contains smut, minors & ageless blogs dni pretty please.
john price would have an independent gf, miss “it’s already been handled, actually” with a genuine smile, someone educated, calm, cool, and collected much like john is himself. she probably grew up pressured by her parents and peers to do better; and to be better. and or; she learned at a young age that if she wanted something done, she’d have to do it herself.
she doesn’t fight, argue, yell, pout, or bitch. she simply acts then explains her actions with a level voice. john learned very quickly that trying to dominate and boss her around first hand was not the right move. she didn’t make him earn her respect per se, but her submission. her willingness. her complete and undivided attention. she’s a very busy woman, so spending hours spread eagle for the older man much less even agreeing to spend a night with him makes him feel honored.
they work so well together however because john is a provider. this man is in charge of three grown men in life threatening situations- on top of knowing their personal backgrounds and today struggles. he’s a natural leader and giver. so when miss “i can do it myself” meets mister “i’m aware, but let me do it for you,” john naturally takes control in this regard too. and he loves it. cherishes it. hell, he praises the idea with the way he slurps and sucks on her needy pussy every night. he knows his focused, driven, confident young missus even needs her fix. even on the nights where she gently pecks his cheek with a small, “not tonight, baby. ‘v gotta long day t’morrow,” she somehow ends up knees to chest with john’s hands harshly gripping the back of her calves as his teeth graze her swollen clit when his tongue prods deep inside her hole.
john price loves a strong, independent woman. better yet- breaking said strong, independent women.
kyle “gaz” garrick would probably have a similar type but more in a punk, “fuck this country and fuck you” way. oh, poor girl hated kyle’s guts when they first met. his cocky, charmingly boyish grin with his perfect shiny white teeth, smooth movements in his body, and his stupidly pretty, harmonious face. and don’t even get her started on how much she hated his voice. that fucking voice of his- high enough to crack jokes and pull smiles from people but deep enough to make anyone stand at full attention, undergarments slightly damp from his authority. so, yeah, it was fuck kyle garrick until he managed to somehow get his bratty girl whiny and snotty sitting on a bathroom counter in some sketchy club after weeks of non stop teasing, testing, and genuinely bratting the hell out with him.
luckily for the both of them, kyle has a lot of patience. especially with pretty girls that obviously are only so angry because they’re so pent up. probably years of celibacy, rejecting partners due to insecurity, lack of trust, toxic feminism- whatever it was, kyle was determined to figure it out and set her straight. she too made her soldier work for her will but only because she was horrified and caught off guard by his interest in her. boys have spent the majority of her life avoiding her, and after maybe experiencing her own heartbreak or watching someone else’s, she genuinely quizzed kyle’s intentions.
again either way, kyle makes sure there isn’t any question or confusion about his adoration for her. he takes very good care of her in all ways, listens to her, and plays into her bitchy behavior before always reminding her that this ‘little attitude’ is a ‘cute act’ but isn’t necessary when her man, her protector, her everything is right here. she definitely gets her pussy ate more than she deserves, but kyle knows to follow through by fucking his thick cock down her throat or dragging her cum-stained face up and down his shaft and heavy balls, sometimes simultaneously.
much like his boss, kyle enjoys ruining a pretty girl with a tough exterior. especially when they truly believe they run things. not with sergeant garrick, princess.
john “soap” mactavish is a proud pervert with a personal preference for innocent, naive women. the type to wear a body fit milkmaid dress, tits all out on display just begging for his mouth to suck them dry, on the first date and call it her “special occasion dress.” he gets a deep pounding in his throat when watching his little lass smile and wave at babies, his mind (and dick) desperately craving to make some of his own. he can’t help it, his pretty princess his just too sweet, too kind, and definitely too fucking cute for her own good. god only knows how many times the scot’s nearly killed a man with his bare hands because they were “eye’n ya up” or flat out flirting with her, and his poor, gentle, soft, sweetness is too shy to get stern with the brave fucker.
never in front of his girl, no, he wouldn’t dare corrupt her beautiful mind like that. it’s a dirty secret he keeps to himself- one that makes him smirk when his rough hands slide down her soft plump waist, humming in satisfaction while he toys with her pink lace. his bunny, his fairy, his literal princess. she’s his everything, and it makes his cock so impossibly hard watching her walk about unconcerned and so unaware of her surroundings- all because she knows her big, strong, man is looking out for her wellbeing.
