and those were the last words john uttered before slamming the palm of his hand down against his desk and leaving. spoken the way most things he says are - gruff and final, with no room for argument - stunning the room into silence until the door shut hard behind him.
everyone just looked at each other, dumbstruck.
“should we wait for him to come back?”
“what the hell does that mean—”
“is that code for something?”
“wait, he’s married?”
price didn’t hear a word of it - by that point he was already halfway down the hall, boots pounding concrete with purpose, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, everything else dissolving into white-hot static behind his eyes.
he can take a lot of bullshit. does it daily. but fuckin’ hell - they wouldn’t stop. wouldn’t stop talking, hovering, circling him like crows. clipping questions at him in endless fucking rotations.
what now, captain? what’s next? what do we do about makarov? do we move now or wait for shepherd’s greenlight? have you seen the updated file? should we pull soap and gaz back? do we burn the safe house? double-tap the asset? what’s the protocol—
jesus fuckin’ christ.
it’d been too long. john’s mentally checked out and he knows it. doesn’t care. he didn’t want to be in that room. didn’t want to sit at that table. didn’t want to give another goddamn order with five pairs of bloodshot eyes looking at him like he’s meant to have all the answers and none of the doubt.
he needs a break. not a debrief. not another satellite feed. not another fucking decision.
he needs to go home and fuck his wife.
needs to put his hands on something solid, something that he doesn’t have to second guess. something that’d let him burn off all the static and pressure and noise building between his temples without asking anything much in return. his sanctuary where he can fall apart and come back clearer. reset his head before it spun off his shoulders.
so he peeled out of the parking lot before he’d even properly put the car in drive, and sent you one text:
‘take off anything you value and put away anything breakable. i’ll be home in 15.’
⤷ cw: smut, age gap(reader is in their early 20’s), missionary, fraternization, spit(just once), breeding kink.
john price who was hesitant to approach you at first, knowing about your little crush on him that soap always teased him about.
“lil bonnie has a crush on ya’ cap, why not date the sweet thing ay?” he’ll chuckle amused, patting price on the back as he puffs out a smoke.
“i’m not datin’ a kid” he grumbles unamused, putting out his cigar as he stands to leave.
scoffing at the thought as he walked through the mess, you definitely are a cute young thing. all eager and obedient every time you were needed for something.
all soft and pliant, the plump of your ass and the fat on your hips making him wonder how good it would be to fuck you raw hold you close.
but it’s.. unprofessional, really. not only is he twice your age but it would also be fraternization. an old bloke like him with such a cute thing to breed go out with, feeling all the judgmental stares as he holds you by the waist.
“cap? hello?” he’s suddenly startled by your voice, grumbling under his breath as he rubs his face. definitely out of surprise and not because his cheeks were flushed.
“christ kid, what did ya need from me?” he grumbles annoyed, trying hard to focus as he stares down at your cute figure.
eyes staring at him so intently, cheeks rising with every raise of your lips, and god that smile. holding a folder between those soft hands of yours, your nipples lightly peeking over your dress shirt.
it was taking every ounce of him to not take you right here and now. “i just needed you to approve this for the next batch of supplies coming in, it would be really nice if you could do it” you mumble shyly.
john price was a patient man, but seeing a sweet little thing be so shy and needy for him was too much. he couldn’t let you suffer alone now, could he?
well that’s what he believed right now, hands pushing your knees to your chest as he pistons his thick cock into you. thumb holding down your tongue as you whined for him, cock drunk as all you could think about was his thick girth splitting you open.
sobbing from pleasure as he spits into your mouth, tongue lapping at your tears before giving you a deep kiss. planting wet kisses on your collar, rutting deeper into you as he sucks on your nipple.
“fuck, mactavish was right. i should just breed ya full and put a nice ring on that finger yeah?”
i love old man price, he’s so yummy (i might write fauxcest?)
was gonna specify his smell, but some ppl don’t like smoking and i don’t really want ppl uncomfortable. kinda awkward bc i used to smoke lol.
pervy roomate könig will be posted tomorrow! it ended up longer than i expected and i have a few more oneshots otw so i wanna post at least 2 tgt tomorrow :3
Price loves watching his men fuck you. He loves how you grimace a little when Ghost slowly breaches your hole.
Price was mean to you today, not letting you get worked open by the sergeants before tossing you to Ghost. You sobbed and writhed, whimpering for him to slow down.
"Come on, love. You can take Simon's cock good for daddy, can't you?" Price teased, his fingers sliding into your mouth.
You whined, but nodded. You could take it, you could be good!
You sobbed out a high-pitched sound when Ghost bottomed out. He barely gave you time to adjust before he was harshly fucking into you.
Ghost and Price both obviously didn’t care that you had cum around Ghost's cock already. They were busy making out over your head.
When you whined for attention, Price just smacked you upside the head and fed his cock down your throat to placate you.
