clogsandglitterypinkconverses

Latest Posts by clogsandglitterypinkconverses

for study... of course

Leonid Pasternak  (Ukrainian, 1862–1945) - The Torments of Creative Work

I wasn’t crazy about this piece so I wasn’t intending on publicly posting it again, but it keeps getting stolen every five minutes so I figured I’d put it here so people at least know who to attribute the original thing to lmao

[Digital illustration, Procreate App, 2020]

old price sketch

the daddy issues you didn’t know you had were definitely showing through whenever you were around simon. he’d say things like,

“you say yes sir, y’understand me?”

“watch your fucking tone when you talk to me, puppy.”

“sit down, hush up, and listen to me, sweet girl.”

“who the fuck d’you think you’re talking to, lovie?”

“good girls do what they’re fucking told.”

he’ll kneel in front of you to massage your feet after a long day of work, working his way up your legs while praising you. “these strong calves, my big girl s’working so hard.”

and don’t even get me started on where he grabs you to get your attention. his hand is constantly grabbing the side of your hip, even hovering right above the globe of your ass sometimes.

if the two of you are in a crowded room, he’ll wrap his arm around your waist and rest his palm over your tit, squeezing softly every time you look up at him.

and in bed? bitch, he’s using a fucking chain. a sweet little collar with a heart on it attached to a few silver links that he’ll tug when you’re being bad.

“just look at’cha, panting like a fuckin’ dog. you like being treated like a dog, baby?”

every tug around your neck was an instant shock straight to your clit as you took his cock from the back, your cheek smushed into tear soaked sheets.

he’d swat your ass if you were being a brat, “quit your crying n’come already.”

and every time you squirted around his cock, spraying the base of him and his heavy sack, he’d say something like, “wow, would’ya look at that, she can do tricks,” as he feels your walls pulsing around him. “fuckkkkk, do another one, speak bitch.”

you could barely function after your nth orgasm of the night, but you knew too well what would happen if you didn’t do what he said. “yes-mmph- yes sir.”

and the aftercare? he’s as sweet as pie, caring for his precious lover who’s taken him so well. he’ll wrap you up in his warm arms and peck every inch of your face, “did so well for me, y’know that?” *peck* “m’very proud of you, sweetheart.”

this is shit but whatever love you guys bai!

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ memory foam ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem .ᐟ reader

synopsis ─ soldier boy teaches you how to roll a blunt and then makes you hold it between your lips while he fucks you into insanity. just filth honestly bc this man is filthy and i love it

warnings .ᐟ cussing, light misogyny throughout (i mean,, come on), v light dirty talk, masturbation f receiving, hair-pulling, grinding, edging/overstimulation, spanking, fingering, unprotected sex p in v. i feel like these warnings have y’all opening this fic with a therapist on speed dial. if i forgot anything pls lmk!

word count ~ 7.3k (this was supposed to be a drabble 😀)

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Lithe trails of smoke crept over the horizon of your laptop screen, which called your attention toward Ben’s seated figure at the small, rounded table near the kitchen. You reached to lower your laptop screen an inch—just enough to properly reveal the schemes unravelling beneath your boyfriend’s hunched over frame. You didn’t doubt that he was currently unravelling some recent haul of self-indulgent narcotics because as much as you loved your severely traumatised, addict boyfriend, he didn’t have any other tasteful way to pass time. Well, when he wasn’t ploughing you into the mattress and pummelling your senses into an otherworldly abyss of pleasure, of course.

Ben had slipped into the apartment an hour ago with that dubious, white plastic bag in clutch—no print to identify any luxurious takeaway you’d have killed to plunge into your gurgling stomach. You’d been tempted to ask about it then, but he’d entered with such a thick swathe of broodiness cramping his brows that you’d laid off the interrogation entirely. Though, just by stealing a single glance of the bag in its own, unassuming simplicity, it could have branded itself as some sketchy stash of drugs he’d picked up from one of his regular dealers on the way home.

You honed in on the man of the hour, your unflattering nosiness taking the cake on the mental debate of whether or not you should interfere with Ben’s activities. It was a debate that had never happened to begin with because meddling in anything and everything that he did was practically your brand—no questions asked. You’d once called it a loving obsession, but Ben had called it a hounding cock block on his highs. You’d been quick to rebrand your pestering of him as your own guilty addiction, and he hadn’t had much to say in response to that. He had his addictions, and you had yours—him. Oh, he so must’ve regretted accommodating you into his life.

Your boyfriend’s sharp features were currently kneaded into a focused frown, his head tilted down to where he emptied out the plastic packet onto the table. Your chin perked with sly interest, no further surprise to be unwrapped when you glimpsed a sprawl of paper and herbs. Drugs, as expected, but nothing nearly as hard as his usual indulgences. Your attention flickered up to the blunt currently clutched between his lips—the bane of your existence—before you lowered your focus back down to the table, where his busy hands alternated between segregating the devious mess and popping out his smoking stick to dispel a pull.

You didn’t need to squint hard to confidently label said herbs as weed—once the distinct scent left his lips to shroud the modest apartment and assault your sensitive nose, it was a dead giveaway. You’d never been much of a fan of smoking to begin with, and weed might’ve been the rankest pick of it all, but it’s something you’d gradually grown tolerant of. It’s not like you had much of a say in the matter, anyway, given that your boyfriend had his lips wrapped around a cig almost as often as he had them wrapped around you. It was a relationship that had existed long before yours, so who were you to complain, really?

Besides, this was his apartment, which meant that his guilty pleasures were anything but your business. And you doubted that your complaint would manage a graze of his ears before his cock would plug your lips to shut you the hell up about it. He didn’t much like when you had an attitude about his aforementioned hobbies.

“Ah, shit!” Ben exclaimed angrily around the blunt’s body—a muffled sound that banished smoke from his pursed lips. You watched as he tossed aside the plastic packet, seizing his tempter by the throat as he thudded his palm against the table. “Fuckin’ dickless prick sold me short,” he grumbled to nobody in particular, releasing the blunt for a disgruntled exhale before his lips took to it once more like his next, dire breath.

You plugged your lips at his temper tantrum, throttling a chuckle you knew would be severely misplaced during this fit of his. You couldn’t help it, though. Ben loved to pretend that he was ‘man enough’ to be unbothered by trivial things, but it never took much to get under his skin. The irony was so palpable that you could’ve poked and prodded at it with ridicule. “What’re you doing?” You called to him with an accentuated chirp to your tone—you’re curious, oblivious, not probing.

Ben’s eyes lifted from the table for a second to glance in your direction, where you sat comfortably cushioned against the headboard of his bed. His glare hovered for a few measly seconds, holding no adoration at this particular time. It made you utter a mental damn. At most, he’d give you a wink or a scheming narrowing of his eyes that spoke all sorts of dirty he’d have loved to work you through. But he merely turned back to the task at hand, freeing the blunt from his tightly-wrung lips.

Yeah, women are the moody ones, you remarked mentally. What a chuckle-fest.

The supe gave a hefty exhale, smoke streaming out in a slow gust that told you a somber story of a shit-filled day. His whole demeanour was off-put. A good girlfriend would’ve asked him about it, but a smarter one—like yourself—knew err on the side of caution. You’d long since learned not to pester him about his emotions because, to quote Ben: ‘only pussies hold hands and waste daylight wailin’ about this ‘nd that. Me? I ain’t strokin’ anybody’s cock with some me too bullshit. You gotta act the man and suck it up.’

Yeah, you weren’t going to open that can of worms again.

Without sparing you another glance, Ben jerked his head in your direction. “Get over here,” he demanded distractedly. “It’s ‘bout time I teach ya the hustle o’ this shit.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll leave the lung cancer to you,” you poked light-heartedly, but you shifted your laptop aside to scamper across the mattress regardless. Unfortunately, you were the type to spend any given chance at your boyfriend’s side, and it didn’t matter how trivial the activity was—it was all about the quality time. Ben was overly tolerant of your clinginess, so much so that you almost thought he enjoyed the attention more than you did. But that wasn’t anything he’d ever admit to, were it true to begin with.

You ambled across the open-plan apartment towards his smoke-enveloped figure, and upon reaching the table, you pulled out the chair opposite him to take up his company. All the while, Ben’s attention remained fixed on his concoctions, never once straying from the table to acknowledge that you’d joined him.

“Why would I need to know how to do any of this, anyway? You know I don’t smoke,” you asked once you sat yourself down, hand swivelling through the air to disperse the suffocating haze of the weed, lingering under your nose like an intoxicating fart. You watched his free hand sort the dried and shredded weed into evenly-sized piles with one of your ancient loyalty cards—a card you’d lost a few weeks back. The bastard must’ve nicked it from your purse. And knowing him, he’d probably used it for plenty more than sorting weed.

“No,” he agreed, “but I do. Besides, it’s somethin’ every fine woman such as yourself oughta know. It’s not usually what women waste their time learnin’, but I’m sure I could have ya mastering this shit in no time. You’re a surprisingly quickly learner,” he murmured busily, pausing only to secure the blunt between his lips once more.

You didn’t know whether to feel offended at that observation, or to accept it with the knowledge that Ben didn’t usually hand out compliments—even backhanded ones—outside of, well, being inside of you. You dismissed the thought with a flick of your eyes, but soon, you were drawn to his face once more. You could have grown jealous with the amount of time his lips spent wrapped around that paper-wrapped crap, but you’d long since laid off the visuals. He enjoyed your pouting way too much—always finding a way to ridicule you for it.

“Why the sudden insistence that I learn this crap?” You asked.

After a deep pull, Ben retrohaled the smoke off to the side, conscious not to direct it onto your intolerant senses. “Cause it sure hits the spot when your girl can slip you a win after the day’s been a fuckin’ ball-buster,” he mumbled.