with all this being said, john takes a lot of pride in this fact. with him, it’s his money she spends, his lap she sits on, his shoulder to cry into, his cock she slobbers and suckles on. he’s obsessed with the idea of impregnating her, stuffing her stupid with his hot seed, and being viciously protective and nurturing over her for the next nine months. it’s grossly animalistic how feral he is about it, and it’s even worse when she’s reaching up for him, begging for a kiss with a tiny, high pitched “please, johnny!” it makes him crack every. single. time.
john soap mactavish is a pervert especially for sweet girls who trust and look to him like he’s the fucking king of the world. oh, and he’d totally never forget about the milfs he’s slept with.
simon ghost riley secretly gets boners for crybabies. his gf full on sobs over drama films, stray animals, and anything inspirational or cute. to most people, she’s childish, needs to grow up, act her age, etc etc. to simon, she’s empathetic, emotional, in tune, sensitive, and most importantly kind. she’s his sweet little crybaby who tugs on his sleeve when words can’t seem to formulate, who sits at his heavy boots when he’s occupied because she knows “si’s busy, but never too busy for me,”, who goes to her man before absolutely anyone else for everything, who cries in his neck more times than not because the world is just too cruel and she can’t do anything to fix it.
she’s a pouter and has her bratty moments- sure, but that’s all quickly ended once simon gives her that one look, the one that groans “come ‘ere, lovie. come to y’man and let ‘im fix it. tell y’si what’s wrong so he can make it better.” and it works. she’s immediately on him in seconds, eyes flushing with emotion as she tells him everything- instead of bratting out and getting roughly pounded like kyle’s gf. if anything, simon has his doll on her back, her holes stuffed full of himself as he softly but fast when he fucks into her cunt. he isn’t much of a talker during sex, but that flips entirely when his babygirl has so much to say and it’s only coming out in tear form. suddenly he feels the need to tell her how beautiful and brave she is, how sweet and sensitive she is, how perfect and broken she looks under him, lips swollen from her own doing and out of breath from simon’s nonstop motions.
simon is a hard, cold man who grew up in a hard, cold environment. his soft little doll makes him quieter, more stable, more here. he’s been so focused on surviving himself, he feels extreme relief in servicing someone else in such an intimate, slow pace manner. she can truly relax and let go around him, and he can comfortably slip into the role of being human again.
He says it against your clit, voice all warm velvet and terrible patience, and the wand buzzes where his thumb pins it, a high mean hum that makes your thighs shake over his shoulders. Your hips jolt away; he follows, mouth sealing around your poor sensitive clit where he sucks and your head throws back against the pillows with a sob.
“Don’t run,” Gaz croons, so bloody pleased with himself. “Shhh. Stay right there for me. Good girl.”
You try. Your vision swims, wet, hot, a smear of his lashes and the sweat dark at his hairline. Two fingers are already inside you, slow and deep, curling until your spine bows off the mattress. He hums when he finds the spot that makes your legs kick and the vibration turns to static in your skull.
“K- Kyle-”
“Aww, listen to you.” He laughs into you, low and obscene. “Tongue tied already? That was quick.” The pad of his finger drags over your clit and your vision goes hot and white at the edges. “Answer me with your body, then. That’s all you’re good for now, yeah?”
You make a noise that’s not a word. He coos, delighted. “Knew it.”
He doesn’t stop. He keeps the wand where it is, and kisses your clit alongside it like he wants to ruin the concept of mercy. You shake.
You can’t find the word before the next one hits. It rips through you, sharp and greedy and he doesn’t stop, not even when your heel thumps against his back and tears slips hot over your temples.
“Pretty little crybaby,” he murmurs, condescending and sweet. “There she is.”
Your hands claw at the sheet. He catches them without looking, threads his fingers through yours, pins them over your head so your chest lifts and your belly goes tight. His belt loops between wrists and ties to the headboard before returning to your cunt. The wand circles again and his fingers return to the tempo inside you with a squelch that has your eyes rolling into your skull.
“Look at me,” he says, and the way he says it sounds like a command you were born to follow. You drag your eyes down. He’s glossy mouthed and sweat sheened, lashes wet, grin wicked. “That’s it. Keep those eyes. D’you know what number you’re on?”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. The world is the pitch of the wand and the slide of his fingers and the way his breath hits your clit on every exhale. You sob a sound that might be language.
“Thought not.” He chuckles and kisses your inner thigh. “I’ll count for you. One more, baby girl.”
You shake your head while your body nods yes. You’re babbling now: please and oh and Kyle and a string of vowels that don’t make sense.
“Breathe,” he coos, the accent turning the word to velvet. “In… out… there you go. Stay with me.”
He angles his fingers, presses up and you come apart again. The orgasm rips through you sharp and mean, the kind that blankets your thoughts. You keen and sob and he moans like you did it to him, riding you through with the same pace, the same tiny circles. You try to twist away; he follows you like a tide with teeth.
