

"Embarrassing?" he chuckles, "Hardly...Not if you'll go as red as I think you will when I let you lick me clean."

To John, watching you lap at his softening cock--and enjoy it too--is more than enough to get his blood pumping.

He'd always give you exactly what you want...even if you didn't have the guts to ask for it aloud.

I’m sorry this train just won’t stop

More Johnny and Ghost with Ghost’s selectively mute (edit; I originally labeled reader as non-verbal, but I was made aware mutism more accurately describes this!) gf

Soap loves it when Simon fingers you in front of him, movie totally forgotten, and lets him cum on your stomach when he jerks off. And seeing Simon wipe it from your pretty belly and put his fingers between your lips? Goddamn.

But you know what makes him feel over the fucking moon? When you hug him at the door when he’s heading out. When you say goodnight so, so quietly in his ear.

We all know that man is a dog. And now you’ve got him by the fucking leash. He’ll do anything to hear more of that voice.

He’s totally addicted. Now every time he meets up with the guys and you’re along, or he comes to your place for movie nights, he’s leaning down for you to whisper hi, Soap, or goodnight, Johnny. Two little words and he’s melting. And he starts unlocking more little bits— learning to prompt in ways that you’ll respond.

Instead of asking how you’ve been, what you’ve been up to, running his mouth the way his thumping heart is telling him to, he just asks “you okay?” So he can hear your sweet, quiet tone when you say I’m ok.

Makes him fucking hard. He’s never been so hard on so little before. Just two fucking words and he feels like he’s gonna pass out from his blood rushing down.

sparring practise gone wrong!!! gone sexual!!! not clickbait!!!!

when you married ghost , it's automatic that you're married to the rest. that's why they call it one for one. hubby's friend comes over with just you in your robe, nude underneath, and price needs a little taste? no problem captain hubby, lieutenant's consent and yours is given. soap is drunk and needs help with his boner? baby, im here, it's okay. you assure him while simon watch you two proudly. while, kyle, his big respect to the both of you hindrances his needs. simon appreciates that, big time. at the same time, we're family here sergeant. you nod and brush your palm on top kyle's lap to gently assure him as you agree with simon, yes, that's right. let me help you, sweety.

it's just something to love about the concept of your beefy husband casually fucking you whenever he wants, and letting other gigantic men who are very close to him, share you.

Some old poly 141 art. i dont think i like this one too much but still. Eepy boys that were trying to watch a movie.

Ghost still needs to make sure that Soap is alive

• I love this trend sm!! 💫

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm listening to you, love."

Thinking about how when you’re drunk—and I mean really drunk—you get it in your head to catcall men. They could use a little harassment. When you reach that point, your friends immediately know it’s time to cut you off, acting like the Secret Service as they usher you out of the bar and towards the Uber. But they couldn’t anticipate the group of men standing outside the bar swapping laughs and smoking.

Of course you pick the scariest one of the lot and:

“Hey!” you shout, half giggling. “Hey—you, in the mask!”

The man turns. You can’t see his mouth with the surgical mask in place but you can tell his eyebrows are raised. He’s fucking huge, towering over his counterparts (who are nothing to sniff at), thick and strong. His head cocks in silent question.

“Can I get your number?” you shout, licking your friend’s hand when she slaps it over your mouth. All your friends rush to brush the guy off, but he’s already ashing his cigarette under his boot, slipping his hands into his pocket, and crossing the street quietly.

He stays a healthy distance away, aware of how it looks: a man his size approaching a group of young, inebriated women. You think he’s come to harass you in return, or maybe just to mock you—either way you are stunned silent, mouth agape, eyes wide. He’s so much taller up this close.

“Got a pen?” he asks.

He only approaches then, shoulders hunched to make himself appear smaller and innocuous. He takes your hand in his own and writes his phone number on your forearm.

When you wake up hungover the next morning, his number is there on your arm along with a reminder that you hadn’t been able to see in the dim lighting of the parking lot: XXX-XXXX—S. Drink water.