“Or,” you countered, head tilting with a pretence of consideration as you watched him sort the piles of weed into small plastic bags. “Here’s a thought—and just humour me, would you? You could make yourself one,” you finished, hands coming forward to fold onto the table as your eyes flickered up to Ben expectantly.

He lifted his head to fix you with peeved eyes, the card’s rim stilling against the last herded pile of weed as his free hand plucked the stick from his lips. “The hell you think I been doin’ all this time?” He challenged pointedly. The blunt’s ignited end pulsed with heat—as if to emphasise his words. “Is it too much to ask that you fix me a goddamn escape after a long fuckin’ day?”

“It is in that tone, Mister,” you scoffed, leaning yourself across the table in an attempt to pluck the blunt from his fingers, but he was quick to catch you at the wrist. Your lip quirked at the force with which he restrained you, your eyes slurring up to his with a heavy, seductive whisk of your lashes.

Ben always caught the intention behind your every act of defiance. He enjoyed it, even, despite the permanent hint of dour in his expression. “Hands off my shit,” he warned, his pretty green eyes drilling into yours to emphasise his point. “Don’t make me fuck the nerve right outta you—you know better.”

You took your lower lip into an amused bite, enjoying the way you so easily seemed to rile him up. Yeah, your boyfriend was a Supe, but it was moments like this that made you feel like you held all the power—and you revelled in it. ‘Nobody controls me’, your ass. You had Ben wrapped around your finger. He knew it, too, he just wouldn’t admit it because what man wants to admit that he’s pussy-whipped? No, he’d rather bathe in denial by fucking you senseless each night, smothering your head into the sheets and coaxing his name from your foul lips so that he felt he had some semblance of control over the way you made him feel.

You succumbed to his possessive grasp, leaning your body further across the table as your head tilted in cheek. “Do I know better?” You absolutely did, and so did he. But part of the fun—part of what made this dynamic between the two of you so riveting, is that you pretended to act stupid, and Ben eagerly indulged it as an opportunity to condescend you and further inflate his toxic ego. And something more.

The supe’s lip quirked in amusement as he glared you down, but the sentiment didn’t reach high enough to mould his eyes into kindness. “Gonna play it like that, hm?” he murmured, bringing the blunt back to his lips before he leaned further into your proximity, his lips brushing against yours with the tease of a kiss. But he didn’t follow through with his unspoken promise. Instead, his lips parted only to huff the smoke directly into your face.

Your nose scrunched at the scent, your free hand lifting from the table to shoo away the smoke. “Ben!” You protested, but his grip on you didn’t budge until the intrusive fog thinned out into the rest of the room. You gave a light cough at being a forced second party to his smoking, and that’s when he finally released your wrist—more like discarded it in a careless toss. You retreated with a huff and sat yourself back down. “Dick!”

“Pussy,” he retorted through a shit-eating smirk, but he quickly came to realise that the amusement was wholly one-sided when he glimpsed your ruffled brows. There were very few times you could have convinced him that his actions weren’t funny. “Ah, come on,” he drawled, attention lowering back to the weed as he suckled on the smoking stick once more. “You know ya love it,” he mumbled.

“Oh, bite me,” you murmured lightly, crossing your arms as you watched him continue his work. You could have chosen to pout a little longer, but you’d have been naive to settle down with somebody like Ben and not expect him to pull a nasty stunt now and again. Besides, you did like him mean. The subtle glow that beamed briefly within the crook of your thighs was testament to that.

“You ever roll a blunt before?” Ben muttered, eyes downturned to where his hands began prepping an irregularly squared piece of paper. The question was sheer stupidity—so much so that you felt the the weight of the frown on your brows as you parted your lips to answer him with far too much eager spunk. But Ben pulled the cancer stick from his lips and interjected without missing a breath.

“Just pullin’ your leg—‘course ya haven’t. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the fuckin’ Mother Reverend of the Church of Holy Smokes.” At that jab, his eyes lifted to yours with a smugness that wound his lips thin.

You gave a dismissive roll of your eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” you hummed, your arms unfolding to rest your hands against the table. “You can keep shitting on me, Benjamin, but let’s not forget just how ancient you are. Once your light’s snuffed out, old man, maybe—just maybe, I’ll consider learning how to smoke, and it’ll be your ashes I probe in that damn ashtray.” Oh, how the roles would reverse.

Ben neglected the piece of paper he’d been gripping and straightened himself from the table. He leaned back into his chair with a gruff chuckle, his gaze raking you over with a light air of amusement. He plucked the blunt from his lips and hovered over the table as he gave a compliant cock of his head—a gesture that said, yeah, I could get behind that.

“Just make sure you put the tray somewhere I can get a good view of your ass,” he retorted with a brisk wink before he pressed the cigar’s inflamed nose into the ashtray loitering beside his hand. “And the tray better not be this ugly fuckin’ thing. Get me somethin’. . . quaint—none o’ this modern day lifeless shit and a half that’s got fuckin’ pussy power or some ball-less, feministic propo shit like that scribbled on the side.”

You narrowed your eyes mischievously. “Only you will demand everything your way even in death,” you chuckled, then you tilted your head inquisitively. “So you’re telling me that if I had to get my breasts casted with clay to make two matching bowls for your ashes, you’d have a problem with that? Is it too modern for you?”

Ben’s brows hoisted up a look of consideration, then his lips pursed with content acceptance. “Baby,” he drawled. “You do that and I’ll be back to fuck you in your dreams every. goddamn. night,” he promised.

“I guess that might help me not to forget you,” you retorted cheekily.

“Damn right,” he mumbled cockily. “Can’t forget a dick as givin’ as this one, anyway—and you’d be kiddin’ yourself otherwise. Little cock-slut like you? You were made to memorise every inch of my dick like a butt-print in a shitty velvet sofa.” He birthed a grin so condescending that it barely left room for you to breathe.

Smug, obscene asshole, you scoffed silently, but you couldn’t deny the truth behind his claim, and you had countless memories to serve as evidence. Ben knew that—it was the singular thing that warranted his sheer audacity to boast. For lack of better words, you flashed him the finger before bundling yourself back up, arms crossed against your chest as a ruffled gesture for him to continue his little project.

He made an amused noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle before shifting in his seat and guiding his hands back to the concoction before him. “C‘mon, take a look,” he urged, plucking up some of the shredded weed between his fingers and gingerly placing it onto the squared paper. He took a moment to prod along the scattered herbs until a coherent line was formed atop the material. “This right here,” he said, prodding the paper, “s’called rollin’ paper. Gotta wrap it around the weed real nice and tight, like the foreskin of a sexually-abstained father of the church. Or some creakin’, ol’ geezer.”

“So like you, then?” You interjected, and you could’ve sworn you heard the snap of his neck as his eyes darted up to scorn you.

“Callin’ me old when you’re the one who can’t walk after one night in my bed is a li’l comical, don’tcha think?” He retorted, eyes lowering to where he rolled his thumb along the ball of his index finger to dislodge the clinging weed scraps. “Man,” he laughed in disbelief. “You got helluva mouth on ya.”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s called?” You chirped sarcastically, rubbing your lips together as though smearing some chapstick along the edges. You knew it was a stupid, bratty punch to throw, but you thought it worth it if it would coax any sort of reaction from Ben—and it did.

He glanced up at you from beneath hitched brows, pushing out a chuckle so forced, it could’ve starred the backtrack of some poorly made sitcom. But the faux amusement in his expression was dropped in an instant, his chin making an impatient jut in your direction—like the firm finger of a mother’s chide. “Shut the fuck up and pay attention.”

Your eyes widened in mock as you muttered a “yes, sir,” and turned your attention back to the table, your heading craning with far too much curiosity for your liking. Your eyes trailed every whisk and wander of his skilled fingers as he prepped another paper like the last. “Does it matter how much weed’s in a single blunt?”

Cautiously, Ben moved back to the first paper, his lips subconsciously jutting into a focused pout. It was something he did often without a notice, and you couldn’t help but savour the scene with a subtle grin. It was adorable, but for the sake of preserving the clueless tradition, you never said anything about it. You knew he’d find some way to get butt-hurt over you pointing it out, and then you’d be stuck with him forging some permanent, stoic expression to fend off the horrors of being called adorable.

He anchored the topmost corners of the rolling paper with his middle fingers before grabbing the bottom corners between his thumb and index finger, finally folding the square in half. “‘Bout a gram or two’ll do,” he finally replied. “But the paper’s already sized, so it’s just gotta be enough to fit in it. . .” he murmured busily, trailing off as he focused his attention onto carefully lifting the assembly from the table—determined not to spill any of the contents and further rob himself of the stock he’d been sold short on.

“Now,” Ben cleared his throat with utmost enthusiasm, his eyes momentarily lingering on the wrap before they flickered over to you with a scheme glinting in their green depths. Just what the hell was he up to now? “We gotta wet this baby real good, so why don’tcha stick out that tongue o’ yours for me, yeah? Lend an old man a helpin’ hand once in a while.”

He held the makeshift blunt tenderly between his thumbs and index fingers as he presented it in your direction with an annoyingly smug furnish to his handsome features.

Your eyes widened in surprise at his request. “You do it,” you told him through a chuckle, pressing your index finger against his nearest hand to gently nudge the dissembled blunt back in his direction. “You’re the pro of the fucking cancer sticks, so you show me how it’s done. Like you said.”

Ben cocked his head in slight disappointment, a smirk pitching up the corner of his lips as he withdrew the blunt with a light huff. “To think you’re usually all I can do it myself, Ben, I don’t need your help, Ben,” he mocked deeply, which caused your face to contort with a hint of offence.

“I don’t sound like th—“

“Yeah, you do,” he cut you short, the smirk on his lips playing into a full-blown grin as he drank in your affronted pout. “You and your fuckin’ feminist high,” he scoffed, bringing the paper up to his lips. “Now, stuff it and watch, ‘cause I’m only gonna show you once—and I expect ya to nail it off the fuckin’ bat.”

