she/her 23 mdni - tw: the stuff i write is def not cohesive. honestly i daydream a lot and sometimes i write. it is mostly to indulge myself tho. gaz d**k rider through and through. leah clearwater is my baby x ♓️
size kink but reader isn’t actually small. You’re small compared to him.
And it throws you off a little bit, because you know you’re about or above average in height. You have a little weight on you, and it all mixed together with that gorgeous face that makes the man swoon just from eyeing you up across the bar.
It’s maybe your first time dating a man who you really have to look up to. Hes tall, broad shoulders, a large chest and amazing muscles. He’s the type you can easily spot in a crowd, who will take your hand in his large one and lead you through the mess of a busy Sunday market. Loves looking down on you and rubbing at all your curves while hugging you from behind. He’ll whisper it while kissing along your neck.
“So fuckin small, so fuckin pretty.” He grumbles.
But you’re not small, but he makes you feel like it. Everytime he lifts you off your feet you get spooked because he sweeps you off your feel like you weight a crumb. How he towers over you when he flirts or reaches for something past you. His shirts actually going mid thigh and barely coving your ass. How he measures where his cock is gonna reach in your pudgy stomach—
you two play fight a lot because you swear you can take him on. He’s not that much taller than you. Do you end up getting bent in half, knees to your earlobes, like it’s nothing?
Every fucking time.
Everytime he has to break you in like you’re a born again virgin, his large fingers stretching out your dripping tight walls till he smacks his leaking mushroom tip against you, rubbing through your sloppy folds. He slowly ruts himself inside you, with the power of patience, till it feels like hes stuffed you full. It’s almost a disappearing act the way you take his thick veiny cock.
“ Hah- ‘s not all the way there Mama, come on baby, biiig stretch.”
And he fills you to the hilt, till he feels his balls smack against you, covering your body completely, his large weight pressing against you ever to perfectly. your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, letting out a pornographic moan. You clench around him making him his. He presses into your stomach with the bass of his fingers, riiiiight where he can feel his tip kissing your cervix and you cream around him from that alone, sobbing at how big he is, how much he stretches you out.
It’s not that he has anything against someone more experienced, it’s just that he can’t help the instinct that comes with having a lovely, bashful thing in his bed (always his) moaning his name with a shaky shudder as he presses in for the very first time. It’s deep seated, primal, rumbles low in his veins with the old teeth of something ancient and primordial.
Territorial, if he had to give it a name. Probably selfish at that.
It’s hard not to be. There’s a pride in being the very first one to touch something, to leave his mark before any other. (Spoiling it, he hopes) Like conquerors and explorers of old, the taste of ripe, fertile, raw soil against his tongue trembles deep into his bones. And with it comes the voice: claim, claim, claim
And how sweet it is, the taste, with your lovely pinched brow and trembling lip as he stretches you over the throbbing girth of his cock. He hushes sweetness down at you, praises dripping with hunger and need as the beast inside him howls
“That’s a good girl. Told you it would fit. Just relax for me sweetheart, gonna take care of you, yea? Gimme a kiss.”
Deep, shaky breaths as he presses your legs wider, forces you to accommodate the breadth of him between them. Gentle, rolling thrusts that make you hiccup and writhe, teething your lip as you do your best to expose your tender underbelly to his dripping canines.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
And when you finally surrender? Go a little limp under him? Price sees conquered lands splay outwards in the map of his mind.
Eyes rolling back, little moans and mewls punched out with every slap of his hips, a line of drool dripping out of the corner of your mouth. Price puffs and pants above you, balls slapping again your ass, forearms bulging with veins as he holds himself up just to angle himself better inside you.
There’s a sinister thought that always hovers at the back of his mind, that same selfishness roaring it’s ugly head as he grinds himself deep, groaning loud as he finally spills inside your fluttering walls.
yooo give me virgin hunter price with a virgin that isn't all shy about their virginity.
a feral thing, with sharp teeth hidden behind lips curved in a wistful smile that could be mistaken as a shy one.
lol if only for the fact reader is shoving price into a chair. the mask of a timid virgin falling away as reader takes what they want for the first time.
price is all smirks thinkin' he was still successful - successful in making a virgin another dumb cock drunk thing.
but boy it is going much deeper than that. literally. it's way worse when reader isn't stopping..
his balls are well and truly drained. there's nothing else to give. but yet reader is keeping him firmly under them, thighs on either side of him.
