pressed, i got 'em @icecoldvenipuncture - Tumblr Blog

hello my name is [REDACTED]

welcome to my fanfiction blog for all my short (usually smutty) blurbs! follow my tags below to find the fandom you like. my last blog got termed, so a lot of my content will be reposts from there. follow me on ao3 to read my longer fics i won't post here. have a great day💉🩸

#🎖️my call of duty #🐺my teen wolf #👟my maze runner

dom!price, fauxcest ("dad/kiddo/kid"), hair pulling

You’re gripping the sheets for dear life as John pounds into you from behind. Good god, he’s got stamina. It just sort of slips out in your pleasure-filled haze: “Mmmhhh…..good boy”

John laughs dryly but continues his steady rhythm into your willing cunt. It’s not the first time a woman has tried to dominate him in bed and brighter women than you have failed at it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me; you really think that’s the sort of shit that gets me off?? God, kid, who’ve you been with that liked that?” he asks rhetorically, strengthening his grip on your hips. He punctuates each thrust with a humorless chuckle.

“A lot of guys like it, prick. And we’re the same age,” you spit, trying to sound mean as his thick cock splits you open over and over again.

“I don’t think so, kiddo,” he grunts, slamming your cervix hard and pulling your hair back, “you gonna be good for dad?”

Your head reels from his question. You’ve always been more dominant in bed and you’ve deflowered your fair share of blushing, stumbling recruits so this is….different. Good different. The way he yanks your hair like he owns you makes you want to submit like he actually does.

“Y-yes dad,” you stammer, warmth building in your belly as John’s calloused hand finds your clit.

Electricity runs through your sore body as John works you to the edge. You’ve got to stop fucking younger men if this is what decades of experience gets you.

“Mmmm….close…..please,” you whine, mouth agape as undignified mewls leave your throat.

“That’s it….good kid. Cum on your dad’s cock, come on sweetheart,” John coos, keeping his rhythm perfectly, focusing on your pleasure.

“D-dad! Ohmygod!” you wail, your release breaking under John’s skillful fingers.

He gives you a few blissful moments of peace before yanking your hair back to line your ear up with his lips. “Don’t ever call me that shit again, got it, kid?” he growls and you vehemently nod.

repost from my old blog strawberryglock

You patter up to Scott’s lounging form on the couch, clutching a can of soup in your right hand.

“Claws, please,” you ask, head cocked to the side, holding out your left hand to take his.

Scott lifts his hand off the armrest and balls it into a fist. When he releases it, razor-sharp 2-inch talons have replaced his bitten fingernails.

You grab his pointer finger and puncture the top of the can, gliding it in a smooth circle until the lid is hanging on by a few milimeters of in tact metal.

“Thank you, baby,” you coo, wrenching the lid back slowly to avoid spilling.

Scott closes his eyes and when he opens them his normal fingernails have returned. You lean down to kiss him on the cheek before flouncing back to the kitchen.

“Dinner’ll be ready in twenty”

thinking about that time Ghost got hit with an aphrodisiac so Gaz & Soap jerked him off in the back of the humvee driven by Price…. (this is not ghoapgaz, they are only doing this to keep Ghost from feeling pain. everyone is straight in this)

As Ghost’s gloved hands squeezed the last breath out of a low ranking soldier outside a Russian military base the 141 was infilitrating, he did something unexpected. He pulled a syringe out of one of his pockets and used his brain’s last milligram of oxygen to jam it into Ghost’s neck.

At first, all Ghost felt was searing, white-hot pain. For nearly two minutes he felt the poison pounding through his veins, setting his body alight with pressure and heat.

By the time the rest of the team caught up to his location, Ghost was flat on his back, breathing like a caged bull with a throbbing tent in his fatigues. One embarrassing call to Laswell later and they found out what was in the syringe; an aphrodisiac, and a damn strong one at that. The kind that causes ten out of ten pain if you’re not in sexual contact with another person.

It hadn’t taken much, really. Some lingering glances, a head jerk in his hut’s direction from Gally, an acknowledging nod from you, a hand signal from him; closed fist to open palm twice in rapid succession (flashing five fingers twice = meet at ten). You’d both been a lot more apprehensive losing your clothing sober, but you’d quickly picked up the passion that had burned the other night once more.