You hitched a brow at his subtle threat. “Or what?” You challenged.

He left that question unanswered—verbally, at least. But he fixed you with an intense glare as his tongue slipped past his lips to drag a slow, accentuated line along the edge of the paper, and you knew that to be answer enough. A promise—and hardly one of a good time when he was calling all the shots with the intent to punish you. Still, you felt your core jolt at that singular gesture, your thighs discreetly pressing together with the memory of that very movement that must’ve become etched into your folds by now. That teasing bastard, getting you all hot and bothered just for the sake of it.

When he reached the end of the jagged material, he drew the line back up one more time before his tongue retreated back to the concealment behind his lips. He lowered the concoction to the table, gaze still trained on you. Then, with a beckoning gesture of his chin, he said, “get over here.”

You obliged silently, quickly—guided by your arousal more than your own will, if you were being honest. Your chair screeched in protest as you pushed yourself up from your seat and slipped around the circumference of the table towards Ben’s seated frame. You’d barely reached his side when he freed a hand to eagerly outstretch and receive you, his large palm snaking along the small of your back to hook around your waist. He pulled you into his lap, legs spread in a wide v to comfortably accommodate your frame onto his.

As you settled yourself onto his lap, you made a point to dramatically shimmy your ass into the crook of his legs, causing him to grunt as you ground yourself against his prominent manhood. His free hand snaked over your thigh to settle at the tender, inner skin with a warning squeeze, his lips coming to press against your ear.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured lowly—a gruff sound that sent a jolt directly to your already-compromised core. And it was hard to ignore your arousal with the added stimulation of his stubbled jaw grating the sensitive skin of your cheek.

You turned your jaw partially, causing his soft lips to trace a seductive line along your cheekbone. “Always am,” you murmured in return, a cheeky grin beaming through as your gaze flickered down to his lips. Those darn lips. A taste you’d never get sick of, despite your tendency to grow bored of things rather quickly. Maybe you were no better than Ben—a shameless addict infatuated with the highs, only, your highs were being fondled by him.

For a moment, Ben entertained your play with a second of silence, and you were almost hopeful to feel his lips snag onto yours, but instead, they retreated from your jaw and left you in a state of hot disappointment.

“Pay attention,” he ordered, removing the hand he’d burrowed at your thigh to frame your jaw firmly. He turned your head forward and downwards, forcing your attention onto the makeshift blunt gripped in his other hand. His thumb trailed to your lips, kneading the tender skin aimlessly before slipping his hand from your jaw entirely. “Stick your tongue out.”

Obediently, you did as told, your tongue slipping through until you felt too ridiculous to go further.

“Atta girl,” he praised, your waist now straddled by both his arms as he held the corners of the makeshift blunt in his fingers and lifted it to your dangling tongue. “Now, I want you to lick it, just like I showed ya—and don’t crap out on showin’ it a good time, yeah?”

You gave a small nod and leaned your head down to meet the paper with your tongue, starting at the left corner. When the tip of your tongue made contact with the sheet, you could feel the cool, lingering trace of Ben’s saliva. It felt so primal, but you knew that he was enjoying every second of it—you lapping up his taste like an eager mutt, so you decided to give him one hell of a show.

You pressed your tongue against the paper more firmly now, and you began to drag a slow, sensual line toward the other corner, making sure to deliver a quick flick over Ben’s waiting thumbnail. He made a hald-amused, half-entertained noise, but waited patiently as you retraced the line back to the starting point.

Pulling back your tongue, you smacked your lips triumphantly. “All wet now,” you said.

“Bet you are,” he chuckled lazily, fingers moving to seal the paper and twist the ends into a reputable blunt. He brought the finished product up to your lips, urging the nozzle between them. “Be a good girl and hold onto that for me.”

You pulled your lips inward to deny the entrance of the blunt, turning your jaw to reject the offer. “No, thanks,” you said, but Ben wasn’t having it.

You felt his hand stroke up the curve of your thigh before forcing way beneath the hem of your shorts and underwear, where his fingers stroked a rough line through your folds. You gasped at the feel of his cool fingers playing at your hot core, and before you could process his foul play, his other hand was quick to push the fresh blunt between your parted lips.

“You talk too fuckin’ much,” he murmured against your ear, delivering a harsh squeeze to your clit. Your lips tightened around the blunt and you moaned into the smoking stick, eyes screwing shut as your head collapsed back into the crook of his neck. He pressed a hasty kiss to your temple, and you knew that it was more of a branding than a gesture of adoration. You were his to cherish, exploit and discard, all at once.

“What, you gonna tell me you didn’t see that comin’?” he chuckled lowly, the mocking sound vibrating against the crown of your head. “Been actin’ the brat this entire time, just hopin’ I’ll shut you the fuck up, huh? Yeah, I heard ya—loud and clear, baby.”

Your lips tightened around the blunt as Ben brutalised the pace of his fingers between your folds, vigorously toying with your clit like it were the worn strings of the guitar he couldn’t seem to master the tuning of. Your lips tightened around the blunt as his finger prodded at just the right spot, an explosion of pleasure slinging your thighs into a weakened and sprawled mess. All control over your body seemed to retreat as you slumped further into his strong frame, which cocooned you like it were your last hope at survival. Oh, you were done for, all right.

“You like that, huh?” Ben cooed into your ear, his free hand sliding beneath your tank to grab ahold of your breasts. He palmed both in a rough, careless motion, then settled on one with a teasing pinch to your nipple. The combined stimulation of his toying at both ends rendered you so speechless that you couldn’t even salvage a coherent moan, so you laid there in complete arrest, succumbing fully to your boyfriend’s mean ministrations. “What, nothin’ to say now? Not even a fuckin’ please or thank you? I know chivalry died when I was buried on ice, but I didn’t think the women had lost their manners, too.”

In all honesty, you could barely comprehend your boyfriend’s words through your numbed haze. Your vision slurred into darkness as your eyes fluttered closed, your saliva beginning to seep into the blunt’s contents as your lips clutched it like a lifeline. Ben released your breast, but the weaving of his fingers down below didn’t stutter. You felt his free fingers graze both your temples in sequence, where his knuckle pushed back the foremost strands of hair that had slipped the keep of your ears. Your heart fluttered an inch at what you thought to be an intimate gesture—which he gifted very few and far between. But knowing the type of man Ben was should have clipped your wings of hope and had you grounded from the get-go.

Suddenly, his hand trailed through your hair and fastened through as many strands as he could collect. Then, with a smooth roll of his wrist, he twined it into a harsh grip, your neck arching at an angle you couldn’t have achieved out of free-will. A weak protest slurred within your throat, which made Ben utter a sound half way between a low laugh and a scoff—the sound so demeaning it flushed your cheeks red. His exploitation hurt—but at the same time, it felt so good, so much so that your body did anything but pull away from his touch.

“Now this is a view I can get behind—you, all pretty and practically fallin’ apart on my fingers,” Ben murmured, his head lowering to your ear so that the sharp button of his nose nuzzled at your temple. “Fuck, I could take you right here, right now,” he continued sultrily. “You want that, sweetheart? Want me to give you exactly what you’ve been cravin’ all fuckin’ day? All you gotta do is ask. Nicely, you know, stroke my cock with your good-doer attitude. That achievable for a brat like you, hm?”

For all the questions asked, you couldn’t offer one damn answer—not with your lips plugged by Ben’s newest fix. You moved a hand to reach for the blunt, eager to pave way for the word that would lay your urges to rest for the night, but the hand he’d buried between your legs were quick to come up and seize your wrist in disapproval. A hot, disgruntled tut from Ben streamlined your ear, but all you could focus on was the sudden barrenness between your legs, a cold neglect left in the wake of his hand.

You weren’t afforded the opportunity to mourn that loss for long before he had both your palms pinned flat onto the table in front of you, the hand in your hair tugging further so that your upper body became suspended within a ruthless game of tug and war. Only, the two contestants—both his hands—were playing for the same team. Ben’s. The advantage was far from yours.

“Dirty stunt,” he hummed almost admirably, his nose tracing your jaw to place a single, devouring kiss over the arch of your neck. You felt the way his lips lapped at your skin in a large motion, like he craved to garner every inch of you in that single touch. He solidified that point with a harsh nibble, the sort that would pucker your skin for a good few minutes, before he brought himself back to your ear. “You don’t get to use your words for this, baby. Your right to an opinion has been worn out for the day, and quite frankly, I’ve had enough of all your fuckin’ chitchat. You wanna get fucked, you’re gonna show me just how much y’want it,” he husked with a dramatic pause, then added in a low murmur, “with your body. Got that?”

With your head practically immobilised by his grip, you echoed a muffled mhm. Your response seemed to be satisfactory enough because he relented his hold—just enough to relieve your pipes so that breathing came with a little more ease.

“Atta girl. It’s gets my dick salutin’ when you’re all obedient,” he praised. His claim was firmly backed by the bulge you felt growing beneath you. It pressed between your thighs like a brash beckoning, and it was enough to cause all the heat that had dissipated between your folds to re-emerge in full force. “Well? The hell you waitin’ for?” He asked in a tone a lot louder—and firmer—this time around.

You pushed out a clueless noise, which made Ben shift a thigh beneath you. Suddenly, the bulk of his leg was hoisted up between your own, the blunt force striking your core at just the right angle that sent a jolt up your body. You gasped a breathless sound into the blunt, your teeth burrowing into the softening paper, and your eyes screwed shut with the pleasure currently coursing your entire being.