Hi there! Which until dawn characters do u think that are soft moaners and which ones u think are loud moaners?

Ooooo, this is a good one! 👀

Soft moaners: Sam, Ashley, Beth, Matt, Hannah

Loud moaners: Emily, Jess, Chris

Depends on the timing or the mood they are in: Mike, Josh

if you’re asexual… (18+)

… price

- understands.

- respects your limits to the fullest. asks ‘is this ok?’ or ‘can i touch you here?’ a lot in the beginning, until you sit him down and explain that you’re not made of glass. he can touch and hold and kiss you like he would any other partner, just not shove his hand down your pants or flip your skirt up to get access to you.

- fills your relationship with domesticity instead. has your tea ready and brewing when you get up in the morning and knows exactly how you like the bed to be made. holds your hand when you’re out shopping and buys the special brand of cookies that you like. doesn’t watch ahead on your shared tv-shows and always cuddles you on the sofa.

- if you’re sex neutral/positive, he loves messy blowjobs and getting to fuck you silly in missionary. he’s a little bit of a dom and also completely whipped for his wife.

… kyle

- understands.

- does not push it. does not even attempt to initiate anything. lets you have all the control. after a couple long conversations where you explain your needs and limits, he’s all set. once he knows how he can best spend time with you, that’s all he needs. it’s actually a little refreshing to have a partner not chomping at the bit to jump his bones (curse of looking like an angel).

- gains a newfound appreciation for the sensual aspect of your relationship. running his fingertips over the stretchmarks on your hips, playing with ice cubes on your bare back, admiring the indents ropes makes across your skin after it’s been left on you a while. there’s no penetration, no orgasms, just two people exploring each other together.

- if you’re sex neutral/positive, kyle loves the lotus position. thinks it’s the peak of sexual intimacy and absolutely adores being face to face so up close.

… johnny

- understands (after a little while).

- has a mini crisis because he thinks this means you’re not attracted to him. you explain that’s not true, you actually find him super hot, but that you just don’t want to sleep with him. that it feels like a chore to you, like doing dishes. not horrible, but maybe a little gross and just something you’d just rather not do.

- embraces the romantic side of your relationship. loves the intimacy, getting to hold and kiss you. drapes over your back like a warm cloak when you chop vegetables at the kitchen counter and just enjoys the closeness. finds a new peace in himself he hasn’t felt for years.

- if you’re sex neutral/positive, he loves it when you ride him or tease him with your hand. still a complete maniac if he really lets lose. loves getting to let lose with you.

… simon

- understands.

- is almost relieved. has always had a complicated relationship to sex. knowing that you don’t want it from him settles some part of him that’s been restless and anxious for years. chaste kisses on the lips and constant handholding become your new normal. is very matter of factly about it if he does ask you for sex.

- finds that he most of all just wants to spend time with you. follows you around like a lost dog, no matter what you do. always comes to run errands with you or sits in the shade outside while you work in the garden. even when you get up to pee at night, he lumbers after you and stays just outside the bathroom door, squinting at the dim light. you’re so used to it that it’s second nature when he catches the bottom of your sleep shirt and lets you guide him back to bed. feels so at peace when you’re close by.

- if you’re sex neutral/positive, simon will sometimes ask if he can eat you out or if you can lay back on the kitchen table so he can fuck you. you tend to oblige.

you hadn't had time to text kyle and let him know you're watching your brother's kids.

they kept you busy running amuck around the house, their giggles and little feet slapping against the floor made your heart ache.

you had wanted kids since you could remember.

it was always a dream of yours to see a little one that was part you and your lover, a physical manifestation of your bond with them.

none of your past boyfriends wanted to be tied down to that type of commitment so you tucked it away putting it up high on the shelf.

watching your nieces and nephews play with toys in the living room distracted you enough not to hear the front door open and the footsteps that stopped at the entryway.

"love?"

four heads snapped up at their uncle kyle's voice and shot up from the carpet to run over to him screaming his name, seems like he's everyone's favorite and you didn't blame them.

hes your favorite too.