You’re on all fours with your back arched on Gally’s bed and he’s standing behind you, thrusting his hard cock into your quivering pussy as he grabs your waist tightly.

“Are you close?” the Builder huffs out in a low tone.

A stuttering, blushing, fidgeting Simon Riley with a raging hard-on finally admitting that he thinks he wants you to peg him. He nearly passes out when you lean in to whisper in his ear that you’d love nothing more than to ruin him.

Holding his big hands while you stretch him open, inch by inch, fat tears rolling down his scarred face. He covers his face when he cums, trying his best not to whine but failing miserably. He refuses to look at you, too embarrassed at how easily he emptied his load onto his stomach after just a few slow rolls of your hips.

You lean down and kiss his hands, calling him a good boy for taking it so well. That only makes him sob harder.

tf 141: why they like getting pegged soap edition established relationship, fem!reader, bottom!johnny, safe sane & consensual, sex toys, prostate milking, anal fingering, ass eating (very brief), male masturbation, multiple orgasms, lots of l u b e, cum swallowing, sextape watching,

Coming home to your overstimulated boyfriend who’s got a vibrating toy up his bum that’s been bullying his prostate for hours and a calloused hand ‘round his cock that’s been stroking it raw is a surprisingly routine occurrence when you’re dating someone as open to sexual experimentation as Johnny MacTavish is.

Ghost is, by all metrics, an utterly pathetic human being.

He’s a right mean bastard who’s never minced words a day in his life. The only thing he knows how to do with any accuracy is kill. He eats food straight out of the trash and has never bought a bottle of conditioner in his life. His dick doesn’t work at the tender age of thirty-fucking-two. He’s scarred and ugly and makes it even worse by wearing a permanent scowl on top of all his other facial challenges. He screams in his sleep every night and cannot stand crowds of any kind. Roughly 80% of the time he communicates in grunts and head nods and nothing else. He has no family, hardly any friends and no hint of social etiquette. Everything about him is rough and grating and falling far below any reasonable human standards, let alone husband standards.

And yet you look in his dull, practically lifeless eyes and somehow see a soulmate. You look at him like he hung the moon in the sky for you and it somehow drums his rusty, sedated heart back into a steady rhythm.

He has no idea what you see when you look at him. No clue why you’re still by his side after all these years. But the greatest quest of Ghost’s mortal existence is becoming the man worthy of your devoted gaze. He only hopes he can get there before a bullet catches him in the side of the head, like so many good soldiers before him.

At least he’d die as he lived; yours, forever.

cw: overdose, track marks, needles

Simon Riley knows he hides his addiction well. Uppers in the field, downers on leave, long sleeves year round. Never let the team see, never mix drugs and never, ever confess. He knows what his body can take down to the last microgram and never pushes it further. Controlled neurosis to the nth degree.

He still can’t decipher what happened. Routine pickup from his go-to guy that lives close to his flat, his usual order to get him through the nightmares, to quell the itch under his skin until he can get his fingers wrapped around a trigger again. One minute he was shooting up on the guy’s moldy couch, the next he was startled awake by a dose of narcan hitting center mass. Blurry tableus of the ambulance ride and subsequent brightly-lit hospital room flashed before his pinprick pupils.

✨ ghoap x pricegaz ✨

Johnny & Kyle holding hands while they lie on their backs and get railed six ways to Sunday by their boyfriends. Holding hands turns into holding cocks turns into violently jerking each other off while Simon & John just smile at their boys cumming all over each other’s fists.

Simon & John bending their boys over opposite sides of a desk so they can make out in the middle. Both men feeling a strange sense of pride watching their bottoms breathlessly praise each other for taking cock so well. Wordlessly coordinating their orgasms so Johnny & Kyle can get filled up at the same time, moaning into each other’s mouths.

They are absolutely not a polycule. Johnny & Kyle are just really codependent friends and Simon & John are regular friends who understand that it’s not possible to love one and not have the other.

Johnny & Kyle making a pact to flirt with as many guys as they can when they go out for the sole purpose of getting bent over in a dingy alley when their men get sufficiently jealous. High-fiving each other afterwards, thick hot cum dripping down their thighs that they don’t bother to clean up before pulling their pants back up and skipping off to the next bar to do it all over again.