You couldn't deny it, you loved being used, especially by your boys.
Simon Riley is so fucking big that no matter how many times you’ve fucked before, you’ll always struggle to accomodate his size.
Moaning and writhing as he pushes in, the initial stretch is almost painful. Simon is not only long, but thick. ‘Huge’ doesn’t do him justice. He has you in a mating press, knees to your chest as if he wants to feel himself in your stomach. And you’re convinced that he actually is.
It’s simply too much. It always is. You’ve barely started but are already close to tears. With your hand on his scarred torso, you try to push him away. It’s an instinctive move to tell him to slow down. But instead of obliging, Simon only replies, firm and curt. “Hands off or I stop.” “You’ll take it, ‘know you can. You always do.”
Simon moves your hand away and pins both your wrists against the mattress by the side of your head. Then he thrusts all the way in, pulling out just halfway before sheathing himself to the hilt, practically moulding you to the shape of his cock. You can feel every throb and vein.
You cry as Simon groans. It’s guttural and deep and shamefully arousing. He begins to move and his mouth works with unending mantras. “Fuckin’ perfect, Christ.” “Warmest, tightest pussy.” “Can stay buried in this cunt forever.” “Just like that, fuckkk” And then there’s the wet sound of skin on skin, the filthy noise heard just beneath your airy whines and his breathy pants. “Look at you.” Plap. “Fucking.” Plap. “Taking.” Plap. “Me.” Plap. “So.” Plap. “Well.”
Simon’s dog tag hovers over your face with every snap of his hips. As your brows furrow in concentration and active effort to adjust, one of his thumbs smooth over your forehead whilst his other rubs at your swollen clit to help you ease. And eventually, as always, the pain subsides and morphs into pleasure.
Still, your mind begins to haze as you’re completely fucked dumb now. Your eyes grow wet and you sniffle, palms holding onto nothing as they remain pinned by your head, tearing up from sex. Oh god.
Simon chuckles at the sight of you cock drunk. He’ll be lying if he says he doesn’t love the image of you ruined on his cock, soaked and pathetic. Caressing your flushed cheek, he squeezes them slightly with an order. “Open,” he taps your chin, and you barely have to think before parting your lips enough for him to slide his fingers in your mouth. “That’s it, suck.”
Simon’s favourite moment (though it’s hard to choose) is when your glossed eyes roll back, voice muffles, and pussy tightens around him like a vice. You clench onto him like you don’t want ever want to let go as Simon places some pressure on your lower stomach, feeling the outline of his cock drilling in and out. It seems you feel it too as your pleas and sobs grow louder, music to his ears. “ ‘am close Si, please…fuck, ‘am close.”
“Then cum on my cock, let go f’r me, love.”
There’s no better feeling than that overwhelming bliss, that shared moment of intimacy when you both unravel, and you fall apart in his strong, inked arms. You hear Simon curse and feel him spilling inside you—warm and full— and when he pulls out, he plugs everything back in again with his fingers, drawing out one last cry. “Can’t waste anything now, hm?” “Wouldn’t you look so pretty swollen with my kids?” he muses.
Finally, Simon briefly kisses your temple, short stubble contrasting soft skin as he wipes your tears. Euphoric tears. The last thing you hear before you’re picked up in his muscled hold and walked towards the bathroom is that long awaited praise. “Good girl, did so well for me.” And fuck, would you let him do it again.
cw: rough p in v, choking, over stimulation, cock sleeve, smoking
a/n: Sleepy’s first smut post for this fandom. Ovulation is a fucking monster. Only lightly edited because I’m trying to write something once a week come hell or high water and I'm out of time.
Soap loved to have you on his lap, wouldn’t allow his bonnie to lift a single finger while he fucked you into oblivion. This time, you’d told him you were going to take a shower because you felt gross after a work out, but he wanted to make sure you were well and truly dirty before washing off the tangy smelling sweat he loved on you. Pheromones, he claimed. He waited until you’d disrobed, grabbed you around the waist, hauled you out of the bathroom, and shucked off his boxers right before falling back against the couch cushions. He’d let you grind against his dick for a bit, lubing him up with feigned control, before lifting you, lining himself up, and slamming you down just to watch you scream.
“Fuckin’ hell, bonnie,” he grunts, hands gripping your ass with a bruising strength. He uses his hips to toss you up and down his cock, “Ye were gonnae let aw this sweet slick get washed down teh drain? No’ on ma watch.”
Your nails dig into the nape of his neck, fingers twisted in the base of his mohawk as you were used as his own personal fleshlight. One rough hand jumps from your ass to where your bodies are joined together, pushing his fingers in next to his cock in your tight hole to stretch you further. Without breaking pace, he continues bouncing you while sucking his fingers clean. His eyes rolling back with your taste shoves you over the edge.
