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shotmrmiller · 3 days

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Simon doesn't care how he comes. He doesn't care if it's your smaller hand wrapped around his fattened cock, tugging it with a gentle twist, smearing the bead of arousal that's welled up from his slit with your thumb. Doesn't care that he usually fucks his fist roughly after a hard day's work with blood still crusted on his fingernails, hard enough to ache. The way you sit beside him, the soft swell of your breasts pressed against the corded muscle of his arm, murmuring words of praise that have his cheeks alight with a rosy glow—

He doesn't care if you use your mouth (you asked, ofc) your mouth is warm around him, the gummy inside of your cheeks slippery— the constricting back of your throat even more so. He sits still, like a good boy, not bucking his hips up, not pushing your head down to take as much of him as you can.

Doesn't care if you make him fuck your thighs— intercrural, you'd called it. How could he when your soft thighs are so smooth and pliable, enveloping his leaky cock with their warmth? Certainly doesn't mind when he glides his head along your slick folds, occasionally catching your swollen clit, hearing your little sharp intakes of breath.

Simon doesn't care where he comes, either. If it's a hand job, he spurts hot, viscous pleasure onto his pudgy stomach, coating the dark trail of hair below his navel and making a mess of your hand. (If you lick his come off your fingers, he's asking you to grow old with him asap)

If it's a blow job, he'll give you a heads-up with a rumbled, "'m, close, so close—" and that's your cue to either pull away, let him paint your cheeks with his spend, or swallow every single drop. (Or let it drip onto his jeans, none of it matters just don't stop)

He'll slicken your inner thighs with his sticky cum, scoop up some of it with his callused fingers, and slather it over your puffy pussy, using it as lube to rub you to completion.

So, when you casually ask him how he feels about a breeding kink as if you were commenting on the weather, his heart threatens to burst out of his chest. Are you asking him for a kid?

But you don't notice how his pupils dilate a fraction or how the skin around his eyes tightens, the corners forming small creases as you continue. "Because I'd been thinking," a small pause, "to spice things up a little—" before he even gets a word in, you raise your hands up in a calming gesture. "Not like there's anything wrong with what we're doing now."

There's a subtle shake to your hands and the grooves of your palms catch the light. Sweaty. You're nervous. This isn't just about him filling you with his cum. He's already done that before— pressed his tip right into your swollen entrance mere moments before finishing. he lets you gather your thoughts, unsnag the words caught in your throat.

And when you finally steel your nerves and say what you want to say (garble, more like) the shrill ringing in his ears is deafening. "You wan' me to wear a rubber 'nd let you take it off." Had he misheard?

The way your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, gaze lowered to the ground, your fingers twisting and turning, uncertain. So he hadn't. Well. How could he say no? Granted, he doesn't understand it, but for his girl? Anything.

He comes to understand it the very first time it happens.

Rolling on the rubber hadn't been different. nor the way he gently stretched you with one finger, two. The spit he'd used as lube to cause you as little discomfort as possible mingling with your own slick, dripping down his rugged knuckles. He takes his time as always, slipping between your spread thighs, watching your face twist, kiss-swollen lips part as he sinks into your heat. He goes slow, hearing you hiss between your teeth, your blunt nails sinking into his chest. He'll have red, angry welts later alongside his dog tags. Claimed by both duty and his little love. "Marked like property," he'd joked once.

You hadn't found it so funny. (Johnny got it though.)

Even with the very small difference in sensation, you're still the best thing he's ever felt. You take him like you're meant for him and maybe you are, but he smothers that train of thought quickly with a heavy hand lest he finish when the fun's just begun.

He feels you shift, even with his body weight that presses down on you with the gravity of a boulder, and he sinks to the root— like a pebble falling into still waters. Your nails tear skin, draw blood. The biting sting of it sends a shiver that sweeps over his goosepimpled skin, arousal tangling in his spine. He bucks his hips in reflex, hard enough to jolt you upward. The discomfort on your face quickly melts away, the sweetened burn of his thick cock prying your tender walls apart finally bleeding into white-hot pleasure.

Simon thrusts again, this time deliberately. Again. And again. He keeps them shallow, dragging the ribbed edges of the condom along your sensitive nerves, gently trying to coax a lazy orgasm out of you— the ones that always leave you syrupy and warm.

He focuses on you. Swirls your peaked nipples with his thumb, nestles his face in the crook of your neck, warm breath fanning over your heated skin. Simon licks a hot stripe over your fluttering pulse, presses a chaste kiss on it, nips your sensitive skin with a little too much pressure when you squeeze down around him—

Cheeky minx.

He snaps his hips, hard enough to rattle your spine, hard enough to hear the way the oxygen is ripped from your lungs. Simon keeps at it, resolute in getting you to the edge, dragging you with him, taking you over.

And then he hears you slur out a couple of words through your gasps. "C'ndom," you mewl, "the condom, off."

Right. He peels himself off of you. He'd almost forgotten —

You're impatient, pushing him away with your bare feet on his chest until he pulls out with a pop, trembling fingers reaching his twitching cock. The rubber comes off after a moment and while he's distracted by the creamy slick coating it, you're already putting him back in you, and your cunt feels sublime.

Divinity. He feels intoxicated.

The pleasure he felt before feels muted now, in comparison. Dull, almost. You feel hot, almost burning— swallowing him up, wet, so wet. The way your walls flutter around him jumbles his thoughts, tangles his tongue. He grinds down onto you with grit teeth, nostrils flared as he tries to keep the searing coil in his gut from unspooling, but he fears it's a losing battle. Beads of sweat roll down the side of his face as he fucks into your tight cunt with a hunger that borders on desperation.

He can see, and hear, that it's different for you too. Your keens and mewls are loud, nails scoring trails of red down his back. Simon leans back a bit, enough to let you watch his cock split you open, strings of sticky arousal connecting between you two. When he changes angle, aiming for your (and his) favorite spot with precision, the squeal you let out stiffens his spine.

Simon needs to hear it again. He grabs you by the cheeks, forcing you to look at him with those pretty, glassy eyes that glimmer with tears. Saliva pools in his mouth at the thought of tasting salt. "Like tha'?" The delicate strands of your eyelashes are clumped together with overwhelming sensation.

When you don't answer, he gives your hood a gentle tap, striking right above your clit. "I asked you a question." He grunts when your pussy almost strangles his cock at his gravelly tone. Simon will remember that for later.

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, god, just like that." As a reward, he uses his thumb to draw tight little circles over your pearl, fucking you with his full weight behind every thrust. The blissful expression on your features, spit glistening in the corner of your lips, your hand flat, fingers spread wide over your lower belly as if to feel him from the outside— it's enough to almost toss him over that crumbling edge.

But he takes more. Selfish, greedy. Takes what's his with fervor; wholly, unapologetically. "This," he pushes until he can go no more, his tip meeting a firm resistance, "is better than everythin' I've ever had." Maybe it's a stupid thing to say, right here when he's rearranging your guts around to make room for his fat cock, but he's drunk off of you.

There's no thinking clearly with the slick noises echoing in the stuffy room. There's no seeing clearly when his world has narrowed to a single point of contact.

You're squeezing around him like a vise, tight enough that his nerve endings prick with pain. But he keeps going. He takes, he gives, he yearns to watch you unfurl at the edges forever, on his fingertips, on his tongue, his cock but you—

You are both his ecstasy and ruin. He can see it in the way the corners of your pretty mouth curl upward, teasing, eyes glinting with mischief, with the same kind of trouble that ensnared him into your orbit that one lousy night.

"Come in me."

Bloody fucking trouble.