The four of them sometimes switching partners to cockwarm and cuddle during movies. Kyle sinking down onto Simon and Johnny stuffing himself with John’s cock as they both nuzzle into their chests. Getting pet and caressed by each other’s boyfriends while simultaneously arguing over who’s cock is bigger. Trying to bounce on them and getting shucked off to switch places because Simon & John only want to fuck what’s theirs.

The four of them getting engaged on the same day, getting married on the same day, and taking their honeymoon all together. The SAS practically collapsed when one of its most efficient task force’s all put in for three weeks leave at the exact same time.

tf 141: why they like getting pegged (click links for full drabbles)

Ghost likes taking his lady’s strap in missionary because he’s got a lot of weird gender stuff going on that he refuses to acknowledge and doesn’t even have the vocabulary to describe. Being made to lie back and take it “like a girl” makes his brain go uniquely fuzzy and he craves that feeling more than ever when gets trapped behind the bars of compulsive masculinity.

Soap takes it up the ass because he’s a kinky fucker who thinks nothing should be taboo in the bedroom. In his mind, arching his back while his lass pounds him silly with six-inches of hot pink silicone doesn’t make him gay or less of a man; it makes him a guy who likes to cum hard and isn’t ashamed to admit that his g-spot’s up his bum. He thinks straight men who haven’t even tried to finger themselves are repressed beyond saving and only hurting themselves.

Price loves getting strapped by his wife because he’s a submissive, through and through. His whole life is barking orders and leading; he doesn’t wanna carry that shit into the bedroom too. He’s compliant and needy and accepts everything she does to him with a smile and a whimper, including getting bent over his own desk and stretched out like a cheap whore.

Gaz enjoys pegging because he’s a pansexual stone bottom, no exceptions. He doesn’t care whether the cock’s real or fake, he just cares that his partner can fuck hard enough for him to see stars. The ideal sexual encounter for him is one where his own cock is ignored completely, except to be hastily stroked through his orgasm while they continue railing him. Honestly; he’s just a hole.

Simon’s version of being needy is hovering. He knows you’re his girlfriend and you love him and he remembers with perfect clarity the dozens of times you’ve reassured him that it’s ok to reach out for you, but somehow he still can’t bridge that gap.

Initiating physical contact is not a skill he ever learned to adopt very well. Depending on his flavor of self hatred that day, he either feels like a handsy creep or a whiny child for craving your touch when there’s storm clouds in his head.

So he follows you around like a puppy with attachment issues, (except the puppy in question is 6’5” & 300 pounds), waiting for you to make the first move. Today’s a busy day at home for you, though, as you’ve spent the last several hours deep cleaning the apartment.

Simon patters along behind you, looking like the human embodiment of wanting, helping quietly. Every-time you make any small bit of contact with him, a bit of tension rolls off his shoulders and a sigh of relief escapes his scarred mouth. But then it ends; you move on to the next task and Simon falls right back into being too scared to tell you how fragile he feels right now.

The first time a recruit walked in on Simon bending Johnny over in a storage closet, he thought it was just a heat-of-the-moment mistake. But then a private opened a conference room to find Simon on his knees with Johnny’s fingers in his hair. A specialist caught them with their hands down each other’s pants in the armory. Captain Price himself has caught them sharing stalls in the communal bathroom more times than he’d like to remember.

And so, a protocol was enacted. “Code Ghoap” is the phrase you use when you catch the British military’s most notorious hedonists in the act, to warn your fellow comrades to stay away.

“What’s all that thumping next door?” “Don’t worry; just a Code Ghoap”

“Uh…I need something from that conference room,” “No you don’t; Code Ghoap, mate,”

“The bathroom’s locked; Code Ghoap?” “…yes…”

The inimitable Lieutenant Riley and Sergeant MacTavish are very aware of the reputation they have on base. They also don’t much care. When you can gut a man like a fish in about 30 seconds with a pocket knife (Johnny) or blow an infidels head off from 400 meters away (Simon), people tend not to bother you when you decide to get frisky in increasingly public locations.