"until it takes, yeah? good boy." reader purrs hips picking up pace once more making price whimper. yeah he fuckin whimpers. when he cums again he blacks out but be can still feel reader's hips moving.
you're just a broke university student that's barely making ends meet in a little one bedroom you've somehow managed to get through a friend that lives in the same building. and by little, it's little.
poor excuse of a kitchenette. small bathroom with a smaller shower and constant issues. a bedroom that's mostly bed.
however, rent starts to go up, as well as living expenses which is fucked since you're barely home during the day. either working or at uni attending lectures or simply studying. things were just getting crazy.
at wits end another student suggests sharing your place with a night shift worker who just needs your place to sleep and eat during the day.
they pay you. get a nights sleep. food in the belly. and that's that.
with no other solution, you agree and accept the first person.
you don't meet them. but you make sure to keep your space tucked neat and your more... important things hidden. with what little space you have, yeah you try to give the person space for their things too. even if they are only there for the night.
it's weird. you're out the door by 7am to catch the bus. when you get home by 4, sometimes later, the person isn't there.
the first night you expected - well all the bad shit you could possibly think of... but it's as you left it. except your bed is made. there's a lingering smell of cigarettes and a note on the counter with... a new bottle of your body wash and a jar of instant coffee.
drank the last of your coffee and used your shit in the shower. sorry. - s.r
the persons hand writing is rough but readable. and you don't know what to do with that information. feel like your privacy has been breached? unsafe? maybe?
but you're too tired to give a fuck and your head hits your pillow - you're out like a light.
as days go by you end up only getting communication from the guy from notes. it's strange but not unwelcomed.
especially when you come to your shower no longer leaking, the weird stain on the ground gone, the hole in your wall fixed, and your window actually keeps out the cold when before it couldn't. he pay his portion of the rent on time so you really can't complain.
there was even a humidifier in your room as well as a heater attached with a note:
i'll cover the electricity cost. - s.r
sure enough, time for payment and the person did just that. sending money but ending up sending too much. you send it back, plus half and a reference saying: too much. i'll pay half.
you think that's that, but then when you get home, there's a note, a new jar of coffee and underneath it - cash, the exact amount you paid back.
keep it. and i'm paying for it. - s.r
you refuse to take it. but then the next pay day comes and he not only covered the electric bill of this time, but for last time too.
when you return home there's more cash with a scribbled note.
keep the money. get whatever u want with the extra cash. exam season right? there's pre-made meals in the fridge. eat em. i got too many snacks and energy drinks. have that too. - s.r
and you weren't going too. you really weren't. but then classes got too busy, late night study sessions consumed your time. it was convenient and right there. so you took them to uni with you.
like clockwork there'd always be more in the fridge. snack refilled, especially the ones you seemed to favour - also your favourite ones he some how knew.
while there wasn't notes all the time. you looked forward to them.
but then one evening you come home and your landlord stops you in your tracks. there's a slight grimace on your face but you feign a smile. yet it falters at his words.
"look, met your boyfriend the other day-" a look of discomfort crosses his face a shiver of fear you think but then he keeps yappin. "-just tell him to keep the smokin to a minimum. yeah?" the words leave his mouth and for a second you swear it looked like he regretted saying it out loud. "and- and look at the new lease agreement!" he shouts over his shoulder as he hurried to leave.
what the fuck.
for once - you're the one leaving a note.
boyfriend!? - y/n
and the fucker has the audacity to leave you a note the next day with
yes girlfriend? dinner tomorrow night and we'll go over the new lease x - s.r
what. the. fuck.
a/n: read an article bout uni students doing this and thus this came vomiting out. kinda obsessed ngl. hope ya'll well.
simon's not a fucking kid. he ain't no youngin. ain't in his twenties no more.
so why the fuck do you keep treating me like a fucking child? worse than a child - a fucking toddler.
he made dinner for his litte girlfriend and her cunt of a parents - and her enigma of an older sister. to prove- to prove... to prove he was fucking capable.
shit he bought all of it with his own money - because he has money. he has his own money and you act like he doesn't. he can provide.
as they ate, his girlfriends parents start to warm up to him but he doesn't give a fuck. his eyes staring down oldersister!reader. he's sitting on the edge of his seat. stiff as a fucking board both in his posture and pants.
there's praise around him but not from the one person he really fucking wants it from.
you lick your lips, and look at him with a smile. it's not quite genuine, but it makes your eyes crinkle and fuck do you look good - even if it is fake. he eats it up.