"they've been running me ragged baby, sorry i didn't get a chance to text."

kyle waved your apology off with a warm smile that made your stomach clench and toes curl.

you couldn't help but watch him with four little ones hanging off of him pretending to be an airplane complete with the noises as well.

he kept them off your back as you made dinner making sure to run around the backyard as you kept an eye on them through the window.

a flutter rippled through your womb when he scooped up the youngest bringing her inside to tend to her scraped knee.

"i'm a magician, in three seconds your knee will feel better." kyle assured her with a soft voice as he crouched in front of her and blew on the scrape causing her to gasp then smile wide.

she wrapped little arms around his neck hugging him tightly thanking him.

later that evening after your brother picked them up begging for you to watch them again tomorrow you and kyle settled on the couch.

"we should have a babe, you'd make a wonderful mum, the best." without knowing your deepest secret he breathed life into it.

and an hour later he was pumping load after load in you.

comments and relogs with tags are really appreciated <3

sending johnny voice messages while you're lying down in bed after a shitty day because he's deployed and you miss your man, except he's seeing them but not replying, which only worsens your mood.

meanwhile, he's jerking off to the soft, breathy murmurs playing from his phone. he's been so pent-up the past few days, and being away from his girls (you and your pussy) has only heightened the frustration, so he can't help it when the first thing he sees when he opens up your chat are the lengthy voice messages.

when he finally sends something back, it's a photo of him holding his shirt up between his teeth and a hand wrapped around his leaking cock, cum covering his belly, thighs, and even all the way up his chest. just the sluttiest photo you've ever seen.

sorry bonnie, couldn't help it ;) pops up under the photo, and you're just staring at your phone with an unimpressed look as more messages pour in of him asking if you could keep purring in his ear like that; maybe throw in a few instructions for him next time he wants to have a wank (which is probably soon, so get to it, love).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

huh.

clearly the story goes deeper than tommy thought.

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

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

Underground Fighter!König X Rich!Reader IV

A/N: aw shit here we go again. This chapter is much longer than usual and has a slightly different format, but I think it turned out great! I'm also posting this fic on AO3 if you prefer it.

Psst, their relationship is progressing 👀

Part I - Part II - Part III

From the earliest he could remember, König was drawn to solitude. He wasn't sure if it was a byproduct of the alienation he’d faced since childhood, the solitude was always preferable to beatings after all. But regardless if it was learned behavior or simply part of his genetic making, he just knew he liked being alone.

He never missed people, a part of him was even glad for his imprisonment, since it meant every interaction he has had a clear and defined purpose. No nonsense and no need for pleasantries. The people around him were either fighting him, taking care of his basic needs, or paying him. Which brings him to his current, urgent dilemma.

You.

He missed you.

In every fight he has had for the past three months, he would scan over the entire crowd, searching for a glimpse of red and finding none that held your warmth. There was no trace of you anywhere, and the only answer he got from people he had threatened asked was that you were “Busy running a business”

With more patience than he knew he possessed, he waited. He sat in his cell, anticipating the sound of your heels clacking against tiles in the hallways. Sadly all he heard was the buzzing of the lights and agitating sound of the guards' boots stomping about. Nothing, not a glimpse of you to be seen for three months. As the fourth month crawled along. He could feel his mind working against him.

What did you get up to when you weren't with him?

He could feel his hands clench around nothing, knuckles white with irrational anger.

König is not a stupid man, he knows he has no right to you from the start. You were his employer, he was an investment, a cog in a multimillion dollar industry. Your father drew the lines clearly and was happy to provide, especially since he made a pretty penny and lived in relative comfort. He had such few concerns since then, as he could provide for his mother consistently, he was...Not happy, but content, which was a rarity in his turbulent life.

And then his boss passed away, and you walked into his life, with your well practiced smile and gentle voice. Speaking to him as if he was a new hire and pissing him off.

He could deal with your naivety for a while until you learned how this world works, he can't deny how endearing he found your terrified eyes and warbling lip, it helped ease the guilt he felt needling at his consciousness.