Your first orgasm is raw and shocking, his name torn from your chest as he fucked you through it with ease. As you come down, your hips go pliant and he drives you towards the next one. If there came a day where he only gave you one orgasm, you’d know he was an imposter sent by the enemy. You didn’t have enough brain power left to do anything but feel his beefy arms lifting you up and sinking you back down over his cock.
“Still nae ready fer a shower,” He grins, mouth sucking marks into your breasts between grunts, glancing down at the creamy ring at the base of his cock, “Gottae get ye real dirty, donnae wan’ ta waste water, aye?”
Sex with Soap was sometimes only twenty minutes, but the man’s ability to pull four orgasms out of you in that time left you wondering why others needed hours to achieve such a simple feat.
Price doesn’t have you on his lap very often, much preferring you on your back where he can hold you in a mating press and work himself into you until you’re fruitlessly trying to push him off of you. Sometimes though, after a hellish day of desk work, he wants to be selfish— deserves to be selfish. So he gets comfortable in his favorite arm chair, lights a cigar, and sits back to watch you bounce yourself on his cock.
And gods did you love to ride him, to take your pleasure just how you liked, alternating between rolls and impaling yourself on his meaty cock. John loved to watch your pleasure, your cute little moans and whines turn him on like no other. The only problem, if you could even call it that, was if you coughed from the smoke, your cunt would clench around him so nicely that he’d decide to come right then and there regardless of if you’d found your own release. You had to alternate between slow even breaths timed against his plumes of smoke to keep yourself from ending things too quickly.
“So greedy…” He murmurs, blowing smoke just above your head, enough to make your eyes water from the acrid heat. Whimpering, you pick up the pace, moving your hands from his chest to behind you, clenched his thighs for support. Your hips roll and bounce over him, moans spilling freely as you find the right angle for yourself and pick up the pace. Every raise of your hips burned your muscles and you were fighting against your own pussy walls sucking him back into your heat. He doesn’t mind the wavering pace, your cunt is his favorite place to be no matter the position. “All I’m doin’ is sittin’ here, but you like usin' me to feel good, don’t you? Come on, lass. Find your pleasure before I do.”
A keen is caught behind your bitten lip, nodding furiously as you work yourself over him. He was thick, stretching you out on every drop and only occasionally hitting your cervix. When a particularly harsh roll of your hips lights up your spine with a zip of pain, your hand slips and you nearly fall backwards off the chair. Price is quick to catch you, hauling you back up with a smirk.
“Careful… if I drop this cigar, I’ll have to start a new one.”
Gaz has his arm banded across the front of your hips, the other hand holding the base of your throat. Your back is to his chest as he pumps himself into you with steady thrusts. “Such a sweet little thing for me, just stay right here, yeah? Lemme take care of this sweet cunt for you.”
“Kyyyle…” You whine, hands pawing at his meaty thighs, but it's no use trying to get away. Once Gaz has you, you’re not going anywhere until he’s decided you’re both done. His cock’s natural curve drags against your walls at the perfect angle in this position and he’s ruthlessly precise about it. His grip tightens around your throat at ythe plea, not breaking the rhythm that has you climbing a familiar peak.
Gaz hushes you with a kiss to your temple, tongue darting out to taste the sweat beading at your hairline. It didn’t matter to him how long it took you to come, because once he’s picked a pace, that’s where you’ll both finish. You got off on his subtle control, the willing bondage of pleasure you gave up to him.
“Gonna come for me, babydoll?” He whispers, nipping your earlobe when your head lolls back against his shoulder with a shudder. He adjusts the arm pinning your hips as your back arches off his chest, “Come on then, squeeze me, babydoll.” His words send you over, a choked cry presses your flexing throat muscles against his palm.
When he feels your slick drip down his thighs, he moves again, slow punching thrusts into your silken walls as you mewl in over stimulation. Always the gentleman, he makes sure to give you exactly what you need before finding his own release. It’s only a few minutes later before he’s biting into the junction of your shoulder and flooding you with his come. Even as his cock softens and more slick drips down your thighs, he rolls you over himself just to hear the broken record of his ruined lover.
Ghost puts you on his lap when you’ve been a brat- bending over to pick things up you could have reached your arm down to get, pouting with a swish of your hips when he tells you to wait until he’s done with work, mentioning this fancy new vibrator your single friend swears by… all this left you sitting on his lap, fully dressed sans panties. He’d unzip his pants enough to free his cock, pull up your skirt around your hips, and impale you on his dick without preamble as he sat at his desk. If you moved, you got a slap to the ass, if you whined, he’d pinch your nipple, but usually if you were quiet and let him finish his work, he’d fuck you into next week.
You were not in the mood to be good today, he’d only gotten back from deployment a day ago but had only fucked you twice! You’d felt an achy emptiness the entire month he was gone and now you only got the occasional slow grind of his cock against your womb when he shifted position.