“Get that body o’ yours movin’, or we can call it a disappointin’ night,” he instructed. God, you couldn’t come up short after all you’d endured thus far, so instinctually, your hips began to roll against his thigh at a jagged pace, seeking out the only stimulation you could manage in your stilted position. “Yeah, that’s it,” he cooed. “All yours for the takin’, if you’ll hold out long enough to see fuckin’ rainbows. A lot like bein’ on a high, ain’t it? Got my own li’l addict in the makin’.”

He was right. Actually, you thought this felt a whole lot greater than sniffing a line that would simultaneously have you losing your sanity for a few hours. Desperate whimpers began to stew in your chest, polished with so much passion that the sounds felt saturated, almost animated. And Ben, he was devouring every second of it. You couldn’t glimpse enough of his face to say that, but going off of everything you knew about him, and how mean he liked to get with you, you absolutely knew that you were something akin to his own personal heaven right about now. Oh, he’d forsake every personal belief to follow the religion that was you—your undoing.

Almost as though your body had grown frustrated with all the prolonged teasing, your high came on at a rapid pace that made you chest heave in desperation. You felt the arousal bundle into a tightly-knit ball, just yearning to be yanked at by the singular thread that would make it come undone. But the satisfaction was plucked out of reach within seconds when Ben released the grip on your hair to grab at your thigh, forcing your hips to still against his leg. And just like that, the fire within was snuffed out.

Your lips fell loose in exhaustion, the blunt you’d been so loyal to finally making an escape and toppling into your lap. “Ben,” you pushed out frailly, the disappointment heavy on your brows.

“The nerve o’ you,” Ben scoffed, utterly dismissive of your feeble protest. He released your thigh to dip into your lap, and shortly after, he pulled up with the blunt in clutch, wasting no time in pressing it back between your lips. You fumbled with the paper for a few seconds before you finally took it in, but you knew your boyfriend would have something to show for your disobedience. “Yeah, you are a brat,” he said, the hand pinning your wrists suddenly tightening as he pulled your arms to one side, his other hand hooking around your inner thigh.

In one large and effortless motion, he managed to sling you over his lap, releasing your wrists so that you were able to grasp the legs of his chair for support. You clutched the blunt between your lips a little tighter, fighting the villainous pull of gravity, and stifled a moan at the sudden spank that struck the curves of your ass. The aftermath of that contact had your body contracted with a mixture of shock and painful arousal, air blowing from your nostrils like harsh gusts.

“Fuckin’ quiverin’ already?” He chuckled, his large palm smoothing up the fabric of your shorts until you felt every inch of your ass dimple under the cool air of the room. You felt utterly exposed. “Baby, I’m just gettin’ started with you.”

Oh, you were so fucked.

His palm came down for another assault, this time louder than the last. The raw contact echoed through the apartment, narcissistically suffocating the whimper that rattled your chest. Tears began to hoard along the rims of your eyes, but you blinked enough to scatter the moisture. You didn’t need to give him another kick out of this—some lingering stubbornness wouldn’t allow it.

“Fuck, all that noise o’ yours is makin’ me lose count,” Ben scoffed. He rubbed soothing circles over your aching skin, which no doubt glowered an angry red that should have made your boyfriend feel some ounce of sympathy. But then the next words left his mouth, and you knew then that the Supe had no concept of remorse. “Guess I gotta start right at the beginning.”

You braved yourself against the rest of his spanks, your legs drawing together more and more with each touch—not from a place of pain, but from hot, embarrassing enjoyment. The slick within your folds was hard to ignore now, and it seemed to have snagged Ben’s attention because he let up on the harsh punishment, his fingers finding way beneath your shorts and drenched undies. You felt his fingers play at your slick, dragging a line all the way down to your yearning entrance.

“It’s a damn oil slick up in here,” he chuckled, his thumb teasing circles at your hypersensitive clit. “Whaddya say I give her some love, hm?” His finger dipped an inch into your entrance, as if offering a measly taste of his proposal. You rocked your hips back into him as a reply, urgently seeking out the length of his fingers. He gave a low chuckle, and to your shock, actually indulged your plea. Maybe it was your reward for finally playing by his rules.

You weren’t going to fucking question it.

Your back arched by instinct as you felt his fingers prowl into your entrance, your hands clutching the wooden legs of his chair as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. The full force of multiple of his fingers should have coaxed forward some fleeting sense of pain, but you’d been so incredibly aroused for so incredibly long that your entrance welcomed him in like an open-house party. He pumped into you as deep as he could, an appreciative grunt leaving his lips as he revelled in your velvety warmth. His other hand came to wrap around the front of your neck, offering some much needed support as your strength began to collapse with each pump of his fingers.

Your whimpers became more frequent and dishevelled as he picked up the pace, his fingers curling at just the right angle. Every. Fucking. Time. Ben knew how to do the job well—a tactic that had you coming back time and time again, begging for more.

“That’s it, baby, you’re doin’ so good f’me,” he husked out, his own voice slightly abraded by exertion. The subtle breathlessness woven through his words spurred you on even further, making you feel some type of special with the knowledge that he was giving you his all. Just to see you break. Just so that he could put you back together with cherishing kisses.

It only took a few more pumps of his fingers to have your eyes clenching in wait, your lips throttling the blunt as his fingers curled right into your blooming bundle of pleasure. And then he struck it head on, causing an explosion of colour to invade your vision. For a few seconds, you couldn’t comprehend anything beyond your own ragged breaths, your ears ringing with the overwhelming aftermath of your high. You felt your juices trickle from your entrance, and you heard the squelching as Ben slowly retreated from your entrance.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” he chuckled with a minuscule, congratulatory pat to your ass. “That was one o’ your best runs yet. Think ya can handle one more round?” Ben murmured, releasing your neck to rub a soothing line down your back. You didn’t honestly think you could, and you felt the way every inch of your body ached in an answering protest, but something else tugged your chin into that subtle permission, and then the Supe had you hoisted up in his arms bridal style as he carried you to the bed.

He laid you onto the mattress rather gently, but the caution was instantly discarded as he flipped you over and tugged your hips sky-high. His fingers hooked under the hem of your shorts and undies, and he couldn’t have yanked them over the curves of your ass at a faster pace. Your garments were tossed to some other corner of the room, followed by the rustle of fabric as Ben freed his stoic erection. You heard him huff a breath of relief, and you glanced over your shoulder in time to see him whisk across his shaft with a hasty pump.

You met his eye patiently, making a point to pout around the blunt so that he couldn’t miss the visual image of your dedication to this wretched thing. It made him smirk with satisfaction, a hand coming forward to hook around your pelvis and tug you back an inch. You grunted at the rough yank, turning your head forward as you settled yourself into your folded arms. You felt his tip nestle between your ass before dipping down to glide with ease into your slicked entrance. Both his hands took up firm grip at your pelvis, his large palms fanning across your navel as he pummelled into you with a guttural noise.

“Fuck,” he spat, his length retreating only to return with a force more brutal than a last. His hands shifted across your ass, delivering a hard spank before they slunk up to the small of your back. There, he pushed your stomach into the mattress, and you burrowed further into the material with every possessive thrust of his hips. “You’re just the fuckin’ release I needed after this shitty day—and god, you never disappoint,” he breathed out.

You whimpered in response, pressing your forehead into the sheets as your fingers curled into the bedding. God, this man was overstimulating—he seemed to forget that your frail body was no match for his super-abled one. Or, he simply revelled in that fact. Either way, you were done for.

The blunt’s body quirked against your lips as you practically smothered it against the mattress, but you could hardly be arsed about that now. Ben’s figure came to hover over you, his clothed chest pressing into your back. His hands came up beside your head, frantically searching for yours, and once he found them, his fingers threaded between yours. He held you firmly as he spread your hands out in front of you, trapping you below him as he continued to drive you into the bed. The worn bed frame was creaking so loud that it was almost absurd, and you half expected one of the neighbours to blare a shut the hell up from the top of their lungs. But the only noises to be heard were the gruff moans spewing from Ben’s lips, and your own muffled whining.

The mattress wasn’t anything as fancy as memory foam, but you were sure that by now—with how brutalised Ben’s pace within you was—that the mattress would never forget. You supposed you both had that in common.

──────────────────────

a/n — i’m not gonna lie, i was starting to think this piece would NEVER see the light of day good gawd i think i have commitment issues. anyhoo, if you are a pro at making blunts, mind your business! 😭 i did a quick google search and rolled with it (pun unintended), so if something’s inaccurate you can blame google pls and ty LMAO. i’m just a non smoker girly trying to bring the drug-addled fantasies of loving soldier boy to life, as best as i possibly and very limitedly can. if this fic traumatised you im sorry (also you’re welcome). y’all know the drill, it’s 2 am—if there are typos; no there’s not.

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

tags — @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts

want to be apart of the taglist?

other works — the boys masterlist

© bluemerakis — do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.

[Stars]

Simon Riley who plays dirty. CW : threesome(?), technically cheating but no angst, pussy slap, mentions of masturbation.

Simon hates it when you touch yourself when he's away.

He knows you can't bring yourself the same pleasure he can. So he makes it a rule. No touching yourself unless he's present and has given you permission.

And it goes well for a while. You touch yourself a few times when you aren't supposed to, causing Simon to punish you. Which he enjoys more than he should.

Until you frustratingly become such a good girl, you refuse to touch yourself when Simon's away.

Simon tries everything to get you to fold, he sends you dirty texts, voice messages of him moaning as he stroked his cock, even videos of him stroking his cock. But nothing made you break.

So, he had to bring Johnny into the mix.

It wasn't unusual for Johnny to come by the apartment when Simon was away. Nor was his usual flirtatious personality.

But finding yourself on the couch underneath the scotsman was definitely unusual.

Your mind was mush, eyes rolling back. Johnny had you folded in half, one knee against your chest, the other leg being held over his shoulder.

"She tight as you thought, Johnny?" The familiar gravel of your boyfriend's voice spoke as he dropped his duffel bag by the door.