He knew he was yours when you proved to have a backbone, you occupied his every thought since. He marked you as his as soon as the opportunity presented itself, it wasn’t enough, he wanted more. He wanted to spend his every waking moment pushing every button you had, making your brows furrow and see your pathetic attempt at a glare melt away into a scared, fawning look as he put you in your place. 

He both cursed and thanked the bars between the two of you. He knew he would chain you to the bed if he had the chance, giving you a necklace of bite marks and keeping you dumb and docile.

Such a spoiled little thing... Have you ever had to beg for anything? He could feel his dick strain against his pants at the thought.

He’d have to properly train you if he had you. 

Forcing you to sleep on the cold floor until you got on your unscuffed knees, pressing your tear stained cheek to his thigh as you plead for him to allow you to sleep with him and borrow some of his warmth. How cold and uncomfortable the ground is for someone like you. 

He snakes a hand into his boxers and tugs at his hardening cock as he thinks about how graciously he would warm you up. He would run his hands through your hair before gripping it and dragging you to the bed as you mewl and whimper little thank yous to him. Maybe you would be a polite little thing and call him sir too.

He would reward you, of course, you have been so good and pliant for him. Wrapping his arms around you, warming you up by pressing you against his body and groping your ass.

He bites back a groan at the memory of how addictively soft you felt in his hands. His hand strokes faster, a frenzy of images flash through his mind as he dives head first into this fantasy.

Images of him grabbing your head with both of his hands as he fucked your throat, your eyes filled with tears as wet, slick sounds reverberate through the room. Your undoubtedly expensive mascara running down your cheek while he fucks your face. 

Images of him taking you from behind, your loud moans only spurring him on and making him thrust faster. He reaches under his pillow for the silken panties you had left behind. Your scent long since faded, but the softness of the fabric reminded him of how pretty and soft your skin felt in his rough, calloused hands.

He wraps it around his aching dick, the feel of delicate fabric on his skin almost sending him over the edge. He imagines it's you, straddling his lap and bouncing on his cock.

The image of your pretty eyes rolling to the back of your head as you feel your orgasm approaching, his name falling from your lips as you tell him that you want him, you need him, you lov-

His abdomen muscles tighten as he cums, coating his stomach and hands.

König leans his head back and breathes heavily, slowly coming down from his high. A cooling sheet of sweat covers his body, it makes him feel oddly filthy.

He really thought he outgrew the shame that comes after such activities, but it seems that the guilt was only laying dormant until now. He is not a stupid man, he never was. He knows this shame like an old blanket, the way it settles over him and suffocates him, muffling any cry threatening to escape. 

It's intimate, it is a shame that came from feeling stupid, naive, too trusting. He truly thought he understood how to curb this feeling, the rose colored glasses crushed under a jackboot since he was 17. 

With a sigh, he wipes away his cum and steps into the shower, hoping to wash away both the sweat and uncomfortable thoughts. But the sound of the water only spurs him on. The tightness in his chest is more uncomfortable than any bruising he had earned in the ring. You became more important to him than he should have allowed, he should have kept you at arms length or at least just enjoyed your touch without getting attached.

Maybe this was a mercy on your part, forcing him to confront the massive chasm that separates the two of you. Maybe that's why you stayed away from him, not wanting to feed him any more delusions. 

Thinking back, have you ever…? You never promised anything, the only thing that solidified any kind of relationship between you two is his skills in the ring. He thinks back to your meeting when he injured his leg, your words morphing from a declaration of affection to empty words meant to subdue him until he could get better. He reaches down and rubs his now heeled knee. ‘an investment’ he thinks. He leans his head against the cool wall, letting the water wash over him as he continues to wallow. 

He steps out of the shower and slowly dries himself, not bothering to put on any clothes as he plops onto the bed, The musk and sweat coming off the mattress is a reminder of how long he spent in this facility.

As sleep tugs on his eyelids, lets his mind wander and imagines what a life with you would be like, allowing himself a moment of respite this evening. Waking up in a bedroom decorated with whatever style your graceful tastes would prefer, having a warm body lay next to him and urging him to wake up so the two of you could eat breakfast.