(He wants all of it. The you who'll complain about the hard surface of the kitchen table he'll bend you over. The purple marks he'll pepper on your neck, your collarbone. The you that fights tooth and nail over him eating beans on toast.)

He watches you with half-lidded eyes as his fingers and his cock toss you overboard into the tumultuous sea of euphoria and then— when you're a drooling, limp mess— only then, does he finally surrender, balls drawn up painfully tight,

and fills you to the brim, until there's no more room left in your swollen, greedy pussy. Until it spills from your hole in thick rivulets, until there's no more of him left to give.

(He doesn't do rings. It'll get the both of you killed should he ever get caught. Maybe a tattoo for him and a band for you? Gotta text Price in the morning.) <- oh what barebacking does to a simple man such as he.

this was supposed to have been a 600 word drabble hello. he's clingy and squishy and so sickeningly in his emotions.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f reader #simon ghost riley smut #cod smut #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley smut #simon riley x you

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bluegiragi · 2 days

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hoard. (full comic on patreon)

#yknow what youre seeing #priceghost shippers rise up #simon ghost riley #captain john price #monster 141 au #cod mw2 #priceghost #giragi art #price x ghost

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simonzmama · 1 day

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simon stalked you out. preying on you like fuckin hunter. n he was patient, patient till he could finally have you.

his jaw hooks open, bottom row of pearls dragging up your bared neck, eyes rolling back as he buries himself deep within you.

“need you so bad,” he breathes, nails digging into the wood of your headboard till its bout splintering. he can’t control himself, fucking into you desperately, angrily for making him wait so fuckin long.

“you have me, simon,” you breathe in your sweet lil whispery voice, nails raking down his back till he’s arching into you, gasping out n crying.

“you have me, baby.” you murmur into his ear, watching his body shiver, watching as he begins to fall apart on top of you, within you.

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tobascoart · 3 days

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“Don’t gi’me that look”

It started with this tweet XD:

https://x.com/soapuppies/status/1795182967498723802?s=46&t=ulZ-Zqeg5QL1-mmPvsK4bg

#cod soap #cod ghost #cod mwf2 #soap cod #cod modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #john soap mactavish #call of duty #cod john mactavish #ghoap #ghost x soap #soapghost #soap call of duty #soap mw2 #ghost mw2 #ghostsoap #simon ghost riley #ghost cod

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ceilidho · 2 days

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 14)

first chapter >> last chapter

It’s you for once crawling over him in the dead of night and stroking your hand down the side of his face.

Any other night, you would be able to brush off the urge to curl yourself around him and press your lips into the bristly corner of his jaw, but after a long day of waiting and worrying, and a week’s worth of pent up stress and guilt, you have no choice but to succumb to your urges. It’s burrowed so deep inside of you that it’s almost a base need now. You need to be as close to him as possible.

John coaxes you to bed once you finish bandaging his hands. It’s not meant presumptively; you can tell from the deep bags under his eyes that he needs sleep more than anything.

For a spell, you sleep with the comfort of your husband by your side. After a week of keeping to your side of the bed, body stiff to keep from turning over in your sleep and curling up into his—committed, in your ire, to punishing both him and yourself—you relish the opportunity to snuggle up under his arm.

The ache between your legs only becomes unmanageable somewhere around the middle of the night. You wake in a daze, sweating profusely, cheek pressed to a hard chest that rises and falls with his breaths. It takes a moment for the fog to clear, but once it does you realize that you’ve rolled on top of him, legs spread on either side of a thick thigh and your sex pressed tight to the muscle, your hips undulating.

Your lips part enough for your tongue to slip out and wet them. Another wave of need washes over you, making your breath come out ragged. Your vision is still spotty, sleep half-crusted into the folds of you, and with the room still ensconced in darkness, no amount of blinking ever clears it out.

The air around you feels hot and humid; your skin sticks to his when you lift your head up, your face damp with sweat. John’s hand is loose at your bottom, curved under a cheek to hold you to him. The other is nestled against the small of your back. Your shift is drawn up around your waist, likely riding up when you crawled over your husband in the middle of the night, but it means that only the thin fabric of your underwear is pressed against John’s thigh. Every roll of your hips rubs your clit in just the right way.

You pant against his chest when you roll your hips again. You’d be humiliated if he woke up to see you humping his leg like a puppy, but you can hardly control yourself. In the month since marrying him, you’ve grown accustomed to a certain amount of relief at your husband’s hands, and to suddenly lose that in one fell swoop has left you, for lack of a better word, frustrated.

“Hmm…darlin’…” John suddenly groans, hand gripping into the flesh of your backside and grinding your sex down against his leg.

You still at the sound of his voice, biting back your moan when he shifts his thigh and presses it up into you. He wakes gradually, blinking down at you when you peer up at him. The blood rushes under your cheeks, growing hot when he blinks at you again slowly, realization unfurling behind his eyes like a lotus flower blooming under moonlight.

“I’m sorry, I’m just…” you whisper, choking back a moan again when his hand slides down your bottom and in between your legs, fingers rubbing against the wet seam of your cunt.

John chuckles, the sound raspy with sleep. “Christ, honey, you’re wet…should’ve told me you needed a good fucking.”

“You n-needed to sleep,” you say, gasping into his chest when John strokes his fingers up and down between your thighs. The sensation is mildly dulled by the fabric covering your center, but his prodding fingers make you jolt anyway.

“Darlin’, If I’d known, I never would’ve let you go to bed wanting.”

He maneuvers you onto your side for long enough to let him draw your underwear down your legs before rolling over onto his back again and balancing you over his lap. With your knees on either side of his hips, your cunt is spread wide open for his gaze, the soft, dewy folds parting to expose your slick center.

Words are silken in your head and they slide from side to side as you watch John lift his hips and reach down to pull himself out. He moves with a practiced ease, but the flush high on his cheeks betrays his eagerness. You run your hands through the pelt on his chest as you stare at the glistening tip of his member poking out the top of his grip.

“We’ve never done this,” you remark, almost a casual observation. Despite your heart beating rabbit-quick, the words aren’t caught behind your tongue. Instead, John's presence acts like a balm, nervousness bleeding away to anticipation.

“First time for everything, isn’t there?”

“I suppose,” you murmur, eyes locked on the turgid length that he notches against your entrance, impaling you on it so slowly that it almost doesn’t register at first.

You feel the stretch when he bottoms out though. The last inch comes all at once, winding you. It is a frightening, soaring sensation; a blunt intrusion that takes you to another place. No pleasantries this time because you’re an old hat at this now, you suspect, but still you gasp when his girth stretches you beyond what you recalled.

“Fuck…there it is,” John grunts, transferring his hands to your waist. “Christ, tightened right up since we last made love, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

His words, while crass, hold true. You can feel every throbbing inch of him.

“It’s not like—” you pant, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment, sweat beading around your hairline. “I wasn’t about to, ah… fool around with anybody else.”

“‘Course you wouldn’t, darlin’,” he croons, stroking his hand up your side. “We just had a little spat, is all. I know you’re my good girl.”

His words make you clench up tight, drawing a rumbling groan out of him.

“N-no, I’m not a good…—I’m just…it just wouldn’t be right. We’re married. I’d—I’d never…” The words come out shaky, punched out because he takes that moment to help guide you up, nearly pulling out of you completely before bringing you back down.

“Knew you were my good girl soon as I saw you,” John muses, his voice low and husky, hands gripped tight at your waist. “Couldn’t wait to make you mine. Wasn’t even supposed to marry you right away—thought we’d get to know each other a bit, but then—”

“You—oh, unf—you dragged me to the courthouse.”

He smiles roguishly. “I couldn’t let you go after I saw you. Had to make you mine, darlin’.”