"it's good." and then you go back to eating.
his heart stops.
that's it? nothing else? what the fuck.
as dissapointed as he was, he still found himself cumming into his naive little girlfriend - but thinking of you. that fucking smile. those two fucking words.
it's good. it's good. it's good.
no- fuck- fuck- his cock twitches again. flipping his young girlfriend over onto her stomach to muffle her protests. he'll make it up to her. he always does.
he just- fuck- he sees your smile again. knows it's fake. and he fucks harder as he starts to fantasise about it being real. your praise. your smile.
he cums again. so hard it fucking hurts. hurts in a way that makes his body go rigid. takes the air from his lungs. makes his insides twist with emotions he's not fucking used too. his throat chokes up and there's tears in his eyes -
he starts to realise he just wants to be wanted.
by you.
he wasn't just ruined now... he was fucking destroyed.
a pathetic shell.
all because of you.
a/n: lol toxic!simon turned into pathetic!simon!! all for oldersister!reader. kinda a part 2 kinda not idk.. hope ya'll well xx.
i haven't been on tumblr for like a year now??? sorry ya'll my family dog died and then life was a bitch. and i got an j.ai addiction. literally no fuckin cap. it was so bad. stopped reading and writing - the very things that made me, me - and i would literally feel like my world was collapsing every time the ai server was down.
then i started spiralling cause i missed writing and reading other people's works. ://
are we still obsessed with cod here???
please say yes cause rahhh. love my cod men and writers. ya'll are very much home - and will forever be one for me even if i'm just this small lil spec of dust and no one might see this but still.
love and appreciate everyone xx hope you all are well and safe during this fucked up time we're living in ♡♡
shitty friends and their shitty fucking boyfriends seemed to be a common denominator in your life.
your friend sits across from you with her boyfriend. her boyfriend she said would stay home. her boyfriend who changed the place they were going to a bar. an army bar. he wasn't a fucking soldier.
you can only watch with an eye twitch as the boyfriend crosses boundaries, your friend just blatantly letting him - excusing his behaviour as love and normal pda.
and then you were being ignored by your so called friend.
your mouth opened to say you were going to call it a night but then a voice, british, smooth like fucking silk spoke up. "what you having, miss?"
for a second you think they're not talking to you but when your eyes meet the rich, dark brown pair of a guy with a smile as sweet as fucking honey - good lord your heart stops.
"pardon?" you manage to squeak out. voice dry from - you know - not talking.
"let us buy you a drink. you don't look to fond of that beer." he says with a cheeky grin - wait us?
sure enough he sits with an intimidating lot of men. who watches you like you're a work of art. you glance down at the beer you'd been given. "uh... i'm not-"
you're cut off by your friends boyfriend who glares at the group. "she's fine." and your friend looks almost offended that you'd been the one offered a drink.
offered a fucking lifeline.
"she can speak for herself, mate." the one with a beard and beanie says. voice rough, low, older and experienced. his eyes met yours, there's a glint in them. an edge of darkness bordering the softness of his eyes. but his gaze drops before you can fully register what the fuck is happening.
"i don't think they have what i like here-" you say, trying to be friendly with a smile.
"great, we'll go elsewhere then." a scottish accent, with a chipper drawl isn't quite what you expected from the man who'd been deadpanning your friends partner, now looking at you with a friendly smile.
they're already moving, looking at you and half-expecting you to get up.
and shit, one glance at your friend and her shitty boyfriend. you do.
before your friend or her dumb boyfriend could say anything.
a tall, big fucking man, with a nasty scar on his face steps behind you to follow you. one glance over his shoulder at the couple and they shut right the fuck up.
simon follows behind you as gaz and soap draw conversation out of you. cute. simon thinks, catching the way the others look at you. and ours.