The thought makes him smile, you seem like the type to get fussy about waking up early, maybe you would drag him to a morning jog. He wouldn't mind, he would probably drag you to a woody area nearby and eat you out against a tree. He indulges himself in a multitude of domestic fantasies as he wraps himself in the thick blanket you had provided for him, promising himself that tomorrow, he would move on.

His eyes flutter open when the door hinges screech, a cursory look at the window high above on the wall tells him its dark outside. He groans and rolls to his stomach, assuming it is a doctor or guard coming to check up on him.

The cell door is open and an angelic voice calls out to him;

"König...?”

You step into the dark cell, eyes still not adjusting to the dark. Buzzing with energy, you can’t believe how much you missed him while you were away. You only stayed in your house to shower and freshen up after a flight, putting on a light weight, earthy red colored dress as you rushed to see him.

You see him stir, awake and likely recognizing your voice, the thought of him just as excited to see you as you were him makes your heart swell.

“Are you awake?” you say, smile evident from your tone. 

“I am now,” he grumbles, his voice still hoarse. 

“I’m sorry, I just came back and couldn’t wait” You giggle and place a hand on his back, he is a furnace and it only reminds you of how cold you were, the flimsy dress offering no warmth. 

‘Fuck it’ you think, getting on the bed and laying on top of him. Resting your head on his back. You almost melt into him, the warmth seeping into your bones. You don’t miss the way his breath hitches when you lay on him, still making no attempt to push you away

“I missed you” you sigh into his shoulder blade, the exhaustion from the long flight and constant work making you less reserved with your feelings, you can’t remember a time when you were this docile and cuddly with any of your previous boyfriends. You were always cautious with other men, a wall built solid around your heart. You knew what most of these men wanted was money, it was always a fact that lingered whenever you lay next to them. Despite the fact that he was nowhere near as rich as any of your ex boyfriends, there was something about him that felt…transparent? There is a strange, almost caveman quality to him, what he wants, he gets. He has been misogynistic, violent, perverted, and he has never once been deceitful. It’s refreshing, having grown up knowing only prim and proper men doing a hell of a job of covering up those exact same qualities. You appreciate him so much more now, having dealt with these people exclusively for months. 

“Where were you?” he blurts, he sounds hurt. 

You lift your head from his back, reaching out and scratching gently at his scalp, the prickle of his buzz cut hair pleasantly rubbing against your finger pads. He hums, his body relaxing more with each gentle swipe of your thumb.

“I had some business to attend to, since my father passed away there were a lot of deals left hanging, so I had to tie some loose ends with business partners” you whisper softly, leaving out the grueling schedule of meeting after meeting after flight after fake smiles after email. 

“Just business partners, ja?”

You blink. 

Oh?

You lean in and press a kiss to the base of his neck, you know he could feel you smile against his skin. He is unbearably cute when he’s pouting.

“Just business partners,” you whisper, he hums unenthusiastically. You move and lay next to him, he turns his head away from you and reaches for the nightstand, grabbing his mask. It is too dark to make out what his face looks like, you only got a glimpse of prominent cheekbones before he turned. 

You prop yourself up on your elbow as he turns to face you, features now concealed behind the mask.

Unexpectedly, he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close, only then do you realize he’s naked, his erection pressed flush against your thigh, of course he’s hard. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his masked cheek. 

“Are you jealous?” you tease. Not bothering to hide your glee. He only huffs in response, it’s not needed when it's this obvious. You push him on his back and lay next to him, using your arm to press his head to your chest.

“You don’t have to be” you purr, snaking a hand under his mask and rubbing his stubbled cheek, making him sigh and nuzzle more into your breasts as you pepper his temple with kisses. 

You trace a nail down his neck as he shivers, his breath is choppy and he closes his eyes tight. You glance down, his dick is twitching against his abdomen, pearly droplets of precum coating the trail of hair running down his abs. You reach down, having to maneuver your body lower so you could comfortably wrap your hand around his cock.