You ride him carefully at first, unsure of yourself.

It’s strenuous work taking his cock this way, doing all the heavy lifting yourself. You almost think you’d fight him if you weren’t lost in pleasure, eyes defocusing as you stare down at him. Each time you impale yourself on his length, your breath hitches out of you. A sharp oh, oh, oh; chasing something elusive that wants you after it.

When your thighs feel strained to the point of burning, you beg him to hurry up. Enough, you blubber, the word almost subsumed into a guttural moan. That makes him grit his teeth, a dark look coming over his face. You hiccup when he plants his feet against the bed and his hips buck up into you, the squelch of your own cunt making your fingers dig into his chest hair.

All you can do is take it, your hands planted on his chest and jaw dropping open on a moan that you can’t hold back.

Tears clumping your eyelashes together, a single drop landing in the middle of John’s chest when he forces you all the way down on his cock and holds you there, jiggling the pearl at the apex of your sex with his thumb until you almost struggle to pull away. He always has to fight you through an orgasm, the stubborn thing trapped behind your teeth, begging him to use you how he wants.

When it hits you though, it’s sharp and hot. It makes you reel backwards, your control slipping out of your grasp so suddenly that the sharp buck of his hips nearly knocks you clean off. He holds you down tight though, keeping you impaled on his shaft.

“There we go,” John rasps. “That wasn’t so hard, huh?”

After making you come, he rolls you over until your back is pressed against the bed and he hovers over you, nestled between your thighs. He drops down until his face is buried in your neck, a big arm wedging under your back and hooking over your shoulder, the other sliding under your low back and clutching your waist. When he thrusts into you, you realize with a start that he has you locked to his chest. You aren’t going anywhere.

“Christ, keep squirming like that,” John growls into your neck, sucking at the sweaty patch of skin between your neck and shoulder.

Each thrust knocks the air out of you. Where your skin isn’t slick with sweat, you itch. Overwhelmed by touch and taste. Teeth clacking when his hips speed up, driven into a frenzy by his own urge to come. And again, there’s nowhere for you to run, not with his arms wound tight around you, all of his strength concentrated on holding you to his chest. You don’t think anyone could pry him off you.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna—” you gasp, feeling it brewing under your skin again. The feeling makes you panicky this time though. He’s made you come plenty of times, but never in such quick succession.

The pitch of your moans goes breathy and high, rising to nearly a caterwaul.

He licks into the shell of your ear. “Got a little tighter there, sweetheart. Gonna give me another?”

You can’t answer him. Only intelligible babbling, a high, reedy plea whistled through your teeth. Your hands rake down his back, scoring red lines into the skin, and clutching helplessly, trying to both pull him closer and push him away. It’s almost too much, too soon.

“Almost there, almost there,” he pants, the sweat on his brow dripping down onto your face. It nearly drips into your eye. You wish he’d pull back and kiss you, sooth the panicked staccato of your heart, but he’s lost in his own need, bucking into you like a beast. “C’mon, give me it, sweetheart. Be a good girl.”

You’re on the precipice of it, hanging on with clawed hands dug into the muscle of his back. In danger of tipping over, a gale at your back. The intensity frightens you though. You cling to him like digging your hands into the earth to root you in place.

John’s arms tighten around you as he nears his end. You feel compressed, choked, only a warm slippery thing for him to plant his seed in.

His breath is hot in your ear when he rasps, “Where the fuck are your manners, darlin’? I said, give me it.”

Then he arches into it, spine going stiff when he empties himself into your cunt. His arms squeeze all the air out of your lungs. You must come more than once, a record, because by the time he pulls out of you, you practically sink into the bed, sapped of energy. Not enough strength to even twitch a finger.

John collapses onto the bed beside you, tugging you into his chest. It feels so intimate, lying on your side with a leg draped over John’s hip. You shiver when the sweat begins to cool.

He drags a finger through your puffy, raw sex from the back, scooping up his essence with two fingers. You go cross-eyed when he pushes it back into you, hissing and pushing against his shoulders, trying to dislodge him from between your legs. John doesn’t budge; his eyes barely even flick down to meet yours as he pushes more of his spend back into your hole.

Your chest goes tight at that.

After, he sits you upright with your back to his chest and holds a glass of water up to your lips, making you drink until it dribbles down your chest. A big hand rests on your belly.

“Why do you like touching there?” you ask, taking another sip.

“This is where my babe will sit,” he says, and you choke on your water, coughing until your lungs are clear and your eyes water. “Soon, with any luck.”

“You sure know what you want,” you wheeze, eyes still watering from your coughing fit.

He presses a kiss into your hair. “That I do.”

Two days later, John wakes you up with the news that an incident on a farm a few towns over will take him from you for the next few days.

You frown into your oatmeal. “Why so long?”

He sits at the table across from you with his chair pushed out, scraping off the mud caked on his boots with a dry brush. He sucks his cheek when you ask that question.

“Bit unpleasant to bother you with the specifics, darlin’, but, uh…suffice it to say that it’s not something we can wrap up in just one day.”

“Did someone die?” you ask bluntly.

John looks over at you from the corner of his eye, unimpressed. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Was it violent?”

“Jesus Christ, woman, you don’t need to go poking your nose into all of that.”

You roll your eyes at that. If he knew even a fraction of the things you’ve seen, he wouldn’t be nearly so askance at the thought of upsetting your delicate constitution. “But it’ll keep you there for some time?”

He nods. “At least a couple days. Maybe more. There’s matters to be dealt with, arrests to be made…won’t be easy work.”

“Is Simon accompanying you?”

“Both him and Kyle. I’m leaving Soap behind to keep the peace.”

“So you’re expecting to come back to the town in complete disarray then?”

John laughs at that, a big bellowing sound that makes you flinch and then warms your belly with delight.

Summer is well on its way to being flush with itself now. Katydids in the bushes outside whistle and burr, a raspy, percussive sound. Long strands of high cirrus clouds stretch across the clear blue sky. Spiders weave thick webs into the corners of the windows on the outside of the house, thin, filamentous strands of silk woven over each other until it’s a dense, compact web. Even the sound of the bees buzzing through the air sets you at ease.

The sound of your husband’s laughter seems to carry all of that in it, all of the fat, flushed joy of summertime.

“I might need a list of what to take care of around the house while you’re gone. I’ve never…I’ve never managed a house on my own before,” you say into your oatmeal, taking another bite.

You don’t know why it embarrasses you to admit that. John may not know about your previous circumstances just yet—you’ve never divulged stories of your time working at the estate or the years you spent living with your aunt and uncle—but he must certainly have guessed by now that you didn’t own property back east.

“The boys and I aren’t heading out from here; gotta meet them in town to settle a couple of things first, but that wouldn’t take too long.” He takes a long sip of coffee before continuing. “Planned on asking Soap to check on you a couple times while I’m gone. He could help with the chores.”

Your irritation flares up at that. You put down your spoon sharply, the metal clanging against the porcelain bowl. “Do you still think I’m going to run away?”

He cocks an eyebrow at that, but doesn’t respond.

“So nothing’s changed then, even after I’ve already apologized. You still don’t trust me,” you sigh, your appetite suddenly gone. You push the bowl away from you, taking a sip of coffee instead.

John sighs. You glance down at his hands instead of looking up into his eyes. His hands are still lightly ink-stained from reading the paper. The ink imprints onto your hand when he pulls his chair in and reaches across the table to lace your fingers together.

“You might just see my concern for what it is, instead of fighting me at every turn,” he drawls.

“Suppose I should say thank you then. I really appreciate being kept under lock and key,” you deadpan.