Your eyes snapped to Simon, your mouth opening to beg for his forgiveness, but whatever you were going to say dissolved into a whorish moan.

"S'fucking tight, LT. Why'd you have to keep 'er from me f'so long?" Johnny groaned.

"You know the rules, lovie. No touching yourself. Think that you could find a loophole by letting Johnny touch you instead?" Simon asked with a sadistic grin. Reaching between you and Johnny, pinching and rubbing at your clit.

"Hah~No! 'm sorry Si!" you beg, tears in your eyes a mix of guilt and pleasure.

"Shhh, no crying, lovie. Johnny's just trying to make you feel good while I was away. He was just taking care of my pet f'me" Simon chuckled, wiping away a stray tear.

You seem to realise that Simon and Johnny were in this together. That Simon wasn't mad at you.

Johnny leaned down and licked a tear off your cheek, growling low in his chest.

"C'mon mutt, you talked such a big game. Make her come like you told me you would" Simon demanded. Johnny nodded, his brows furrowed.

"come f'me Bonnie, come on. Come on my cock" Johnny moaned, pulling your hips flush against his own as he came deep inside you. Hot ropes coating your insides.

You nodded desperately, mouth dropping open and eyes rolling back as you orgasm. A scream of pleasure being ripped from your throat.

You pant and whine weakly as Johnny pulled out. Your eyes snapping open when you feel a harsh slap on your oversensitive cunt. Simon grinning down at you, fishing his cock from his jeans.

"No where near done yet, lovie"

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

just so everyone knows, requests are open! I get stuck for ideas sometimes, so I'd love to hear some of your guys' ideas!

I’m sorry but there is no reason for the Grinches mail box to be this unsanitary.

Surely they’d at least clean it. Imagine if whatever is in that got into the adjoining mailboxes. And one of them is the Mayors girlfriend. Or even just re assign it.

Okay Pegging ghost is great, but hear me out-

Soap teaching you how to properly fuck Ghost.

Feeling Soap's hands slipping over your hips, toying with the straps of your harness as his voice purrs in your ear, "Just like that, not too rough" Soap kisses your shoulder, "wants to pretend ya like him." Ghost tries to glare over his shoulder at the comment but you thrust into him and it makes his lashes flutter. He keeps stuffing his face back into the pillows with a groan of pleasure.

Each stroke of your hips pushing into Ghost means Soap's cock is pulled out of you, and you keep pulling out too fast just to push your hips back onto Soap's thick length. Which means Ghost keeps making choked noises under you and you keep losing focus on what you're supposed to be doing. So Soap has to grip your hips and move you himself. Fucking Ghost with your strap while he fucks you. Pretty toy caught between the two of them, nothing but a dildo for one and a fleshlight for the other...

The Box Pt. 2 (18+)

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader Pt. 1 Here cw: smut, squirting, dom/sub vibes, sex toys, dacryphilia, overstimulation, fingering, choking word count: 2k Reader faces her punishment for lying. First time writing smut. Be easy on me.

You saw the change in his eyes and your heart dropped. You knew not to lie, but you did it anyway for your own comfort and appeasement.

You kept talking, continuing as if all was well, him just replying with “mhm”. You knew it wasn’t. You knew that he knew it wasn’t.

He tricked you. Well, the branch tricked you. He figured it out. You lied. Four times, for that matter.

He looked you in your eyes. Not a smile in sight, his thumb no longer massaging your neck and his grip subtly tightening.

“Go get the box,” he commanded.

Fuck. Not the box.

“I can explain,” you pleaded.

“Try me,” he said. You didn’t know whether that meant you could go on with your explanation that you didn’t actually have or he would punish you more for not going to get the box the first time he told you to.

You use it as an opportunity to conjure up a response. Hopefully, one that’ll make him change his mind. Because, quite frankly, you were not at all prepared for anything he may do with any of the items from the box.

Lying was a major offense. But it was just for shits and giggles. Surely, he’d understand.

“I just wanted to spend more time with you. I like when you touch me,” you explained, your eyes wide and doe, trying to earn his sympathy.

“You like spending time with me?” he asked, more like a statement rather than a question. “And you like when I touch you?” he asked, using the same tone, keeping the same grip around your neck. He sounded like he was contemplating changing his mind.

You nodded your head slowly in response.

It really was an innocent act. You don’t normally get to spend this much time with him. He could get called into work at any point in time.

Hell. He could get called into right now. Which would work great to your benefit because that meant that you didn’t have to face the wrath of the box.

Actually. yeah.

Let’s hope he gets called into work.

Actually, no. You don’t mean it. You’d rather face the box and have him hold you down and torture your pussy for hours before leaving for another few months.

He looked at you, analyzing the plea in your eyes and the small pout on your face that you didn’t even notice was there. According to him, you subconsciously do it when you are trying to get out of something. It used to work, but it hasn't recently. Let's hope that it will today.

He scanned over your body, his free hand finding its way to your waist. His hand trailed lower and lower until it found its way to the band of your panties.

Your body shivered as he slid his calloused and rough hand past, making contact with your folds, all as he kept eye contact with you. Any time you tried to look away, embarrassed by what he’d find on his inspection, he quickly turned your head back to face him.

His hand trailed lower until he found what he’d been looking for, his middle two digits finding the pool of slick that was building up in your panties.

You didn’t think it would be that much, but when he brought his fingers up to your mouth and forced you to open, you realized you were wrong.

He removed his fingers from your mouth and used the hand that was once a collar to cup your face, his thumb on one cheek and his remaining fingers on the other. With the warmth of his hand and the feeling of his glare, you know the slick was pooling more with each millisecond that passed. He sat you up, making you get on your knees in between his legs.

He tilted your head to the side, slowly turning it to face the other way as he kissed down your neck. You couldn’t help but to let out the smallest moan. His lips soft against your skin and the warmth of his tongue just made you wish he would put it in other places.

But then suddenly, he stopped, and you felt his breath against your ear.

“Go. Get. The box,” he commanded, though his voice was much more brute.

And to no surprise, he hadn’t turned your head for easy access to your neck. It was to face the location of the box that sat in the back of the closet that you had been facing as you were enjoying his mouth on your neck.

Fuck, you thought.

He had practically thrown you off of him, giving you no choice but to obey his demands.

You walked as slowly as you could, trying to distract yourself from what’s to come. Or in better words, from who’s to come.

“Every second you waste is another minute added to your time,” he said from behind you.

Damnit. He had a time prepared. Even worse.

He knew all of your antics. It didn't matter what you did or what you said. He would always catch on.

You scrambled through the closet to uncover the infamous box. It wasn’t anything special. It was just a brown box that held every sex toy that Simon loved to torture you with.

And you couldn’t bank on any of them dying, while he tortured you because he always kept them charged.

The minimum time with a device: two hours.

He’s done it before. Using a device on you until it died. You were just about to come, and then the vibrations got lighter and lighter until they were no more. You whined, but best believe Simon had something else for you.

You shamefully walked the box to him and put it on the bed. Maybe he was feeling nice and would let you choose.

Wrong.

He pulled you onto the bed and immediately instructed you to remove all of your clothing.

It didn’t take long as you only had on a large t-shirt and your panties.

He watched as you removed your panties, the strands of slick elongating as you pulled them down.

“Give them to me,” he commanded, holding his hand out.

You did as you were told and now you were over him, fully naked, with your wetness practically dripping down your thigh. He admired you in all your glory, and he couldn’t wait to watch you squirm and plead as he tortured you.

You went to him, straddled over his thigh and your head on his shoulder, a tear about to slide down your face.

The last time you lied, your pussy was sore for two days.

He slowly trailed his hand up and down your spine. He could feel your puddle of slick through his pants. His other hand opened the box, rummaging through its contents.

The more he dug, the closer you came to sobbing.

And you did once he pulled out the first device.

The wand.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed. But it wasn’t enough. He continued to rummage through as your tears fell onto his shoulder. He couldn’t care less. You were only apologizing because you got caught. And now you had to pay.

Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.

You should’ve learned your lesson the first time.

He pulled out the bar that kept your legs spread apart, something he got after you kept closing your legs before. Then, he pulled out the ropes. What he would do with them, you wouldn’t know. And lastly, he pulled out the homemade makeshift thigh holster, used to keep whatever device perfectly planted on your clit no matter how much you moved.

In combination with the bar, you weren’t going anywhere, and neither was the wand.

He gathered everything and put them in the pile beside himself. He tended to you for the last time before his wrath began.

“Don’t cry,” he said, wiping away your tears. His voice was tender. Comforting. it was possible he would be more gentle with you than you thought.

“If you hadn’t lied, you wouldn’t be in this predicament,” he antagonized, placing a kiss on your cheek that perfectly coated his lips with your salty tears.

He pried you off of his leg and arm and laid you in front of him. There was nothing you could do now other than to comply. That way, he’ll see you’re being a good girl and maybe end his torture early.

You sniffled as he locked your legs in place with the bar, your ankles perfectly placed in the straps.

“Give me your arms,” he calmly demanded. and you obeyed.

He tied the rope to the bar and then to your arms. The more you struggled, the more your pussy was exposed. And last but not least, the thigh holster, accompanied by its friend. The wand that you dreaded. You wouldn’t even use it while he was away. It was too powerful. You couldn’t last two minutes with coming and the overstimulation was too much to bear.

He angled the wand perfectly on your clit, making you squirm around. You tried to get away or at least move it so it wouldn’t be as torturous, but you couldn’t, making you softly whine.

All this and he still has your panties in his hand. You thought he would have thrown them on the ground with your t-shirt by now.

He gently trailed his thumb up and down your folds for a little before he got up from the bed, licking your slick from his thumb.

He turned your body and pulled it to face the edge of the bed. You worried if you moved too much, you might fall off, but Simon wouldn’t let that happen. He’d ram his dick into you to send you jolting back before he let you hit the ground.