The thing with living with a man like Simon, who's been through so much, is that you pick up habits to help the both of you. There is no tiptoeing through the house, no jumping around corners. Not like you could anyway. He's got a habit of keeping you in sight most of the time.
When he's deployed, you leave a note on the fridge saying where you've gone, in case he comes home without telling you. Sometimes you leave more information, like what time you should be home, which of your friends you left with. Sometimes its just the location and a reminder to take care of himself.
You started doing this after the first (and only) time it happened. You had been out with friends, when he'd returned home from deployment. Home to an empty house. Your car sat in the driveway (you'd carpooled with your friends), and Simon assumed the worst.
He'd torn through the house, desperately trying to find some sort of evidence that you were still there. That you hadn't been kidnapped, or left him. His search ended empty handed, and he'd had a panic attack in the bathroom, reliving the events of losing his family.
You came home thirty minutes later, almost giddy when you'd seen his truck in the driveway. That feeling quickly evaporated, when you stepped inside the house. It looked like a tornado had swept through, living room torn apart, all the kitchen cabinets thrown open.
"Simon?" you call, setting your bags down by the front door.
You've never been scared of Simon, never had a reason to be. But when he came out of the bathroom, staring you down, eye black smeared across his face, looking more like Ghost than Simon, you suddenly understood why people gave your boyfriend wide berth.
"Simon?"
He doesn't respond, backing you up against the door. When he reaches out to gently caress your face, you notice his hands are shaking.
"Thought something happened to ya," he whispers, voice hoarse. And then he's dragging you into a hug, crushing you against his chest, arms like a vice around you. It takes you a second to realize he's shaking all over, that there's tears in his eyes.
"No, baby. I was just out with friends," you reply softly, gently running your fingers through hair, nails scratching against his scalp. Guilt eats at you, feeling horrible for causing him this kind of distress. You hadn't expected him today, didn't think to leave a note or something.
"I'll leave a note next time," you promise. And that's stuck since then.
I've read a lot of Task Force 141 being assigned a group omega to force them to chill tf out as an all-alpha pack, BUT!-- imagine instead of taking one from a roster, Price just one day comes back from a mission with an omega he picked up from God knows where, cradling her like she's an injured cat.
The man's got tousled hair and a few scratches on his cheek from trying to wrench poor you out of a dangerous situation. Stuck under a fallen building or in an enemy prison cell, maybe--but that doesn't matter. You're coming home with him cause you've got nowhere else to go. And now you're essentially the feral wet cat adopted by these massive, powerful alphas. Cause omegas are supposed to be sweet and soft and tiny, and they just wanna protect you, but you're only tiny. And you've got a whole lot of teeth. It's both equally endearing and concerning.
Of course, the boys can handle you, though. And by handle, I mean, "Here, kitty, kitty. Please don't bite me this time. See, we're friends now!" At least that was how Soap put it, whereas Price and Ghost just sat in the same space with you until you learned that they were chill. Gaz made peace offerings with food. Soap was the last to enter your good graces.
Meanwhile Kate just tolerates you, since she doesn't know what the hell Price was thinking.
"You could've had anyone from the list, you know. A proper omega who knows how to cook and clean."
"Ah, but where's the fun in that? 'sides, she needed a home like the rest of us."
_
Bonus Thoughts:
Once you've calmed, you're still feisty--just feisty with everyone else but 141. Kate is somewhat of an extension. Not quite pack but trusted by your packmates. You eventually settle for glaring at her from across the room.
Heats? Yes. Sexual heats? Not quite. I imagine feral reader only ever being cuddly during her heats, at least at the start. But do with that what you will--it's one of the few times she initiates touch first. That, and when she's the possessive one--not the boys.
She's also definitely a bit of a kleptomaniac. She's already got one of Ghost's extra masks, Price's bandana, etc. from when they all gave her random stuff to get her used to their scents, but once she's gotten over fighting back, she wants more, more, more. Shirts and jackets start going missing. Even pillowcases. They catch on, of course, but nobody finds anything until Price opens his closet one day, and BAM--one messy hoard of a nest.
Here are the types of bodies I think the 141 have ✨
TF141 x Female Reader
Tags: cum eating, blow jobs, oral (fem receiving), cumming in pants, multiple orgasms
Warning: NSFW imagery beneath cut
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
As far as sheer beauty goes, Gaz might top them all. I head canon Kyle as being pretty lean, body composed of sculpted, sheer muscle. He's got a slim frame, like a runner or boxer.