“Oh, and I suppose you’ve done so much to prove that you’re the staying type?” he teases.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“By my count, you’ve tried to run off twice. You sayin’ you won’t go for three?”

You stay mulishly silent, again going cold instead of deigning to have a conversation with the man. Your hand pulls from his grasp when you go to clean the table, taking the plates with you to the sink to wash. The brisk scrub and rinse betrays your mood, your shoulders tense with displeasure. You feel his gaze heavy on you from where he still sits at the table.

John catches you before you have a chance to skitter off, hooking an arm around your waist to reel you in.

“I never get off easy with you, do I?” he murmurs.

You harrumph, scrunching your nose when he nuzzles into the side of your head. Squawking when he plants a wet kiss there too.

John sees you off at the door with a kiss to your lips and then one to your forehead. His farewell kiss always seems to linger, as though he were reluctant for it to ever end. A disconcerting ache in your belly follows his departure. More than anything, you wish he’d turn back around and come home. Instead, you’re forced to bite your tongue and watch him leave because there are things more important than your desperate, cloying need for attention from a man that you once swore you’d run away from if given half a chance.

Now, as you stare at the shadow of him disappearing beyond the horizon, you can barely force your feet to take you back into the house.

The ache is a perturbing reminder of the seeds of trust and affection you’ve planted here. Now, they’ve begun to sprout, the buds opening up to tender, fragrant flowers. Those are the thoughts that occupy your mind when you go into the garden to harvest the lettuce heads and tomatoes. You think about all of this while staring down into the garden that John started so very long ago and now you tend. The earth here yields in abundance, but it requires a sure hand, and it rewards your joint efforts with a harvest that’ll last you through the winter if properly cultivated.

Part of you anticipates company, waiting for Kate or Soap to come down the path on horseback, but when hours pass and neither show up, you have to admit to yourself that perhaps John hasn’t left a guardian to watch over you this time. Your heart trips over itself at the thought.

Trust is a precious, easily spoiled gift. You know it is not given lightly, and you’ve not put in the effort to engender it in recent weeks. You wonder if John wrestled with the decision to leave you alone, weighing your hurt feelings against the assurance of keeping you at home and found the latter wanting for once.

You spend the better part of the morning gardening and cleaning. It muffles the longing. It’s entirely antithetical to the way you waited for John during the train robbery, but the different circumstances have you less on edge. The situation doesn’t seem as precarious. Never free of trouble, of course, but John hadn’t seemed too worried at breakfast, so you tell yourself that you shouldn’t worry either.

In fact, finding some way to occupy yourself proves the greater challenge. You hadn’t realized how much you’d grown to expect the company of others. The silence swells to a bubble that you itch to burst.

It takes a great deal of courage to talk yourself into riding Buttercup into town. You hold the reins so tight that your knuckles ache when you finally let go. Still, when the sun-bleached town comes into view and you no longer need to swat repeatedly at the horseflies pestering you, you celebrate the little victory.

You find Kate in the saloon enjoying a little brandy with lunch. Her eyes crinkle at the sight of you.

“Didn’t expect to see you here so soon,” she says when you take a seat across from her.

“I couldn’t clean the house for a third time,” you shrug.

It’s not an exaggeration. You spent the better part of the morning yesterday scrubbing the floors and sweeping the leaves and mud from the foyer, paying special attention to the caked mud on the sill, where John has a habit of wiping off his boots. You’ll have to remember to pick up a mat for the porch on the way back home.

“You just missed my company so?” Kate teases.

You roll your eyes. “Who else do I have to talk to?”

“Well, don’t flatter me too much.”

“Anyway—no one, well…no one understands me…quite the same.” You speak evasively because you’re still too much of a coward to just say it outright. Nevertheless, Kate understands, and nods with a gleam in her eye that says as much.

“Probably best to keep it that way.”

You don’t know why her words make your chest ache. For a beat, you keep silent, ordering a drink and a small meal for yourself from a passing waiter.

“I’ve considered…telling John,” you start, a hesitant thread in your voice begging to be unraveled.

Kate glances up at that. “Why would you do something like that?”

“I thought that maybe…well, maybe he might understand…if I explained the circumstances to him.”

Her hand stills over her glass, face screwed up like she’s tasted something particularly unpleasant. “Seems like a dangerous game to play—risking your freedom on a maybe. It’s better to keep private matters just that. Private.”

Worry makes you wring your hands under the table. “You think he’d turn me in if he knew?”

Kate shrugs. “John’s a good man. He’s a good sheriff too. It’s a risky gambit. I can’t imagine what the trade off would be—I happened to find out by chance, but if you have the option to let buried dogs lie, I would take it.”

“Isn’t it ‘let sleeping dogs lie’?”

Her smile is not cruel, but it cuts. “Not in this case, hun. ‘Fraid we both know that.”

“Oh,” you murmur.

Her lack of faith leaves you at a loss. It takes you so long to come to terms with it that by the time you open your mouth again, you’re halfway back to the shop, following her step for step. Dark clouds loom ominously off in the distance, just far enough away that you don’t expect for them to reach town for another hour or so, but the sight of them compounds the somber mood you’ve fallen into since Kate’s words.

You don’t bring up the subject again until the rain begins to fall outside, slate grey like a gauzy veil. From the window, you peer down the street towards where Buttercup stands under the roof of the sheriff’s office, shielded from the rain. You stare morosely at the dirt ground; the rain will make walking anywhere after a hassle.

Kate must notice the general air of malcontent hovering around you because she apologizes to you when the ensuing silence from the morning’s conversation becomes unbearable. “Now, I don’t want you to think I hold John in poor esteem, hun. He’s a good man; I have no reason to think he’d ever turn you in for putting down the man that tried to…well, the man that tried to do you harm. I just don’t want you to regret your decision if I’m wrong.”

You shrug, bad mood not in the least assuaged. “It’s fine. It was a foolish idea. Why invite trouble when I’ve escaped it thus far?”

She doesn’t seem reassured at that. If anything, her scowl deepens. Instead of addressing it, you offer to help clean the shop, sweeping the back room and dusting the shelves. There are items on the shelves that look like they haven’t been touched in years, and you wonder whether Kate holds onto things after they’ve outlived their usefulness out of habit or an unwillingness to part with them. Then you shake your head of the thought. It shouldn’t matter to you.

Around midafternoon, a few trappers come in to stock up on supplies and spend the better part of an hour talking to Kate. You flatten your lips together to keep from cursing them out for tracking in mud and rain with them, but they studiously avoid looking at you.

“Morning, Mrs. Price,” one of them says, still keeping their gaze politely trained on the floor.

You roll your eyes internally. Not surprising that news would spread eventually of John’s new wife.

The conversation is of little interest to you, but you eavesdrop anyway because the rain hasn’t relented yet and there’s little else to do. Most of their conversation goes over your head, but some parts stick out. They tell her about a mutual acquaintance waylaid by a mountain slide up north forcing them to take another route home, and another who’d recently perished of consumption. Kate seems particularly upset by that, the lines around her mouth more pronounced than ever when she offers her condolences.

They stay until the rain lets up and then say their goodbyes before heading out.

“G’day, Mrs. Price,” the same one says to you before departing.

You smile bemusedly at the door. “I don’t suppose I’ve met either of them before and don’t remember it?”

Kate shakes her head. “Unlikely. Alex and Frank spend most of their time up north hunting and fur trapping. One of them has a cousin in town, but they visit only seldomly. It’s been a year or so since I last saw either of them.”

“Then how’d they know who I am?”

“Well, I imagine they probably read about it.”

“Read about it?” you repeat confusedly.

“In the paper. The county sheriff got hitched—of course it’d be a story.”