He admired the view of your pussy before he came beside you, sitting on the bed and gently stroking your cheek.

“Simon, I said I’m sorry,” you pleaded. But he still didn’t care. You were already tied up. There was no way out.

“What are your colors?” he proceeded to ask, disregarding everything you had just said.

“Red. Yellow. Green,” you said, hoping the eye contact would make him loosen up a bit. Or maybe the tear that slid down the side of your face would do it.

It didn’t.

“Good girl,” he said, placing a kiss on your forehead and quickly stuffing your panties in your mouth, forbidding you from speaking. More tears rolled down the sides of your face. The flashbacks were coming in all too well.

“I love you,” he told you, before he set the wand to the highest setting it could go, already having you arch your back, squirming around to try to run away from it.

Your efforts were of no use. There was no running from this. He watched as your pussy cried with you, streams flooding onto the bedsheets.

He ran his fingers through your folds, sometimes sending them into your hole, preparing it for what was to come next. It just added to the stimulation, and you weren’t sure how much more you could take. It had only been two and a half minutes and you had already come.

Simon was silent as he watched you struggle. He loved seeing you try to run away. Your hands reaching for the wand to pull it away, but you simply couldn’t reach. He just played with your pussy as the wand worked its magic on your clit.

To stretch you out more, he took out the dildos, smallest to largest, the smallest still being enough for you to whine and arch your back in pleasure.

Every time you came, he changed the size of the dildo that was inserted into you. It had been ten minutes, and you were only on dildo two out of seven. After seven, you had to face the final boss.

Simon.

Little did you know, he would cycle through the dildos until your squirt made a puddle on the floor, edging and overstimulating you at the same time.

Then you’d be ready to take his dick.

Pt. 3

Simon Riley who doesn't talk you through it. He talks her through it. CW : dirty talk, rough sex, sloppy/dirty sex.

The first time you slept with Simon, you loved how he talked dirty to you.

The second time you slept with Simon, you realised he wasn't talking to you. No, he was speaking to her.

"There she is" Simon groaned as he bottomed out inside you. You felt his thumbs pulling your sticky folds apart; a shiver running down your spine at the cold air hitting your clit.

"Y'taking me so good, huh?" Simon growled at your cunt, starting to thrust his hips forward over and over at a toe curling pace. "Oh poor baby. All hard and swollen from how good 'm making y'feel?" he grinned wolfishly, his thumb starting to lazily circle your clit.

"S-Si plea-se!" you whined. Your begging making Simon chuckle.

"Shhh, lovie. 'M trynna talk to her" Simon groaned; his thrusts only getting harder.

You whined and squirmed as Simon practically ignored you in favour of your cunt. But he occasionally leant down to lick some sweat from between your tits. Only making your brain all the more mushy.

"So wet, hm? What a pretty little cunny for me" Simon grunted. Grinning when he feels you clench around him. "she loves it when I compliment her, love" Simon growled, pinching your clit to get your eyes to focus back on him.

"Think she wants to come for me baby, but she's so wet and full she can't beg f'it. Why don't you beg for her? Beg to let your wet little cunny come" Simon demanded. The tip of his cock grazing that perfect spot inside you. Making you scream.

"Please! Please please please, Si! Let her come! P-Please let my cunny come! She's been good!" you sob in pleasure, your legs trembling on Simon's shoulders.

"alright, baby" Simon chuckled. "Go on. Come for me. Let her gush all over my cock" he growled. And you did. You came harder than you ever have.

Simon growled and buried himself as deep as he could while he came. And you whined when he pulled out.

"was such a good girl for me" Simon told your cunt. Pressing a kiss to your sensitive, wet clit. chuckling at how your thighs twitched from the overstimulation.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

simon who gets off on your pretty face… literally

your eyes sparkle up at him, diamonds cutting through the pretty iris, your plush, swollen lips grinning up at him. it dimples your cheeks, swells the apples that flush in a sweet pink.

and his cock slaps, tapping at that pink and drags, dragging against your skin nice n hot. it was crude, letting him bathe you down with the flushed length of him, letting him drag and slide his cock over your pretty face.

“stop grinnin’, bun,” he chuckles, taking the pretty pearls of precum n dragging em cross your lips in a pasty lipgloss. “not fillin’ your mouth tonight.”

you pout, letting your tongue catch at the sensitive tip of his cock, sucking the sweetness off your lips with a soft moan. and it has simon sucking his teeth, eyes taking you in with some kind of supernova, your sweet impurity breaking him down.

and he pats at your face with his freehand, digging the ball of his hand up into your cheek with a sick satisfaction, watching your skin pull and face drag up with his touch.

“keep it closed, you hear me?” he snarks, grabbing you suddenly at the back of the neck and pressing himself further into your cheek lewdly. “always so fuckin’ greedy.”

not until you tell me to, sir

priceghost blurb do we want a series based off of simon being a nasty mutt for price? an interesting dynamic with more secret interesting dynamics CW: blood/violence, but nothing explicit (i think)

510 words

simon riley was a dog. not a dog in the way that a shih tzu was a dog, pliant and soft and meant for nothing but lounging, nor in the way a blue heeler was a dog, bred for farms and herding the disobedient and obeying rules. no, he was a dog in the way that a wolf crushed bones between its teeth, blood dripping down its jaw and fragments of bones in its fur. he was a dog in the way that the most vicious outcasts were called mutts and thrown aside by the pliant, the obedient, the snobbish and the classy.

and simon riley had been pushed away. he had been sent to unit after unit, never really finding anyone that could deal with the potent blood lust that oozed from him on missions or the sticky air of death that seemed to cling to him more than his own skin did. he had seen true violence, felt most of it. meat hooks through ribs and dirt in lungs did quite a bit to change a man. he couldn't be blamed for his violence. couldn't be blamed for the decay that trailed behind him or the blacked-out reports that seemed to blossom from his name.

john price didn't blame him. he had also seen true violence. been in the gulag with the hardest of criminals, learned that "special forces" meant "illegal and immoral on a good day" quick, and was okay with that fact. he had long since accepted the blood that would forever stain his skin, no matter how hard he scrubbed. there would always be flesh, rot, bone, blood under his nails.

maybe that's why he didn't shy away from touching simon riley. all those years ago when the man walked into his office after a mission, john didn't try to get the man to leave. the blood on simon's jaw blended with the blood on john's hands, and in the end, they couldn't tell when the carnage they carried became carnage from their own flesh.

from an outsider looking in, it was hard to place the relationship between the two. simon and that scot with the mohawk sure seemed close, but to the keenest eye, they both had something a little darker that they didn't let the other in on. a little too quick to bite, a little too happy to ignite. john and that pretty one with the hat also seemed a little too touchy for just friends, but they were both too sharp in the eye for each other. needed too much control to truly function well.

it wasnt until a video call with shepherd that anyone understood how john was able to get so close to the bloodthirsty jas of simon without getting bitten.

"keep that mutt of yours on a leash, john. he keeps sniffing in places he ought not to."

john scoffed and grabbed simon's jaw. he shook his head a bit, a smirk on his lips. "you don't bite, do you boy?"

"not until you tell me to, sir."

kneeling is a broad term for what ghost does with price

surrendering is slightly more accurate but even that doesn’t hope to touch the sheer desperation in the way he clutches at him; his body bowed low at his feet, his legs latched around one of his, hugging it so tightly to his chest his arms shake as he digs his face into his thigh

it’s only here that he can finally give in to the screaming; to the distant voice he strangles into silence every day of his life. the one who begs him to make himself as small as possible; do everything he can to hide from the ever encroaching demons growling and salivating at his heels

it’s only here, in the dark of price’s barracks, hidden by a bed at his back and a wall to his front, that he finally lets himself stop running; only between solid combat boots and worn fatigues does he let himself tremble and admit to the choking fear

he’d break open price’s chest if he could; crawl past his gushing viscera and curl up under his ribs, hidden in the warm dark

ghost clawed his way out of the grave with broken nails and gritted teeth but he wouldn’t mind being buried again if it meant being cradled in the safety of price’s insides. his warm blood and soft lungs would blanket him, mask the stench of his rotten flesh until he could even convince himself that, maybe, he too was still alive

he shifts, unnerved by his own longing, and price runs his hand over the crown of his mask the same way he’d card it through his hair until he settles once more

he grounds him over the long hours it takes for his white-knuckled grip to relax into a loose hold; for his face to stop grinding into the meat of his thigh and simply rest in his lap, his bracketing legs the only thing holding his lax body up as he floats, untethered by fear

first post is a pile of men

Ghost doesn't cutesy talk cats, he talks to them like other adult men and it's hilarious.

They're at a safehouse, and Ghost is listening to the radio, Price hears him talking to someone, and he's confused because both of his sergeants are conked out asleep.

So, he walks around the corner and finds Ghost sitting on a step with the radio playing and a stray kitten biting his laces while he talks to her. "I don't believe shoelaces constitute part of a balanced diet."

John just sits down on the step next to him and ignores how his knees click. "What's her name?"

"She's yet to disclose name or rank, but given that she's clearly smarter than those two through there, I'd say she's a lieutenant." He responds so dryly that John can't help but snort.

"Ah, I see. Making her way through the ranks at her young age, impressive." He leans forward to pet the kitten, flattening down the tuft of fur sticking up on her head.

"She's a hard worker, look at those paws. Grubby, she's been busy."

The kitten offers them a mewl in response, and he nods accordingly.

"She's stern, reminds me of Laswell."

That makes Ghost laugh.

Don't let modernity take the magic out of your life. Allow yourself to see the world as a beautiful place, a place you belong in, one that you were made for.

Even though I’m certain this absolute LEGEND of a man isn’t on here, I need to make his public service act known

So bus etiquette: if you are on ft, at the very least, put headphones on. This bloke in a yellow jacket did not follow this etiquette. He was talking very loudly with his mate and they were blasting music through the call. But it wasn’t on full volume.