No one ever acknowledges the limp Soap sometimes walks with, or the very obvious hickies Ghost has when he pulls up his mask to eat. Willful ignorance is the best policy when it comes to those two, lest you want an earful of their sex lives, which either party is happy to give you in order to get you to fuck off.

Rumors fly about their marital and mental status, but the pair never clear anything up. Don’t feel the need to, so long as no one interrupts their “stress-relief” time together.

And trust me; no one wants to.

Ghost’s leave activities are always…unorthodox. He’s not the type of person who gets up to much good when left to his own devices. This Easter leave is no exception. Most people would see their families or take a vacation but no, Ghost decides to do an experiment; pop as many petrol-station dick pills as he can and see how many orgasms he can have until his dick goes soft.

After washing down his “medicine” with a swig of Jameson, Ghost gets to work; stroking himself to completion over and over and over again. He’s so enamored by how unaffected his hard-on is by his innumerable ejaculations that he hardly notices how sluggish his heart rate is getting.

Until the next morning when he gets so dizzy standing up from his bed that he faceplants onto his bedroom floor, erection still throbbing beneath him. Ghost has 0 shame in the ambulance ride to A&E and somehow even less than 0 shame when he explains his situation to his nurses and doctors, who are taking a break from tending to the latest victims of London’s knife crime epidemic to drain the blood from Ghost’s cock.

They max him out on vasoconstrictors and keep a close watch on the monitor displaying his blood pressure, making sure it doesn’t nosedive again. Beyond that, it’s just a waiting game. When the rest of the 141 rush in to check on Ghost, he’s sitting up in his cot, his stiffy tenting the thin blanket and a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. The fucking bastard thinks this is hilarious.

The worst part is, he’s right.

Spending an idle afternoon tracing Simon Riley’s innumerable scars with the warm pads of your soft fingers.

Following the webs of scar tissue from his arms to his chest to his face like they might lead somewhere no one’s ever been to before.

“So cool, Si….wish I had scars like you,” you whisper breathlessly, admiring the pucker of his skin around all his decade-old wounds.

Simon shifts, an invisible rope tightening around his chest. He lets his eyes explore you in all the ways he can’t bring his hands to. Tracing the curves of your body with laser-focused pupils, admiring your expanse of completely intact skin.

“Wan’ ya to stay soft, bunny; don’ get all mangled like me,” he whispers back, enamored by your body that has never experienced any of the atrocities that resulted in his latticework of scars with stories he’ll never tell.

The thought of his sweet missus being broken and torn along the same seams as him triggers a wave of nausea he’s powerless to stop.

Simon won’t allow you to harden. If it’s the last mission he ever completes, he’ll keep you as soft and safe as you are now for the rest of your mortal existence.

Sixteen-year-old Simon Riley tanks a punch to the face like a joke made at his expense.

His neck snaps back and when he rolls it forwards, crimson blood trickles down his pale face and a devilish smile contorts his thin lips.

His attacker spits out the only slur he knows for what Simon is. Or what Simon was doing; exploring the curious body of another boy behind the stands of the empty football pitch.

“Know ya are, but wha’ am I?” he growls back, a hyena’s cackle bubbling up through his cracked ribs.

He’s surrounded by boys, but the one he’d ruffled the hair of and whispered sweet praises to is long gone. The only ones that remain have pits for eyes and fists they inherited from their fathers.

So Simon accepts his fate. This was never a fair fight. There’s hardly a point in trying to make it one at all. The only weapon he has on him is his smart mouth.

Warm blood trickles down onto his chapped, swollen lips. He takes his time obscenely cleaning them with his tongue before jutting them out into a quivering pout.

“Seems t’me you wanna kiss me too,” he groans, falsifying his arousal much to his attackers horror.

The next punch knocks him clean out.

“Why don’t you let Riley in on your secret handshakes?” you tease, watching Kyle & Johnny’s convoluted ritual.

“Ghost would hate that,” Johnny dismisses through a chuckle.

“Lt’s not big on touch,” Kyle confirms with a nod.

You laugh, incredulously.

“Are you serious???? Have you met Simon? He’s the most touch-starved man in the world!” you bark, laugh reverberating through the bar.

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