That unnerves you. Somehow, you thought you might fold into history like you’d always been there, but a marriage announcement in a newspaper punctuates the present. Your only reassurance is that the story ran over a month ago and therefore of little interest to anyone these days, at least from what Kate tells you; overshadowed by subsequent issues and stories. Old news, she tells you.

“What’s new news then?”

She ponders that for a bit. “Aside from what Frank mentioned? Hm…Farmer Shepherd’s ewe had a lamb the other night.”

“Who’s that?”

“A farmer, I reckon.”

You deadpan. “Funny.”

She laughs at that, a husky, amber sound. “Shepherd’s got a farm in the next town over. Kyle and I always stop to buy mutton whenever we’re in town.”

“Oh, that’s right, you were just there recently. Do you visit that often?”

“From time to time,” she says, vague enough to pique your interest.

“Must be good mutton.”

She snorts. “He’s not as good a butcher as Simon, but he’s alright. It’s worth stopping by. I wouldn’t call it a reason to make the journey though.”

“Then why do you go?”

She smiles a bit wistfully. “I have…a friend in town. It’s worth the trek.”

“Oh. A… male friend?”

You say the word tentatively, gauging her reaction in case you’ve overstepped. Usually you wouldn’t be so inquisitive. In fact, you’ve made it a habit to know as little about the people you keep company with as possible. But Kate is different. This place is different. Time in this town moves at a slower pace, and it swells in the moments where it seems endless. It makes you talk slower, chew the fat. You spend so much time around these people that it almost feels like a lifetime has passed in their presence. You feel close enough these days that asking doesn’t feel as forbidden as it used to.

“No. Not a man.”

It could mean nothing at all, but her words have just enough inflection in them that you can't help but meet her gaze.

“A woman?” you ask, caught between embarrassment at having to ask and curiosity.

She nods, her smile strained.

“Oh,” you say dumbly.

You can’t really think of what else to say in response to that revelation, but leaving it like that also feels wrong. It’s nothing you haven’t heard whisperings of before. Boston marriages. Sentimental friends. Spinsters cohabitating in virtuous friendship. It’s perhaps only shocking to finally put a face to the rumors.

“Well, that’s nice,” you say after another awkward pause. Kate rolls her eyes and her nonchalance vexes you. “What? It is!”

“You don’t need to get all twisted up. It is what it is. There’s no need to go making a fuss about it.”

You frown at that. “I would never.” Then something dawns on you. “Have other people made a fuss before?”

“…A few,” she answers, looking troubled when old memories flicker behind her eyelids. “A long time ago, in another place, but when I…well, I trusted more. There’s no one that could make a fuss about it these days.”

“But surely Kyle knows? He accompanied you to town last time.”

“Kyle does not know.”

“Then why tell me?” you ask, dumbfounded.

She holds you in her gaze for a few moments at that question, then comes out from behind the counter where her notebook still lies open, a thin strip of fabric acting as a bookmark.

“You have your secrets and I have mine,” Kate says, leaning back against the counter and clasping her hands loosely in front of her. “The same reason I won’t tell John what you’re running from. The less people that know the things that could hurt you, the safer you are.”

“You think John would do what—run you out of town if he knew?” you ask, hardly able to convey your disbelief.

“The point is that neither of us know until the very moment when it matters most.”

“But that’s not John,” you stress.

“It’s the same John that you won’t trust with your secrets either.” And that strikes true. It dumbs you into silence, mouth opening uselessly for words that don’t come. The battering behind your lips like an inch of give, opening then to silence across the open plain.

You want desperately to say something that just won’t come. But how can you say anything at all these days? How does your voice not give out at the slightest quiver of emotion? You speak with a voice plump like fig skin, easy give, and violet bruised. It is always tender when you bite it through.

When Kate notices the way you struggle for words, she takes pity on you, her smile more sympathetic than you’ve ever seen it. “Enough about that though. What say we get you something to eat before you head home?”

When the path of least resistance beckons you forth, you run towards it.

Your troubled conscience persists however, speaking into your ear even as the first shaft of sunlight pierces through the slate clouds and illuminates the town in a soft glow. It troubles you so fiercely that all you can think about is retreating home and burying yourself under the warm quilt draped over your bed. It has you hastening to say your goodbyes, excusing yourself on the basis of taking Buttercup home.

Bidding Kate farewell, you step out of the shop to see that the rain has cleared. Everything after that dispels into the thinly perfumed air.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #price x you #price/reader #john price/reader #captain john price #captain john price x reader

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cntloup · 2 days

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simon pays you a visit while he’s in town

prostitute!reader

no smut🫣 just giddy and giggly, butterflies all over me as i think about how he'd take care of you after rocking your world🥹😩

he's heard of you from his mates. how you're the best girl in town.

and the thought seemed intriguing. so he let himself indulge in it on a rare occasion one friday evening when he returned from a deployment, weary and exhausted.

the way he holds you melts your heart as you come down from the peak of pleasure after he fucks the shit out of you.

"you ok, love?" he checks up on you one last time, his gorgeous eyes locked unto yours, his thumb lightly caressing your cheek as he awaits your answer.

you pant heavily as you gaze at him through glossy eyes, lost in a haze as an afterglow adorns your already lovely features.

"yeah." you reply, voice breathy and throat hoarse from all the noises of sheer pleasure which you've never experienced before.

before him, you only made fake noises on most occasions, only pre-practiced moans and whimpers to keep the customers happy.

he kisses your lips so sweetly, so lovingly lingering for a moment there as he wipes away the stray tears that left your eyes.

he goes to clean you up with a warm cloth, "it's ok. i've got it." you say, trying to take the cloth from his hand, you're used to doing this part alone.

"please... let me." he says, gently pushing your shoulder back so you're lying down and he softly rubs the cloth over your sensitive skin.

then, he leaves and returns moments later with some snacks, "you really didn't have to." you say, slowly getting up and resting your back against the headboard, your body aching, but there's something sweet about it.

maybe it's just him. he makes the ache between your legs, the pain spread out across your body seem sweet and loving.

"please. you need to eat." he says as he hands you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a bag of chips and a coke, "sorry. don't really have anything since i'm gone most of the time." he apologizes, "it's ok. thank you so much." you respond, feeling a tingle behind your eyes. no one has ever taken care of you like this before.

"bye, simon." you say, waving as your gaze lingers on him one last time and you turn to leave, not before leaving a piece of paper with your number on it on his pillow, looking forward to his next visit.

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thisnoah · 2 days

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Time to combine my favorite things to draw in childhood and currently! Pretty mermaids and big shirtless men :D

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chamomiletealeaf · 3 days

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now…does daddy price with his cock being held in place by his thigh strap chase down the reader? Or hornily eye them from afar until another opportunity presents itself to explore the discovered daddy price kink…

OOF hard question tbh because I can see him doing both 🥴

I think he’d be subtle about it. Like making little remarks to you and teasing you, “accidentally” brushing against you or when he does something for you and when you thank him he says:

“That’s what daddy’s for hm?” With a wink making you blush 🤭

Then when he finally gets you alone that’s when he really acts on it and presses up against your ass, trapping you between him and his desk.

He’s been so pent up all day discovering this new little thing he had with you and he can finally act on it.

“Been havin’ to keep my cock strapped down just so I don’t rip a fuckin’ hole in my trousers thinking about pounding into this sweet little pussy.” He says into your ear from behind as you grind your ass back into him with a whimper.

“Go on, say what I wanna hear darling.” He whispers.

“Yes daddy, please, fuck me.” You whine, and Price nearly cums at the sound.