Your head now rests on his chest, rising with each deep breath he takes. You start to pump him slowly, relishing the way his cock throbs in your palm. You lift your hand from his crotch and spit on it, earning you a sinful whine and a muttered ‘fuck’ as he grips the sheets tight. 

You stroke him faster, the filthy sounds coming from both your actions and his mouth sending a bolt of heat down your core.

You lean in and bite his pec, just around his areola. He sucks in a breath through his teeth as his hips stutter upwards, you can almost hear the cogs turning in his head as to why he enjoyed that. 

You flatten your tongue over his nipple before wrapping your lips around it and sucking on them while rubbing the tip of his shaft at the same time, making him moan loudly. He turns his head away from you, you can feel the heat of his flush flowing down his chest. 

“Look at me” you say breathlessly, the hand on his dick slows, stroking lazily. Soft, blown out pupils make contact with yours, his head still turned away. 

“You want to cum, don’t you?” Your voice sounds sinful even to your own ears. You feel his cock twitch, begging for release. He nods slowly, you can barely make out tears wetting his lower lashline. 

Your hand stills just under the crown of his cock. 

“Do it then” You grin, “Fuck my hand, make yourself cum” 

His eyes widen, darting around your features before he starts to thrust into your hand, making you grin wider. 

“That’s it, keep going, you're so good for me aren’t you? You wanna be a good boy for me don’t you?”

He doesn’t respond. Just groans and continues to thrust upwards. You lift three of your fingers, your thumb and index barely touching him. He whines, his voice high pitched as German curses spill from his mask-covered mouth. 

“Don’t you?” you repeat with more authority now, he nods vigorously, too horny to be concerned with something as trivial as shame. 

“Ye-yes! fuck, bitte liebling, I want to cum, please let me cum” He whimpers, his voice breaking as he moans. He rolls his hips, trying to get any friction he can. 

You oblige, wrapping your hands around his shaft tightly and pumping him as he sings your praises in a mix of english and german, he thanks you repeatedly before his muscles pull taut, rope after rope of white cum coats his stomach and your hand. Neither of you moves, only your heavy breathing filling the room. König is the first to break the silence. 

“I…Missed you too” 

You smile and nestle into his chest, his arm wraps around you, gently petting your hips. 

“I like your dress” he mumbles into your hair. You roll your eyes and kiss whichever part of him you could reach, such a silly man you've gotten yourself tangled with. You hardly settle into the bed before you hear a soft snoring. You have to bite your lips to suppress a giggle. 

Slowly, you try to lift yourself up to leave the bed without disrupting the sleeping giant. 

The muscular arm around you tightens and you are secured against Königs side. His mass then rolls and lays on top of you. You groan as you feel his semen smearing over the dress he supposedly liked. 

The weight of him pins you to the mattress, making you unable to move with the exception of your hand which was tapping at his side repeatedly, you curse the fact that he isn’t ticklish. 

“König”

“Mmm?”

“Get off”

He gives you a kiss on your cheek. 

“Nein” 

I hope you guys like this chapter! I had a lot of fun writing it ^^

Reblogs and comments much appreciated, please let me know what you think <3

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riding nerdy loser simon while he talks about star wars and how anakin does bring balance to the force, but his face is all red and his words get cut off by his moans, his hands gripping onto your sides ad you bounce on him, telling him to keep talking.

(no, im not projecting, what makes you think that?)

Soap who thought that when you called him "Dove", you were just being sweet and affectionate. No ulterior meaning

Soap who only realized that wasn't the case when you called him "Irish Spring" while upset at him one day

The realization finally Dawned on him

My tattoo artist told me his teenage son came out to him as trans by giving him a bunch of blue cupcakes and a greeting card that said "it's a boy!"

"That's cute," I said.

"It was NOT cute!" he snapped. "I thought he was pregnant."

Decided to redraw the last page of my sketchbook 19 for the last page of sketchbook 22. So here have my ghost with turned wherewolf soap.