But instead of interrupting his call and being rude, an older bloke (we’ll call him vape guy) just started playing his own music louder. Yellow Jacket glared at him and turned his volume up and this utter LEGEND pulls out a portable speaker, connects his phone, and blasts his own music. Tbf it was shit music but it was purposefully shit and it’s quarter to 2 on a Wednesday afternoon there weren’t any kids around.

Yellow Jacket then hangs up his call and pulls out his own speaker and blasts his music again. Vape Guy turns his up. This entire time they have been staring at each other and haven’t blinked.

Vape Guy took a puff of his vape, and turned it up LOUDER. Yellow Jacket got off the bus and Vape Guy put his headphones in.

Vape Guy deserves a pride of Britain award and a knighthood for services to the British public.

Lin Manuel Miranda is our generations version of Shakespeare.

Both of them have/had wildly successful careers, popping up all over the place with random things, interactions with the Queen of England, and one of their most known theatre performances was based on a book (Romeo and Juliet / Hamilton)

nsfw. price who takes pride in how well he takes care of his missus. it’s your world and he’s just living in it baby!

there’s not a day that goes by where you aren’t fucked and fed properly. will go to great lengths to make your life as easy as possible, which includes being selfless. which is why when he goes on long work trips he’ll ask one of the boys to take good care of you until he gets back. preferably simon; johnny is much too eager, and gaz is too much of a sweetheart to rough you up just how you like. he can’t bare the thought of having his girl waking up to an empty bed. which why he’ll leave simon with the keys to your home and a heavy pat on the back.

“I’ll be back in a few days. keep her entertained for me, will ya? if she starts getting fussy just means she’s due for a proper fucking. she’s a restless little thing. take good care of her now, yeah? I’ll be expecting updates.”

can he sit on your dash for a minute?? he'll be very polite :]

A meeting in the past.

Art by aleksvarh (instagram)

This speaks to the youngest child + Price lover in me imma need this as a full fic NOW pretty pretty please xx

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."

fucking help me

May i request Soap and Reader dry humping eachother when LT ghost walks in??🥺🥺

[yes i saw the post and ITS A NEED, only if u wanna ofc <3]

Yes ofc! :))

I'll make an assumption and just continue from that thought :P umm i didn't want to give the reader a callsign im sorry if that makes this bad😭🙏

ghost didn't sleep well most nights. most nights were made of pacing around, or zoning out by the common room's television. and that was his plan that night as well.

he thought that it would be peaceful like any other night, and maybe even more so, if his two sergeants had got worn out from their ride.

but as he made his way down the hallway from his room, and got closer to the common room, strange noises hit his ear.

now, with hesitance, but also curiosity, ghost slowly walked to the end of the hallway.

and he certainly wasn't expecting the scene in the common room.

his two sergeants. his two soldiers, rutting against each other, on the common room's couch. the lieutenant had to hold back a chuckle at the sight, the pair were going at it like desperate animals.

unsurprisingly, soap was making noise like a whiny puppy. not like his pretty sergeant wasn't whimpering at the feeling as well. the dirty mutt soap, was ruining his pretty sergeant. making her pussy wet, without enough effort to make her cum.

ghost couldn't quite see, but he could bet there was soaking wet spots on their uniforms.

soap was moving carelessly, thinking with his cock, and only for his cock. his dog brain couldn't process what a pretty thing he was rutting against. what a pretty cunt, that deserved to have her fill as well.

the scotsman was only getting louder, and closer to his release. ghost felt his cock throb in his sweatpants. god, was he hard. but he couldn't just watch from the side, as his pretty soldier was getting neglected.

soap should be thankful. he should be on his knees, begging to get a taste of their pretty girls pussy.

but no. the mutt didn't have any manners. he needed to be put in his place.

neither of the dummies noticed when he walked closer, too distracted for their own good.

ghost's big, calloused hand quickly reached out, and grabbed onto the scotsman's sweaty mohawk, yanking his head up to look at him. soap immediately stilled, a confused and spooked.

"l-lt... hey..." soap nervously chuckled, still panting.

ghost glared down at soap, his cold eyes focused on his. ghost kept a tight grip on his hair, and looked down at his pretty sergeant, laying beneath soap. she looked just as frightened as soap, scared of being in trouble.

"selfish, ain't he?" it was more of a statement, than a question. soap pouted at his lieutenants words.

ghost smirked, as his pretty soldier shyly nodded her head. his free hand reached down, and brushed strands of her hair off her forehead.

ghost just looked down at her for a moment, before turning back to soap. he yanked on soap's hair again.

"get off of her, sergeant." ghost murmured deeply.

soap scrambled to back away from in between her legs. there was a obvious bulge on his cargo pants, with a wet spot forming on top.

ghost meanly chuckled at his submission. the lieutenant turned his head down again, looking down at his pretty sergeant. his hand traveled down, cupping her crotch. it was warm, a little moist too. most of it probably from soap.

his pretty soldier whimpered at the touch, shyly curling up.

"bet yer wearing something pretty underneath..." ghost murmured into her ear, his hot breath hitting her skin.

ghost turned to glare at soap. "and he didn't even think to take a look..." he continued.

soap was panting at the other end of the coach, his dick hard in his pants, as he tried not to touch himself. his lieutenant had caught them. he had caught his sergeants, rutting against each other like animals in heat.

and he didn't yell. he didnt file for transfers. he didn't punish them... well, this probably was soaps punishments, to watch from the side, while their lieutenant touched the precious girl's pussy.

ghost opened his pretty sergeant's pants, and pulled them down her thighs. underneath, she was wearing pretty, white panties. ghost chuckled at the sight. a wet patch on the panties, making them transparent, and revealing her sweet pussy. nice puffy lips, and a little bush above her hard nub.

ghost looked up at soap again. "take off 'er trousers, sergeant." he commanded him.

soap scrambled to pull down the other sergeants pants, as his commanding officer stared down at him. once her pants were thrown to the side, soap was face to face with her white panties. before he even knew it, ghost's hand had pushed his head down, his face down against her clothed pussy.

their pretty sergeant squealed at the sudden feeling of soap's nose pressing on her clit, with his hot breath hit her fluttering hole.

"lick it, mutt." ghost's commanded in his deep voice.

the scotsman's tongue immediately got to work, licking up and down the panty covered pussy, the wet patch only getting bigger with soap's saliva. he didn't care if he couldn't breathe properly, he'd gladly die just there.

ghost had to hold down their whimpering soldier, as she squirmed around. her chest moved with her heavy breathes, her legs twitching at the feeling of a hot tongue on her pussy.

"l-lieutenant..." she whimpered. ghost reached down and brushed her cheek with his thumb.

"good girl. ya wanna cum?" ghost asked, an amused smirk behind his mask. she nodded franticly and desperately, making ghost chuckle. soap must've been listening, his tongue moving faster on her. her pretty, white panties have long gone transparent from his dirty spit.

the lieutenants dark eyes averted for just a moment, only to see his sergeant humping the coach underneath him. what a dog.

both of them were near again. only this time, ghost was here. somebody to make sure, that both of them were taken care of. his own dick was hard as fuck too. he almost couldn't wait to go back to his room, and rub the hell out his cock.

but in this moment, he needed to only focus on them. they were too stupid for their own good. they were lucky it was him who caught them. this could've gone so much worse. they were lucky he was even letting them cum.

ghost snapped out of his thoughts, as his sergeants only got louder. they needed to be over with this quickly, it was only the matter of time, until somebody else walked into the common room.

ghost pushed soap's head down again, his big nose hitting her hard clit. that did it for her, making her cum. arching her back, whimpering, and shaking. soap wasn't far behind. his hips stilled, as he came in his pants. soap lifted his head, his face moist with the mix of her juices and his saliva. their pretty sergeant laid there, twitching and breathing heavily, almost limp.

soap sat up, the front of his cargos, soaked with his cum. ghost chuckled at the sight.

"how's the adrenaline rush now?"

idk i dont have the smut talent that these kind of writings need😭

Hiii, could I get a carrot cake and churros with a side of root beer with john price? Thank you sm 🫶🫶

bakery menu

want to suggest your own order? check out the menu! there are tons of options to choose from! i write for fandoms outside of call of duty so please check it all out! mean!price has my heart! he doesn't have time for whiny subs so he just shoves it in your throat to shut. you. up. i hope you enjoy!! <3

carrot cake ("swallow it. all of it.") + churros ("if you don't shut that little mouth of yours, i will stuff it full. okay?") + root beer (filming/recording) served by capt. john price (call of duty)!

cw: smut/pwp, oral sex (price receives), rough sex, mean dom!price, facials, cock slapping, dirty talk, implied baby trapping, american solider!reader, power dynamics, implied daddy issues, manipulation

"you like this, don't ya? ya like when you have a camera in your face. ya fuckin' attention whore." price said in a dangerous tone.

you looked up at him with a mouth full of his cock. this wasn't how a soldier should be. they should stand with pride for their country, not have their commander's leaky cock run across your face, smearing clear pre-cum across the bridge of your nose. price liked when he got the sticky substance all over your face. only second to having it stuffed into your aching pussy. bareback of course, if you got pregnant then there was a nice little cottage out in the countryside of england where you can raise the little one(s).

"captain." you panted, almost heaving from the lack of oxygen, "why are you filming me?" your bottom lip wobbled a little.