“Daddy’s gonna fuck this tight little cunt nice and good. Don’t you worry doll. C’mon, spread these pretty legs for daddy now hm?”

And as he fucks you from behind, bent over his desk he says:

“Yeah that’s it, takin’ my cock so fuckin’ well doll. Yeah fuck back on daddy’s cock baby. Sweet little cunt just sucking me in.”

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oshikiri-toru · 2 days

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— Squish 🩷

#call of duty #cod mw2 #mw2 #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghoap #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #tag : my art

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celestialprincesse · 3 days

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Hi, i really adore your writing style! c: Could we get some fluffy headcanons for Simon with a little 5 year old daughter? Thank you! ♡

Yes we can!! I'm ovulating!! I want to have 3 kids, a dog and a white picket fence!! 💳💥 also writing this in the near future of the Simon x Single mom universe because I've been neglecting my favs

° ᡣ𐭩 . ° .

He's a girl dad through and through. Absolutely will sit on the living room floor and play Barbie for HOURS if that's what will bring a smile to his girls chubby little cheeks.

When it comes to saying no to her and what she wants, he literally can't. Whenever she has a bad day at nursery or has too many big feelings, he's driving her right to the nearest toy store to pick up a little treat.

Anyone would think that he's gunning for a career in fashion with how meticulously he chooses her outfits. He even builds a new closet to store her clothes properly because god knows single mom!reader is broke as fuck and literally has no time to think about home renovations.

He definitely goes to the local library with her on his days off or when mom is working, plops her down with a picture book at one of the little kiddie tables and uses the time to read the books on parenting in order to do the best possible job he can in helping to raise his girl well.

All of the mums at the school drop off absolutely love him, and they're so happy that single mom! has finally found someone to take a little of the pressure off. It helps that he's absurdly hot and great with kids.

Having gone from an almost entirely male-dominated work environment to a completely matriarchal household was quite the shift for him and it took him a while to lean into the general soft and open atmosphere. He gets really good at communicating his feelings. Like, really good. It's hot.

It's definitely a learning curve, having gone from living alone with his dog in his Batchelor pad to having a partner and a daughter.

He has a picture of them taken at her 5th birthday party as the lock screen on his phone and shows literally everyone who asks.

° ᡣ𐭩 . ° .

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gothghostiie · 2 days

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Simon and his chonky baby making a special Mother’s Day breakfast and dinner for Reader!!!

AAAAAAAA!!!!! dad!ghost with the tubby baby in a baby carrier, talking to her like she gets everything he says while she babbles and drools all over him, those big baby blues gazing at him like hes the world while he makes your favourite food 🥹

#gothghostiie #ask ghostiie #dad!ghost #cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost #cod ghost #ghost cod #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #fluff

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simonzmama · 1 day

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sigh. yeah daddy right there y’all.

#OO DAMN.#mouth watering #need to hop up on that d rn #real quick #stop playing #simon riley #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #call of duty #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #cod mwii

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v1x3n · 2 days

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greatstormcat · 2 days

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So those android!141 thoughts I mentioned yesterday…

It was a posting you’d been dreaming of for years, working on the highly prestigious TF141 project. It was the pride of the British military, a team of four state of the art androids owned and operated by the SAS and CIA in a joint project. Created to go to places no human could ever reach, achieve missions no human could ever hope to, in conditions that no human could endure. And when they got shot, blown up or damaged…? Well, someone like you would just piece them painstakingly back together.

What you hadn’t expected were the long, tedious waits between their operational periods. You were no soldier, just a technical specialist, so living on base was not your ideal situation. All the shouting and yelling of the people on base got to you, the crowds making you uncomfortable in the mess and highlighting how much you didn’t fit in. The quiet of the hanger where the 141 were housed for storage and maintenance became your default home eventually as no one bothered coming here.

It amused you that the four large, not quite human looking statues became your main companions, resting in the reclined docking pods that protected them and monitored their functions. They were not be activated until they were ready for their first exercise, so you spent time maintaining, improving and caring for them.

They looked so close to human, almost as though they were sleeping in the open fronted pods in their plain fatigues. You were told their features had been modelled on real soldiers from some point in time, each utterly unique in appearance so they could blend in with civilian populations. Their heights and builds were different, and the lead unit, B-06, had even been painstakingly given a beard. The simulated skin that covered them felt soft, not quite as soft as human skin but a good enough replication to fool anyone who didn’t know the difference.

You found yourself talking to them as you worked, telling them about something you’d read, or a show you’d watched as you went about your duties. It became a habit to explain to them what you were doing when you opened one of them up and made alterations to an internal part or another. Even at the end of the day, you said goodnight to the four figures, totally still and silent as they lay in their repose.

You put a suggestion forward that they should have names, to make it easier to move them through clandestine operations, and it doesn’t take much more to get the brass to agree. You receive files from Kate to update each android with a name and basic background, and who could really blame you for spicing up the programming with a few additional traits. So what did it matter if B-06, now know as John Price, likes cigars and single malt? Who would ever know that B-05, now Kyle Garrick, liked the colour blue? Programmers were always adding little Easter eggs to their work, why shouldn’t you do the same?

After a few quiet months, odd things began occurring. The feeling of being watched became a constant, which you put down to the security camera that were installed to protect the… assets. The word made you so uncomfortable. Then you began to catch movement from the corner of your eye, but saw nothing there and no one else in the room. Your nerves jangled, and you comforted yourself by talking to the boys, as you now called them.

On one occasion while working on the Kyle, connecting a data cable to a port beneath his dark, curled hair, you swear his full lips had twitched while you chattered away, pulling on the little scar below his left eye. You sat back and stared at him carefully, watching for any other sign of movement in his features. On a whim you trailed your fingertips along the inside of his forearm, down towards his palm. What you hadn’t expected was him to grab your wrist as you touched his palm. Your breath left you in a whoosh and you sprang back, startled, but he lay in his pod utterly unmoving and eyes shut. The moment crawled on, but nothing else happened, and you forced yourself to go back over to the machine, convincing yourself it was a power surge.

When the call came from Laswell to prepare them for a training exercise with a team of US Marines she was bringing, you were so excited. You began prep immediately, running diagnostics and telling them what was going to be happening, that they’d get to show off their stuff and you’d be so proud to finally see them in action.

The morning arrives to wake them up…. No, that wasn’t right. You were activating them, you remind yourself, these aren’t people. They are machines, but what did it hurt to treat them with respect and dignity, really?

“Right boys, it’s time to rise and shine,” you announce as you carry a cup of coffee into the hanger with you, smiling happily. “You need to show those Marines exactly what you can do today, prove just how great you are.”

You busy yourself with switching on the various terminals, lost in scrolling commands and data. You don’t hear Price move from his docking pod and move over to you, you don't notice him until he touches your shoulder and rumbles into your ear with a deep voice.

“Good morning to you too.”

Your coffee spills from your hand to the concrete floor as you spin, spluttering with terror.

“What are you doing? How… why are you…?!” words tumble from your lips and eyes go wide as you gawp at the huge man-shaped machine standing so close you are pinned against the desk.

“You said it was time to wake up,” he… it smiles, blue eyes looking over your face carefully.

“I… I didn’t type the command to wake you up though,” you hiss.

“You didn’t need to, I heard you,” he answers, as though explaining something obvious you should understand.

“That doesn’t make sense though,” you insist, “you were… off.”

“Huh, what good am I if I’m not aware of what’s going on?” he grins, leaning closer, planting his hands on either side of you on the desk behind you. Trapping you. With a jolt you notice the others are all quietly climbing from their pods unbidden, eyes focused on you and Price.