The original ↓

i do usually stick with the idea that simon’s got some insane stamina and can go for multiple rounds but something about simon being spent after one round is just so hilarious to me.

in his defense, your tight cunt’s, well, too greedy — sucking his poor cock into her until he’s all drained out and just laying limp on the bed, trying to catch his breath, fearing for his life too maybe.

“you’re tired?” you asked, the genuine innocence in your voice making him grumble, his hand gesturing you on top of him. not your fault, anyone would assume this big guy’s got more in his store.

“not really been doin’ all this before meetin’ you, love. don’t have the time in my job.” he panted softly, calloused hands gripping your hips as you settled on top of him.

“but you have time for me?” you smiled. his heart skipped a beat, and in that moment, he had decided that if he’d die like this, this was the best way.

“fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

18+!

you love kissing kyle’s face all over, particularly special when he has you on his lap — just having came back from deployment — within the bathtub, the waves of the water slowly dancing around while you lazily ride his cock, hands cupping his face lovingly, watching the way his eyes flutter shut.

he’s so exhausted, it’s clear as day on his face — from the way his brows had that subtle furrow onto them to the way his arms were tightly wrapped around your waist, squeezing as if you’d disappear any second.

some of the foam from the soap was still present on his shoulders and your arms, your lips gently pressing against the beauty marks that adorned his face. it was like a worship of some sort, your lips soon reaching the faded cut on the side of his face. it had gotten old, though the slightly scarred skin was present. you decided to kiss it over and over, not wanting to let go until he’d get tired of you.

heck, you’d even kiss each and every freckle of his if it was possible in the moment. maybe some other day, when your attention would be compliant enough, you’d count all of his freckles and caress each of them, pour all your love onto them.

“you feel so good… don’t feel as if i deserve you.” his voice was weak, a rarity that only you had the privilege of hearing amongst the other three of his team that he was close to. you’d ask the details of the mission he had just came back from later, this was more important right now, getting him to relax.

“you do. you deserve everything.” your hips didn’t cease their movements, taking your time to ride his cock while it was nestled cozily within your warmth, your hands not letting go of his face, relishing in the way he groaned once your walls squeezed around him.

“do y’know how much i love you, dove?”

“how much?” you smiled at the way his eyes drifted down to your mouth as his face leaned closer, capturing your lips with his.

“more than anythin’ in this fuckin’ world.” his voice was muffled against your lips, hands slowly traveling down to grab your hips, cock gently thrusting up into you. the warm water provided comfort to both of you, a pleasant aroma roaming in the air. putting the scented candles beside the bathtub was definitely a good idea.

I realized I REALLY love the bug guy x smol guy trope, which is probably why I'm so into Sal/Gabe. Also Sal is just.. simply hot.

It's also probably why I love Bowuigi so much. Big x smol. Man your Bowser art from, idk when you posted it, was soooo good.

I'm like, a monsterfucker, but I wouldn't actually fuck a monster. I'm the asexual equivalent of a monsterfucker. I'm a monsterdater. I would date the shit outta Bowser

Soap comes back to base after having teeth pulled and is not expecting Ghost to pounce the second he gets through the gate.

Ghost: "So where are they? I wanna see."

Soap: "What?"

Ghost: "The teeth. Gimme"

Soap: "I didn't... keep them?"

Ghost, upset: "They didn't let you?"

Soap, growing more confused by the second: "I didn't ask?"

Ghost: "You didn't- Johnny what the fuck?" 😟

Soap: "I was in a lot of pain, Lt., and still am, mind you-"

Ghost: "But... I woulda took 'em if you didn't want them."

Soap: "Ghost, my teeth were far from perfect, there's a reason they had to come out, not exactly great specime-"

Ghost: "THAT'S WHAT MAKES THEM SPECIAL!"

Soap: 😶

Ghost: "ONE OF A KIND!"

Gaz, who walked up in the middle of the conversation: "Think I've still got my baby teeth somewhere, you want 'em?"

Ghost, still distraught: "At least GAZ loves me."

Soap: "... my mouth hurts..."

"Can i have your sweater LT?"

_________

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