Graceful. Strong. Built for endurance and agility.
What's more? It's fucking effortlessssss. Like, legitimately. When he was a middle schooler, he might have been told he was skinny once or twice. But the minute he hit his growth spur and shot up like a bean stalk, no one could say shit.
Why?
Because Gaz looks like a goddamn male model and he doesn't even have to do anything to maintain it.
Perfect skin? Yep. He uses five dollar lotion.
Legs like a ballerina? Uh-huh. The only training he does is for work.
Sculpted, mouth-watering abs? Check. They were built by McDonald's fries, Netflix, and the grace of God himself.
Let's face it. Gaz looks like he walked off the cover of a magazine purely because the lord has favorites. Let's move on.
Now, Gaz might only go the extra mile when it comes to work training...
But those muscles didn't just come from anywhere.
And the first time Gaz gets you underneath him, cock pounding into you for what feels like hours, you finally fucking understand.
Gaz's body—slick, strong, and slim—is built for agility. For endurance.
It's built for trapping you beneath the length of his covetous frame until you're too exhausted to struggle. For holding you down until he's dripping with sweat, until every muscle in his shaking body screams for a break.
Until his long, aching cock is slowly dripping semen onto the flat of your stomach.....for the third time in the past hour.
Gaz might loathe running the track, but he'll have you fucking like bunnies until you manage to buck him off.
The man has stamina that could rival a racehorse, and god help any woman that found herself in his grasp.
"Sit still, baby," he pants loudly, wrenching the globes of your ass in two of his model-esque hands, "M'not fuckin' done yet. One more...I just—need one more."
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
Now Soap? probably the exact opposite of Gaz.
When body building became popular online, Soap jumped right on the bandwagon. Perhaps he grew up as the youngest brother in a horde of boys...or perhaps he was just tired of being the shortest boy on the football team...
But the minute he was old enough to afford a gym subscription, he was there. From dusk 'til dawn, practically. To Johnny, the gym is more than just a hobby. It's a lifestyle, and one that he enjoys immensely.
Soap is bulky, built of bulging muscle, broad shoulders, and thin hips. Every inch of it, from his plush chest to his cut abs, was painstakingly earned by hours of pumping iron.
He goes lifting six days a week, tracks all of his nutrition down to the last calorie. Everything he puts into his body is tracked and monitored--and that's the way he likes it.
He'd never say it aloud, but if it were up to him, I think he'd be the type to participate in those fitness/body building competitions.
In simple terms though? Without all those fancy words? "Macros?" "BCAAS?" What the hell is that?
In layman's terms...
Johnny has arms like tree trunks and ass for fucking DAYS. With the bulk and cut cycle, he oscillates between beautifully fatty in the thighs....to shredded like a piece of paper.
You can't help but watch him go back and forth, mind reeling with the change.
In the winter, you rest your head against the soft plains of his stomach while you lap at the head of his cock, soft and squishy from holiday cookies and hot cocoa. You like him like this.
Full. Rosy cheeked. Cock leaking strings of slick in the dip of his belly button, semen thin and stringy in your mouth.
In the summer? God help you.
In the summer, Johnny's out more than he's in, running himself ragged between his diet, work, and the gym. When he comes home, he's grumpy and agitated, balls achingly full, and semen thick after months of careful water intake.
His caloric intake might be down...but he prefers a different type of eating, anyway.
Good thing he has all those muscles. All the better to hold you down while he fucks you on his tongue.
"Johnny—" you mewl, shoving at his head when his tongue curls around your clit again, "It's past five already—aren't you ready for dinner?"
His lips pop when he pulls off of your swollen clit, eyes glazed over while he watches the way your pussy leaks.
"M'not hungry, doll," he mutters, "Got more than enough to eat here, anyway..."
Simon “Ghost” Riley
Simon Riley....
Now, he's just a big fucking boy. Like, 6'4, over 250 lbs type of big.
Hear me out. Contrary to popular belief, I think Simon has more trouble keeping weight on than keeping it off. I wholeheartedly believe that when he was a teenager he was a thin guy.