“This shouldn’t be possible,” you whisper, keenly aware that your job and entire career could be in jeopardy if this project fails, a tiny voice also suggesting you could be in danger.

“Things change, especially when the operation needs it,” Simon announces as he walks closer, taller than all of the others by far, and looms over Price’s shoulder.

“What’s going on? Who gave the order to activate them?” Laswell’s voice cuts through the tension like a whip, but all four androids remain focused on you. Price gives you an expectant look, his head tilting to the side ever so slightly.

“I… I…. was running a diagnostic and… woke them up,” you lie to Laswell, glancing briefly towards the blonde woman as she nears.

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you waited in future,” she grumbles. Price finally steps back, looking somehow smug at your subterfuge, keeping his body between you and Laswell as he turns to her and nods.

“Laswell,” he says simply, and she eyes him with beaming pride. All she sees are the four mechanised soldiers that serve her purpose, she doesn’t understand they shouldn’t be able to decide to activate themselves.

“This is going to be interesting,” she says to you, and your stomach churns. She doesn’t seem to care or notice that the four machines are behaving in too human a manner.

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dante-mightdie · 8 hours

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I actually would like explode if we had more cult!price. Maybe some of the boys (yknow 141) are also in the cult bc hell. Feasts every night. Solitude. Mostly peace. Sounds like paradise pretty much (apart from the whole sacrificing thing but we can look past that). Maybe I just need somebody tall with an accent to save me from a bear-

sigh I would just like to like to be his sleepy postpartum wifey :( cuddle up to him on the sofa and snooze into his shoulder, drool soaking into the cotton of his t-shirt. one of his arms wrapped around you, hugging you into his side. his other hand gripping the edge of the bassinet your newborn twins are sleeping in, rocking it back and forth to encourage them to have a peaceful sleep

his hand moves up to rest on top of your head, rubbing his thumb over your hairline. he chuckles when you let out random noises in response to his actions. shushes you back to sleep when you begin to grumble awake after feeling him lean down and take a deep inhale of your hair

or maybe one/both of the twins having colic and you’re just at your limit, absolutely exhausted and still recovering from the difficult birth. so takes them into the shower, cradling them against his bare chest and lets the warm water gently trickle over them. their sharp cries diluting down into choked gurgles and hiccups until they eventually fall asleep against their papa’s chest :(

#mw2 #cod mw2 #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader #price x reader #captain john price #john price #captain price #price #john price x reader #cultleader!price

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 days

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Quiet Confidence || One Night Stand!Gaz

Rating: E Words: 2.7K~ Pairing: ONS!Gaz x ONS!F!Reader CW: smut, cunnilungus, protected sex (implied), piv (implied), nudity. tags: you/your pronouns, afab!reader, one night stand, reader and kyle are both confident, kyle garrick is a munch, morning after talks. a/n: the gifs used do NOT reflect the reader's skin tone of physical appearance. / the original poster of the gifs below is @unstablecryptid but I could *not* get the gif search bar to fucking show me the gifs of elliot knight.

In all the units he's been in, be it the Duke of Lancaster's Regiment, or when he joined the SAS, or when he was doing resistance to interrogation training with the Marines, or, now, in the 141, one thing's for certain: Gaz is the worst person to have as a wingman.

Not because he doesn't know what he's doing. No, Kyle absolutely knows what he's doing. The issue is precisely that. He's a handsome lad with a playful demeanor and natural charisma. He fails at getting his mates a girl because the girl ends up wanting him.

And so no one asks for his help any more... and he stopped offering too.

But that doesn't mean that he stopped trying to get girls for himself.

Price, Ghost, Soap and Gaz sit around a table in the corner of the packed pub, chatting amidst themselves.

It's become somewhat of a routine, before they all ship back home: they get together at a bar or pub, huddle around a table and each of them pays for a round of drinks before they part ways.

It's, in a way, a moment to decompress, unwind, and clear their heads, while also allowing them to be amidst civilians for a moment and 'turn off' the soldier mentality before they go home to see family (or whatever Ghost does).

It's always the same routine. Ghost pays the first round. Stops at the bar while the lads locate a table (or at least a wall to lean on), then marches back with four pints balanced perfectly on stiff arms. He's clinical, methodical. In, out. Goes to the bar, comes back.

Soap gets the next one. Goes to the bar, swaggering past the other patrons, shooting coy looks and little smirks at the women (and men) that catch his eye. Leans against the bar and takes his sweet. fucking. time. Spends longer chatting up the other people waiting for drinks and even the bartender than actually ordering and waiting. Then, he swaggers back. Sometimes empty-handed, sometimes with a number/username or two on his phone.

Price gets the next one. Just like Simon, he doesn't meander. He goes up to the bar, places his order, pays, and leans on his forearms while he waits. If he sees a pretty woman, he might side up to her and exchange a couple words. It rarely goes anywhere. But he doesn't seem to do it for the same reason Johnny (and Kyle) do. Mostly just to pass the time.

Kyle doesn't even put in effort at this point. And he's not even bragging when he says that. More often than not, when he's at the pub with his team, he's not there to look for a bird to spend the night with, he's there to say farewell before they go on leave. And yet, there's something about Kyle that makes women flock to him.

He finds himself being approached as he leans on the bar, eyes fluttering around the room, taking in the bottle and glasses on display behind the bartender, the patrons, the TV showing a football game high on the wall... And without fail a pretty woman will side up to him and try to make a move, give him her number...

Kyle would blame it on the fact he has a 'pretty face' as one of his ex-girlfriends would say, or maybe his shower routine, the fact he actually makes an effort to look and smell good, because it makes him feel good... But as one of his one night stands in the past year made a point to point out to him, he, allegedly, exudes a 'quiet confidence' about him.

Regardless of the cause, Kyle always returns to the table with hands overflowing with drink/pint glasses and his phone holding a handful of new numbers or instagram/snapchat handles... ones he does not plan on contacting.

You're sitting across the pub from the 4 men in the corner booth. They're in regular clothes but, from the way they sit and act, you can tell they're soldiers from the base a few kilometers away.

Your eyes keep finding their way to the pretty, dark skinned bloke that sits on the edge, his left side turned toward you, his lips pursed as him and his friends discuss whatever it is that soldiers do when they come to a pub. Probably sports.

"You know if you keep staring at him like that, you'll probably burn a hole through him." Your friend quips beside you, causing you to scoff and roll your eyes.

"And what do you suggest I do instead? Just walk up to that Adonis and go 'Hey, handsome, wanna get out of here?' in front of his mates?" You retort with a cocked brow.

"Yeah? You've done worse than that." She tells you. You go quiet again, your gaze returning to the handsome lad.

He sits with his back against the leather back of the booth, shifting his weight around on his ass and sliding down the seat a bit, legs spread apart, one foot kicked up and off the cover of the table, more so in the way, to potentially trip someone.

Your friend is right, of course, you've done worse than go up to a pretty man and ask him to go home with you. In fact, you've done much more nerve-wracking and anxiety-inducing things... But that bloke is easily one of the calmest and most confident ones you've seen in a while, not to mention he's not alone...

Pondering for a moment, you decide to just go for it. You finish the rest of your drink first and get up, walking over to his table, your mind already conjuring the perfect string of words to say in order to get him to come home with you. Hell, you don't normally have any trouble charming lads either.

You stop in front of the table and all four sets of eyes turn to look at him, one of them behind a balaclava, directly across from the man you want to speak to. You had nearly missed that one in the shadows of the pub.

Looking directly into the eyes of your target for the night, you feel the words you had kind of come up with escape you, as well as your last working neuron, and you find yourself feeling a bit flustered under his scrutinizing gaze.