“Five,” he purrs. “Good girl. Another.”
You shake your head again- no, please, please- and he just coos again, something soft and condescending that shouldn’t make you wetter but does. “No use telling me no when your cunt’s saying yes.” He slides his fingers out, drags them slow through the mess he’s made of you, and paints your clit with it. “See? Greedy. Could live right here.”
“Can’t,” you blubber, shaking. “Can’t- s’too much- oh my-”
He smiles like a saint with awful intentions. “Breathe, pet. In… out… now.”
He shifts the wand half a centimetre and your whole body jerks. Tears flood. You’re moaning and sobbing, language torn to ribbons. He keeps you there, not pushing, just pressing, a constant hot buzz on the exact piece of you that’s already cooked.
“Oh, look at that lip wobble.” His voice is all mock sympathy, all proud. “Break for me, then.”
You do. You can’t not. It hits like a snapped cable, violent and helpless. You hear yourself make a wrecked, open throat sound you’ve never made before. He groans into your thigh and keeps the wand on you, easing the pressure only when your abdomen starts to tremble from overload.
You’re gone. Drunk on it. Words useless. You’re sobbing and laughing and swearing and missing syllables.
“Six,” he decides lazily, dragging the toy off at last. “Good girl. Atta girl.”
Silence slams in. Your ears ring. You’re shaking so hard your teeth click. He crawls up your body, mouth wet and hot on your belly, your ribs, your mouth; slow, filthy kisses that taste like the end of the world. You gasp into him; he swallows it and smirks against your tongue.
“Floaty?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.
You nod, dazed, still blubbering into his mouth, still babbling his name in pretty, broken bits.
“Yeah, you are.” He pats your cheek. Patronising and fond. “My silly little mess.”
You whine. He nips your lip. “Turn over.”
You squeak a protest. He tuts.
“On your front, love,” he coaxes, all sugar with the iron underneath, undoing the belt from around your wrists. “Face in the pillow, arse up. You can do that much for me.”
You do it because your body is his favourite yes-machine; he helps, big hands sliding your knees under, palms warm on your hips to tip you just so. The wand kisses your thigh again then clatters away. You sigh relief for half a second, and then the head of his cock drags through your slick and you choke.
“That’s right.” He lines up, too careful to miss. “We’re not done.”
He pushes in slow, greedy, a steady slide that feels like being fitted for sin. Heat, weight, stretch, and his breath breaks in a hoarse laugh when you clamp around him. “Fuck- always so tight and wet for me. Show-off.”
“Kyle,” you sob into the pillow, wrecked.
“Yeah, that’s the one.” He bottoms out and just stays, chest over your back, hand covering your throat, a pretty collar. “Breathe.”
You try. He pulls almost all the way out and sinks back in with a sound that punches through your spine. The angle is obscene like this, every push drags over the place he just set on fire, every grind nudges you up the cliff you just fell off. He sets a rhythm that isn’t fast at all, deep, rolling strokes that grind you full and keep you there.
“Hands.” He gathers your wrists and pins them to the mattress above your head, his fingers locking yours down like cuffs. “No grabbing at me, little girl. You’ll get what I give you.”
You whimper something useless. He coos, unbearably smug. “Atta girl.”
He sets a rhythm built to break you: slow, deep drives punctuated by mean little rolls of his hips that grind your clit against the heel of his hand when he slides under your belly to hold you up. Every time you start to float down, he circles his thumb and the floor falls away again.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” he murmurs when you try to crawl away from his hand. He tuts, sweet and smug. “Nowhere. Right here. With me.”
“I- can’t- ” you blubber, drunk and teary, drool wetting the pillowcase, your eyes flood again, the tears hot and endless now that they’ve started.
“You can.” He kisses the hinge of your jaw, still thrusting, unhurried and inexorable. “You will. Open your legs wider.”
You do, shameless. He groans praise into your neck. “Good girl. There we are.”
He lets go of your wrists just long enough to hook two fingers in your mouth, slick from your own mess, pressing your tongue down so he can watch you pant. “Look at you,” he marvels in a tone that makes your clit throb. “All sloppy and sweet for me.”
You moan around his fingers; he laughs- bright, unkind, delighted. “Can’t even talk, can you? Thought so.” He pulls his fingers free and drags them down to rub your clit again, wet and obscene. “I’ll do the talking for both of us. Ready?”
You shake your head frantically, tears slipping clean. He coos again like he’s soothing a fussy baby, not lining you up for another fall. “Hush. That’s my job, love. I decide when you stop.”