Like, he'd fully grown into his height, but just didn't have the nutrition to support it. Simon doesn't cook, and...for lack of a better description, he's not great at taking care of himself. When he was a teenager, still trapped in his parents house, he probably skipped more meals than he ate. And before he joined the army, I think it's safe to say he was a lanky, underweight kid.
But the minute that man starts eating three meals a day?
GODDAMN DOES HE GROW. Like, I'm pretty sure by the end of basic training his drill sergeants were terrified of the monster they'd created.
Simon's fucking heavyyyyyy. Built equally of fat and muscle. He likes the gym, but his body isn't built for the magazine. It's built for utility. For war. For fucking blood. He doesn't care about appearances. He needs strength than can kill.
Barrel chest. Biceps bigger than your head. Stomach muscled and heaving. A trail of wispy, blonde hair leading down from his belly button into the hefty bulge at the front of his pants....
Simon's a behemoth, and anyone whose fought him on the mat knows better than to stand within his arms' reach.
Now, his weight fluctuates pretty heavily, too. A rough few months in the field could see his weight dropping quickly, in which case his hard earned muscle would show through.
But when he's on leave?
...homeboy sustains himself on granola bars and ramen noodles. He gets soft around the middle and also should probably drink more water but...good luck trying to get him to eat more than convenience store junk. He’ll set the kitchen on fire if he tries to boil some water.
Simon's big.
And he's big everywhere.
The zippers on his jeans are remarkably tight. His fatigues look almost like lingerie on his thick thighs. And if he's wearing grey sweatpants?Simon's a lethal fucking weapon at that point.
Why am I telling you this?
Because the first time you see him naked, you might be tempted to reconsider opening your legs for a man like him...your cervix will be bruised to hell and back--not to mention your ass and thighs, too. His hands aren't kind like Kyle's, nor are they careful like Johnny's.
He'll rough you up, pound into you like any reasonable woman could ever manage to take the full length of him without crying.
He'll bite his identity into your collarbones, burn his fingerprints into the fat of your ass cheeks. And when it's all said and done, he'll bully the fattened head of his ruddy cock between your lips and watch the tears drip from your eyes, swollen mouth quivering when you try to swallow his cum.
And if it's all too much to handle?
Good luck getting out from under him. Because once you're there, you're not leaving unless you can push him off, match his strength, or make him cum fast enough to leave before he's hard again.
Though, nobody's ever managed it before...not like they'd ever want to.
"Mm—Simon, you're—“
"Shhhh, love," he grunts, your body shoved flat to the mattress beneath his massive frame, "Don't move. Don't fuckin' move. I'm almost there, just....fuck, sit still and let me fill you up, yeah? Then I'll let you go...I promise this time."
Captain John Price
Now, if there is anyone in the 141 that actually enjoys the food they eat, it's Price.
HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT
okay so, Price, as a Captain, probably makes substantially more than the other three. That, and he's a good bit older too. He's past his prime (or so he thinks), and whether or not he has a perfect six pack when he looks in the mirror is the LAST thing he could ever care about.
Price isn't one for keeping up appearances--at least not as it concerns his body shape.
Is his beard trimmed and oiled? Always. He's damn near neurotic about it.
Is he always freshly showered, groomed, and cologne-d? Without a doubt. It's a point of pride.
Does the watch he's wearing compliment his clothing? he spends a STUPID amount of time thinking about it.
Will he gain another pound if he eats the Oreo cheesecake at the end of the night? Yep. And he'll enjoy every. Single. Second of it.
Price is as close to a foodie as a purebred military man can get. He loves cooking, and he recently remodeled his kitchen. He has GREAT taste in wine and spirits, and has spent a significant amount on amassing a good collection in his house.
If there's one word that describes Price, it's this: DECADENCE.
This man drinks, smokes, and eats as much as he pleases because he's lived long enough to learn the value of hedonism.
Why skip the cigs for the cigar when you could smoke both? Why stop at popping a just a single bottle bottle? Why not order the most expensive steak on the menu? Or the thickest slice of chocolate cake you've ever seen? What, like he'll regret it?
Price doesn't regret anything, and his body reflects that.
Of course, due to his profession, he never truly falls out of athletic shape (he's ready to be called away at a moments notice, after all). But he's LONG SINCE ditched his glory days. Like the others, his body fluctuates between highly cut to soft around the edges.