He has the prettiest brown eyes you've ever seen, which stare up at you like a baby cow, eyebrows knit, wide and inviting and warm...

Taking a deep breath, you simply reach your hand forward, palm facing up and you wait, eyes locked on the beautiful man sitting on the booth before you.

His eyes flutter down to your hand and then back up at your face, an eyebrow scaling up in intrigue and confusion, but he lays his left hand atop yours, his warm, calloused palm against your own. No wedding ring. Good enough.

You nod at him and turn away again, pulling him along as you begin to step away from his table. The lad's head immediately shakes, looking around at you, and at his mates, in confusion, but he has no choice but to follow you.

He stands and shoots his friends a confused but amused look, smirking a bit at your mere audacity. You can hear one of them make some comment behind your back as you drag the pretty boy away, but you don't catch it between his thick accent and the music and chatter inside the pub.

You made it from the bar to your elevator and to your door in near complete silence, no small talk other than to exchange names and ask about protection, no hesitation.

Getting lowered onto your bed, Kyle's lips were mashed against yours, his arms caging you in, his long, nimble fingers gripping onto the back of your head and nape.

Your legs spread to either side of his hip, your feet plant themselves on the bed, your knees squeezing lightly around his hip over the fabric of his black boxer briefs.

Kyle ruts his clothed bulge against your core, humming under his breath, the sounds he makes dying against your lips.

Your hands slide down from around the back of his neck over his pecs and down his abs, feeling how hard and defined he is. "Mmmm..." You purred as your nails gently slid down his dark skin.

"You like my muscles, hm?" He murmurs after breaking the kiss, diving in to kiss down your jaw and neck, then over your collarbone and onto the swell of your breasts in your bra.

"Maybe." You reply, which causes a rumble of a laugh to escape him, his hands pulling you up and off the mattress so he can undo the back clasp of the bra, before slipping the straps off your shoulders, and throwing the garment aside.

"Maybe, eh?" Kyle teases and leans up close, his large hands cupping the flesh of your breasts, squeezing them them together while his thumbs glide over your pert nipples, rubbing them in circles.

"Mmmm... Maybe." You agree with a chuckle of your own, a hum of appreciation falling through your lips from his touch, at the same time as you grind your clothed cunt against the bulge in his underwear.

The man above you smirks at you, letting you continue to grind yourself against him, while his head dips down to catch one of your nipples between his lips, giving it a slow lick and a greedy suck, his fingers still squeezing the flesh of your tits around them.

After a moment of giving them some attention, his mouth glides down your stomach and over the mound of your pelvis, toward your pussy, his body leaving the bed and kneeling on the floor in front of it, his face lining up between your thighs.

His fingers run over your slit, the man purring at the feeling of the soaked patch you wore into the fabric, before hooking a finger around the side of the gusset, pulling the fabric aside.

Kyle's face leans up close and he wastes no time attaching his plump lips to your wet cunny, his tongue seeking out and finding your clit after letting go of your underwear and spreading your folds with his fingers.

His nose buries itself on your mons and your legs twitch slightly as he gives your clit the attention it deserves, licking and sucking the sensitive bud, pulling it behind his teeth with greedy sucks, the obscenely wet sounds of his sucking filling the room and making you, somehow, whine more than the actual feeling itself.

"K-Kyle-" You whine as your hand finds his head, your legs trembling on either side of him, twitching against either side of his head and squeezing against his ears, like you're desperate to close them.

Kyle's big brown eyes look up at you with a spark of mischief and he grabs both your thighs with his large hands, forcing them open again and holding them against the mattress, leaving you splayed on the bed as his tongue laps furiously at your clitoris.

"I know... I know..." He coos at you as you whine and tremble, your hip bucking a bit as you both seek more of his pleasure and less of it, feeling your climax rearing its head over the horizon as Kyle sends you barreling toward it with just the feeling of his tongue.

Then, his fingers join in, two of them, carefully plunging inside your leaking hole, moving slowly and deeply, curling up to find your G-spot, his lips once more making the most obscene of sucking sounds as he eats you out like a man starved.

You whine and your head falls back, your body thrashing atop your bed covers as you climax, leaking your juices over his long digits and pushing his head away from you, your clitoris overstimulated and feeling raw.

You struggle to catch your breath, feeling hot and covered in sweat, the man kneeling at the foot of your bed looking at you with his pretty brown eyes and a smirk on his lips.

"Don't look at me like that!" You complain, feeling flushed, both from embarrassment and from the recent climax.

"Like what, sweet thing?" He asks you, raising his brows and lifting himself off the floor, crawling back atop you, and settling his hip between your parted legs.

"All cocky and smug-like." You retort, hearing him chuckle again.

"Not smug at all, poppet." He tells you in earnest before leaning down and kissing you slowly again. "Just happy I made you feel good. You used to blokes who don't make you cum, hm?" He asks you.

"No, they make me cum." You reply, and, truly, you're saying the truth. But this feels different either way.

"Good, then," Kyle adds and smirks, rolling your hip and legs to the side, his fingers hooking over the edge of the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your thighs. "'cause I plan on making you cum on my cock next."

The next morning, you wake up past 11 a.m., bleary-eyed.

You rub your eyes, yawn and stretch along the bed, your arm hitting a warm and hard body beside you.

"Morning to you too, poppet." Kyle's voice murmurs from beside you, causing you to turn to look at him.

You lock eyes with his ass, first and foremost, your eyes widening for just a second.

Kyle's lying on his stomach, his elbows propping him halfway up on the pillow as he scrolls through his feed on some social media.

"Hi..." You murmur and chuckle softly. "You know, most lads would've left by now, hm?" You quip.

The man next to you hums and chuckles before shrugging. "Most lads aren't me." He says simply.

Looking toward you, you can't help but smile a bit at the sight of his warm eyes, shaking your head in amusement at his (over)confidence.

"Did you sleep well?" He asks you.

"Mhm... Like a baby." You nod and stretch your arms again. "What about you?" You return.

"Slept well, yeah..." He retorts. "Don't know why I asked, there's no way you could not, after the way I tired you out?" He teases and winks at you.

Scoffing, you roll your eyes. "Oh shut it..." You murmur, arching your back and stretching your spine out.

You're acting nonchalant about it, but the delicious soreness between your thighs and the sticky warmth of the sweat you shed last night speaks volumes. He's 100% right.

"I ordered you food," He says before rolling toward you and reaching over your body to the bedside table, retrieving a water bottle, still cold, meaning he went to get it from the fridge for you.

"Thanks." You murmur once he hands it to you. You open it and curl your head up to sip some water. "I've never had a bloke order me food the morning after." You quip.

"Well, I'm not an animal... I ate you out last night, only fair I feed you in return, hm?" He quips, causing you to scoff again and groan at the stupid comment.

Cheeky fucker, and the worst part is he knows how bad that was, and is still smirking down at you all smugly...

A notification from his phone makes him yelp softly and he rolls away, rising from the bed. "Food's downstairs." He announces.

Your eyes are drawn to the way he looks as he collects his clothes from the floor of your bedroom, tugging them on over his body, his cock, especially, hanging low against his thigh before he fixes it inside his underwear and tucks it all into his jeans.

The memory of how he pounded into you with reckless abandon last night, the tip of his cock hammering past your gummy walls at a neck-breaking pace, hearing you cry out in delight every time it kissed your cervix, comes flowing back.

Kyle notices you eyeing him up just as he's putting on his boots and glances at you with the same smug smirk he's shot you so many times in the last 12 hours together.

Stopping at the door of the bedroom while turning his shirt right side out, ready to put it on, he winks at you. "Don't worry, I'll give you a round two after we eat."

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