"sweet fuck, baby girl." he said as he shoved his cock up into your face, almost slapping you in the eye, "if you don't shut that little mouth of yours, i will stuff it full till you pass out. okay? now be good." and groaned when you started to suck him off again.

you craved approval, since your transfer from america to england. you had be eager to impress the older captain. you had seen how decorated he was. which was why you were eager to let him be so intimate with him. at first it was quick fucks once in a while in empty offices or storage closets. and while it was all fun and games (that fed your weird daddy issues), price wanted more. price had learned from his time in the forces to not let a good thing pass him by.

to keep anything in the military, it meant digging your nails into it. marking it, branding it as your own. and you had a little 'j' on your thigh. price's mark on you, or the only one you had for now. just as price's filthy words stung you in an erotic way, his praise built you up.

"you look good on your knees. always so eager to do more. you're a greedy girl, but that's what i like about ya. starvin' for me. knowin' i'll give it to ya."

you whined in response. fuck, you were perfect. price felt like he needed to give laswell the nicest bottle he could get for transferring you so far away from your home base. where you easily fell into price's arms and let him bully your tender throat.

he already bruised the skin with bites, might as well bruise the inside too. let your voice grow hoarse and need to rely on him more. his goal was to have you dependent on him. but, all things came with time.

"perfect girl for me. i bet they'll love this." his voice was low. you still didn't know why 'they' were.

regardless, you looked up at him and the camera, spit around your mouth. picture perfect. you looked better when you weren't asking questions, running your mouth when you should be using it for other things. you squirmed from your spot on the floor, shifting your knees. it hurt being on the hard ground for so long, but you'd be staying there until price was done with you. or finally broke and needed that sweet cunt of yours.

in reality, he was filming you for his team. he had been talking (gloating) about the solider who is more eager to be on her knees than fight. he talked about how he could probably break your neck if he choked you hard enough or suffocate you on his cock. not that price would ever do that. no, no, his little transfer was needed for something much better.

carrying on the price name. tonight he wasn't going to touch your pretty pussy, he knew you were wet from the sight of the phone in your face. but he had to make you more desperate, that you'd throw caution (protection) to the wind and let price decorate your insides with his seed. the video tonight was a teaser for his boys, to show what is possible to get with hard work and determination. all that ra-ra bull crap to keep his team motivated. that if they were good and played their cards right, then a little bird would easily be theirs.

price knew he worked with a few womb bruisers, and he wasn't an exception.

not the price wanted to share you, but he knew you had some friends back in the states. and maybe they'd as easily charmed as you were. they build 'em nice in america, perfect for a brute like the ones on 141. he continued to fuck your mouth, letting you drool and make a mess of his cock.

the camera was a little shaky, and you had a hard time focusing on it in front of you. it wasn't meant to be professional. it was more a showcase of the capabilities of the united states forces. loyal to country and the cock put in their faces. it was cute.

"why don't you tell the boys 'ello." price chuckled as if you could talk. he'd be surprised if you could forma thought right now that wasn't the eight inches of cock in your throat. that's alright, the future mrs. price didn't need to be thinking. let your husband do all the talking and thinking, okay? you just sit there pretty with the kids.

you opened your eyes a little and made a small noise. everything felt on high alert, over saturated to hell and it made your head throb. your cunt was almost cramping from the need to have price inside of you. messing up your poor pussy. but right now you'd have to settle on having your mouth used. and you wouldn't dare try to touch yourself, it was better to be on price's good side than bad.

"yeah, there she is. still got some brains left in her." price chuckled as he pinched your cheek with his rough hand, "c'mon, darling. give the boys a smile."

you tried to smile with cock in your mouth and it made price even more turned on. always so perfect. no wonder they let you into the armed services, you were obedient like a dog. your smile dropped as price fucked your face even faster.

you brain couldn't keep up with your movements, you were like a toy to price. and that was how he liked you, blissed out and used for his pleasure. he also used you for his aggression when the shooting range was clothes. it was almost the same, he wasn't firing blanks either way.

price pulled out and stroked his cock quickly to cum on your tongue, but missed for the most part and got it all over your face. he groaned and relaxed, the phone almost tumbled out of his hands. "swallow it. all of it." he said, expecting you to clean up his mess. old man couldn't even cum straight. he patted your cum covered face while you tried to get it off your skin before it dried.

the captain got close into your face with the camera, showing how the creamy cum gleamed on your skin. he took you by the jaw and chuckled, "ah, there she is. pretty girl." you whined and he added, "see boys, take good care of 'em, you won't go runnin'. now darling what do we say the captain when he makes ya feel good?"

you opened your eyes a little, a rivet of cum went down your lips as you said, "thank you captain price." and was met with a rough pat on the cheek.

price stopped filming, putting his phone to the side. a pretty blissed out thing on the floor of his office deserved a reward. instead of carpet burn on your knees, it was going to be all over your back. <3

Ahh I love the food thing that you got asked <3 food can have such a special place in our lives it's so precious

Ya think Hound develop concerning eating habits due to Makarov? Due to the whole stressful situation

I just want someone in the 141 to cook him a meal, filled with love and care, maybe Hound is in the kitchen watching them cook it for his own security.

I just want him to have a nice meal 😔

-🐙

I do feel like Hound would have some food hoarding habits or just distrust about eating something he didn't make himself. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten drugged through food...

But the 141 making food communally would be a fun idea lol so here's a quick brain fart :D :

You feel out of place. Well, you're always out of place, but you feel especially out of place sitting at the table while Soap and and Gaz busy themselves by the stove, Price humming to himself to the side as he gets the mugs to make tea. Ghost sits next to you grumbling under his breath, both of you in 'time-out' — you hadn't done anything (save for not being trusted around anything sharp), it's Ghost that had gone and microwaved beans in the can. Now Johnny swears up and down the microwave is possessed.

Your eyes flicker between Soap and Gaz, watching them cook you don't even know what. The only British 'cuisine' you know of is the cremated steaks Price would sometimes make you before. . . that. But nothing the two are making smells nearly as bad as the charred hockey pucks Price would feed you and Simon.

"Hey!" Your brought out of your thoughts in time to see Kyle swat away Price's hand with his spatula. "Don't you dare cap! I'm not about to get rained on because of your bad cooking." You hadn't considered Gaz could take charge, too soft in your eyes, but you're surprised by how tight of a ship he runs when he's by the stove.

"Alright, alright." Price huffs while Ghost lets out an amused huff. He's not quite laughing, but you can see the subtle tremor of his shoulders in silent laughter.

That gets Soap to point a spoon in Ghost's direction. "Oh yer one te fockin' giggle. Mr. 'ah cursed the damn microwave with me beans'."

"Sod off." Simon grunts, but there's no edge to his words. Soap tuts, but soon enough starts off rambling about something you're not quite able to follow along to when your eyes once again focus on where their arms are, how they move, paying especially close attention any time they rest them by their sides (even though realistically you doubt they'd try to drug the same food they'd eat).

You still tense when you feel Price's hand on your back, only now noticing that you'd started hunching your back, your shoulders raised closer to your ears. "You're alright, straighten your spine, sweetheart." His voice is calm, his hand warm as he applies gentle pressure on your back until you straighten back out. "There you go, good man." He rumbles, hand going up to ruffle your hair before he pulls away before his touch can turn into stinging pain to your skin.

You blink as a plate full of food is placed in front of you. The food smells good and doesn't look like it had been cremated, made with care you don't deserve. "I. . ." You don't know why but your throat feels clogged, like someone had poured hot tar into your mouth and forced you to swallow, the collar around your throat constricting your breathing even more.

Simon's shoulder bumps into yours, "If you don't eat that I will." The childish threat makes you breathe out a small laugh.

"Aye, the bastard's like Henry the hoover, he'll eat anything." Soap supplies as he sits down opposite of you with his own plate. Though you get the impression he's talking about himself when he stabs a sausage with a fork and almost inhales the entire thing.

"Mhm," You grunt, taking the fork. "I don't doubt it." You stab a piece of black pudding. It tastes earthy, but the small coppery tang of blood sizzles down your nerves, but fuck it tastes good.

"Look at that, is it good?" Kyle chuckles as he watches your facial features shift as you swallow the food, his own face that of pride like he already knows your answer, but you nod your head all the same.

Once, you were part of a taskforce with John Price as your captain. Once, you were his right hand, the one who looked up to him and stuck by him through hell or high water. But a botched mission landed you in Makarov's 'care'. You tried to hold out for Price, you waited, and waited, and waited. But help did not come, your loyalty repaid with betrayal.

Now you're Makarov's dog. You bark when he tells you, you shoot when he orders, and you bite out the throat of whoever he wants. And he's there to wipe the crimson off your cheeks and lick the blood staining your teeth, rewarding your loyalty with his attention and sweet pleasure. Once his touch would have made disgust curl under your skin, but now your body craves it like a drug. You are his after all, his good dog.

His Hound.

Chapter 1: Good Dog

Playlist if anyone wants it lol

This some good shit right here

MDNI

not developed idea at all but thinking about Ghost torturing some crime lord or other and he’s using the man’s wife as leverage. Gun to her head as she cries and shakes, tied up on the floor of the concrete room, begging her husband to help her.

Ghost gives the man a choice; his life, or hers. His lip curls beneath the mask when the man chooses his own life.

“Shouldn’t treat y’wife that way.” He says coldly. “Bad for you, yeah? Happy wife, and all that.”

The bullet lands exactly where he means it to go; between the bloke’s eyes. Blood trickles down his forehead, body slackens in the restraints holding him. The pretty thing on the floor screams. Thrashes and thumps her tied wrists off his legs while she curses him out.

“Thank you wouldn’t hurt,” he rumbles dryly. “Would’ve been you if your man had his way. Up you get, c’mon.”

He pulls her to her feet, brushes her down with lingering hands. Smooths over her hair and thumbs away the tears. The mask shifts, like he’s frowning.

“Calm down, y’fine. Not going to shoot you.” He doesn’t trust her to walk alongside him nicely, so he lifts her over his shoulder with a pat to her arse. “Alright, ‘bout time we get you home. Spare rooms a tip so we’ll be sharing the bed, mind.”