Price is thick around the ribs and plush in the chest. His weight settles around his hips and arms, making his biceps fluff up if he eats enough. His stomach is soft and sweet. So are his thighs.
The only thing that doesn't change?
The hair. Holy shit this man has a lot of chest hair.
All in all, Price likes a good meal, but he's still in elite fighting shape. Though, unlike the other three, his age stops him from being purely athletic. If anything, he looks more like a construction worker or landscaper. Someone who spent a long time building things with their hands instead of running laps around the track.
Now, what was that about decadence? Drinking, smoking, eating...
Price was indulgent in every sense of the word. Indulgent to himself, to his friends, and to his family.
But in bed?
The way Price fucks makes you understand why people let their teeth rot for another bite of Halloween candy.
Price wouldn't know moderation if it hit him in the face. And when it comes to your pleasure, to your body in and of itself, Price will be damned if you walk away without a smile on your face.
He's a service Dom through and through. Hell, just feeling your cunt clench around his fingers, your voice crying through another orgasm, is nearly enough to make him cum in his pants.
He'd done it before, too.
Was he embarrassed about it?
Not at all.
"John," you gasp, watching his length twitch rapidly beneath his jeans, a wet spot appearing at the top of his bulge, "Did you just..."
"Yeah," he groans between kisses, "So what?"
"It's—It's just that...isn't that a little—"
"Embarrassing?" he chuckles, "Hardly...Not if you'll go as red as I think you will when I let you lick me clean."
To John, watching you lap at his softening cock--and enjoy it too--is more than enough to get his blood pumping.
He'd always give you exactly what you want...even if you didn't have the guts to ask for it aloud.
Simon who married your family when he married you.
He wasn't used to it, the open affection your relatives showered him with. He would die before he admitted it, but he was nervous as shit when he first met them. First impressions sometimes created lasting impressions and he didn't want you to feel torn if shit went left.
And then he met them and "Welcome to the family!" That's the first thing that your mother said when meeting him. Okay.
"Well sit down, baby. We don't bite none," is what your grandmother greeted him with. Sure, why not.
And then it snowballed from there.
He'd never been one for pet names. Didn't really care for 'em until you came along, but every time your grandmother calls him Baby he melts. He bloody fuckin' melts. A huge puddle of goo. Simon realizes why you're so protective of her and he becomes the same way, too. He's her Baby and she's his Girl. He doesn't make the rules, he only enforces them. You can only roll your eyes and shake your head as your grandmother gleefully continues to indulge his sweet tooth.
Your parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings weren't any better, calling him Son, Brother, Nephew, Cousin and similar, clapping his back, including him in things, inquiring about his wellbeing, and bloody fuckin' hell Simon realizes he actually has a family now whether he likes it or not.
It didn't truly hit him until you two wed and your parents, your mom with tears in her eyes and your father beaming with pride, declared that they had a new son to love.
A new son. A new brother. A new nephew. A new cousin. A new baby.
A new family all his own.
And fuck if Simon didn't feel the lump forming in his throat.
I am Ehab Ayyad ❤ a palestinian youngman from Gaza🍉🇵🇸, seeking to find safety and peace ☝️for my family if twenty members. We have been ❤🇵🇸🍉passing through all forms of torture and pain for almost ten months because of the war on Gaza.
Life is very miserable and tragic❤🇵🇸 as we are now deprived ❤🇵🇸🍉of all means of living. Drink water, healthy food health care and medicine❤🇵🇸 have become things 🇵🇸🍉❤of the past. We are dying dear friends. That is why I am asking you to help us break through this tough situation.Life in hot tents is incredibly sad and miserable. We are now experiencing the worst circumstances we have ever had in our life. The war has stolen happiness and life from us.
Please don't leave us alone in such dire times. Your kind contribution either through donating whatever you can or sharing my posts will be highly appreciated and valued.❤🇵🇸🍉
I am Nour from Gaza, a mother of three children. We are enduring the harsh bitterness of war. We lost our home, our jobs, and my husband was injured in the shoulder. My little girl has also contracted hepatitis.
If you are unable to donate to us, please at least share our story so it can reach the world 🙏
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