You’re incoherent. His name. Please. Nonsense. The words melt. He holds your thigh up with his forearm to open you, keeps you on him, hips rolling, fingers working you toward another peak you swear you don’t have. Your body proves you wrong.
He changes his angle and it’s diabolical, a grind that pins your nerves to a live wire. His thumb flattens and presses. The orgasm rips you apart, harder than the others, hot and long and punishing; your legs seize, your cry goes high and broken, your cunt wrings him. He snarls, digs his fingers into your hip, rides it out with you, and doesn’t stop.
“Seven,” he pants in your ear, laughing breathlessly. “One more. I know you’ve got one more.”
“You’re evil,” you sob, utterly gone.
“Yeah,” he agrees cheerfully, rutting deeper. “Lucky you like me evil.”
The bed thumps the wall; your toes cramp; his fist slides under, lifts your pelvis that last maddening inch to meet him. He spits on his fingers, filthy and casual, and rubs it down onto your clit with two rough circles and you scream, face buried in the pillow.
“There she is,” he coos, nearly singing it, condescension turned lullaby. “There’s my good little crybaby. Give it here.”
You do. You shatter, messy, sobbing, muscles fluttering around him so hard his rhythm breaks, the orgasm rolling through you like a seizure
He groans like he’s dying, palms your belly and holds you there while he fucks into the aftershocks, chasing his own edge with a slow, brutal determination that says he could finish anytime he wants and he’s choosing to stay right here and watch you drown.
“Mine,” he grits, head pressed between your shoulder blades. “Say it.”
“Y- yours,” you gasp, wrecked beyond dignity. “Yours, yours- ”
“That’s right.” His hips stutter. He presses deep and stays, spilling hot inside you with a choked moan that turns your spine to water, the pulse of it tipping you into a tiny, painful after tremor that makes him swear and laugh at the same time. “Greedy thing.”
He breathes. You do not- can’t, not for a second- then your lungs remember how. He’s heavy over your back, thumb still stroking idly over your clit like he forgot to stop. You whine a broken plea. He finally lifts his hand, kisses your shoulder where your tears dampened his skin.
“There we go.” He slides out slow; you whimper at the loss and the spill. He coos, that awful, lovely voice, and palms your hip. “Shh. Don’t fuss. I’ve got you.”
He rolls you to your side, tugs your thigh over his, slots in behind like a fitted piece. His fingers trace your damp face, smug as sin. “Look at you. Proper ruined.”
You blink at him, eyes glassy, mouth wobbling. The babble’s still happening; bits of his name, please, oh God, more and no more in the same breath. He grins like Christmas and kisses your cheekbone.
“Water,” he says, and holds the glass while you sip, the other hand cupping your throat again, thumb stroking your pulse. “Breathe for me.”
You do. He tucks himself closer, thigh between yours, cum sticky warm where he left it, and hums a pleased little tune against your ear.
“How many was that then, hm?” he teases, soft as a knife wrapped in velvet. “Lost count? Course you did.”
You nod, dazed.
“Eight,” he decides, smug as a cat. “Good girl.” A kiss to your temple. “Pathetic little mess. My favourite.”
You make a sound that means I hate you and I’d do it again. He coos one more time and keeps petting you through the aftershocks until the tears dry and the babble melts to sleepy noise and the only thing left buzzing is his voice in your ear, praising you like he didn’t just break you on purpose.
I think that being bent over and put in strange positions would genuinely help my joint and back pain. and alleviate the fact that im hard all the time but thats like less important
If you're a silly little thing who gets off on the idea of big, mean perverts forcing you to be their property, then you're legally obligated to reblog this.
reader who isn’t the fastest, the strongest, or the best with a gun, but who’s known for being the smartest of the group.
and john soap mactavish who has reader of their back, deliberately thrusting into that spongy spot that had you cumming and squirting repeatedly throughout the night till a numbing haze completely takes over your head.
“goin’ dumb fa me, bon?”
he smiles when you don’t even have it in you to disagree. normally, you’d always had a witty remark ready for him but perhaps your jaw was too sore or your brain was just pure mush (or maybe both).
he taps your cheek twice, then three time more, urging you to open your eyes. “your eyes, I need them on me.”
you mewl as you can barely make out the fuzzy outline of his body standing tall over you. but perhaps you’re doing something right since he seems to chuckle with amusement.
he leans over you, pressing your legs towards your shoulders as his forearms find home on either side of your head. you groan deeply as you feel him slot himself even deeper inside you. who knew it was even possible?
his voice comes out low and gruff as he caresses your head. “that’s it, babygirl. don need that pretty brain of yours.”