“Please please please… need more… please, Si…” You whine feverishly, fat tears in your eyes from how long he’s kept you stretched full without release.
“More? My cock isn’t enough for you anymore? Only gone for a month and you’re fucking feral for it.”
Ghost huffs, trying to ignore the smell of arousal permeating the room, seeping under his mask and trapping him in the smell he craved more than air. His gloved hand slips between your bodies, a single finger pressing rough circles into your clit. When you tried to roll against the friction he pulled his hand back, “Move and you lose it.”
Your lip pouts out in frustration and need, but you nod, biting your lip and focusing on staying still. At least this way, you’d finally be able to come. His finger brings you to the edge quickly, your whole body clenching around his cock like it had been weeks since your last release. Tiny twitches of your hips are the only movement he’ll allow besides the squeezing of your arms around his shoulders. You’re rewarded with a sharp intake of breath as he was squeezed like a vice by your wet walls.
His finger doesn’t stop its assault on your clit, his other hand leaving his work to hold your hips down against him, “No, you’re not done. You want to come on my cock so bad? Take it.”
You gasp, squirming against the overstimulation as tears fall down your cheeks. It’s not until the third orgasm he tears out of you that you realize his game— he would keep his cock resting deep inside you, not moving an inch, until the sweet clench of your repeated orgasms made him come.
simon didn’t care that all of his money went to a girl that he didn’t know, a girl that was filming herself behind the camera.
“thanks for the donation sr141,” your shy face flashing a smile as you slowly untied the front piece of your shirt, his eyes glued to the screen savouring each moment. simon’s cock chubbed in his hands, slow strokes as his eyes remained trained on the screen.
he’s seen your naked body numerous of times, but yet every time you undid your clothes it felt like the first time all over again.
it was adorable just how shy you were, the faint blush in your cheeks as you displayed your pretty glossy cunt to the camera, playing it with your hands.
sr141 sent $400 > look so pretty baby
he almost came in his pants when you flashed the camera a smile. “thanks for the donations again,” you mumbled softly as you took out a toy - a dildo. “i wanted to do something new, maybe a toy?” you asked the chat as you held it up. god, what simon would do to be that.
the chat spammed with responses, sometimes he wished that it was a private call - these men didn’t deserve you.
sr141 commented > please, want to see your pretty lil cunt take it
he watched as you gently rubbed it along your glossy cunt, making it glisten with your arousal before sinking in. “it also vibrates,” you moaned as you thrusted it in and out of your cunt. simon was mesmerised, the way your cunt took the toy all the way in made him imagine how it felt to be buried deep snuggly in your cunt.
would you feel as tight as he imagined? would you make all those pretty noises you were making now?
sr141 commented > turn up the vibrations pretty, want to watch you fall apart
the way you blushed whenever simon commented didn’t go unnoticed, it added to his delusions that maybe you noticed him, maybe he would be offered a private call.
his strokes moved with yours, watching the way your body trembled when you turned on the vibrations, small moans coming in between your laboured pants. you were already making a damn mess on the bed, and you haven’t even came.
“‘m gonna cum, it’s too much,” you whined as your hips buckled, simon fantasying that he was the one in between your legs, tongue deep inside your cunt savouring your taste. sometimes he wondered maybe, just maybe he would make a special appearance. flaunting that he has a pretty girl to fuck in front of the cameras, claiming you.
the moment you came so did he, spilling his thick cum all over his calloused palms as he watched you lay breathless.
For some freaky shit (not that freaky imo but I just want to see someone write this so bad hehe) PUSSY PORTALS (can also be the ass or any other hole you want but you get the idea) I LOVE PUSSY PORTAL SMUT RAHHHHHH
ps love your writing <3
This seems like the perfect time to finish this draft and jump on the pussy portal train.
Imagine the surprise on Nikolai's face when Reader comes to him before his deployment with a small box. Which he unwrapped to find a small disc with your perfect little cunt incased so beautifully, a handle attachment to the side for a more fleshlight like grip. It was the best present he's ever received.
He barely made it to base before he was pulling it out. Running his fingers over your folds, watching as the slick gathered before he brought it to his mouth, tongue slipping into your hole, while the ridge of his nose rubs against your clit. Eating you out through every orgasm until he can see the pulsing as he pulled away. Knowing you were home, sitting or laying wherever you where, moaning his name miles away.
He was quick to slide his dick in, one hand against the door of his room as he started to thrust. The pleasureable sensation making it harder not to cum on the spot. His thrust started coming across harsher as he bullied your cervix as he concentrated on holding back. Slamming the head of his cock against the womb entrance until his hips were stuttering and his knees were shaking as his release flooded into you.
It was the start of an obession. He kept it on him at all the times, when he'd get bored in the shop he'd bring it up to his lips to suck and play with your clit. And he'd keep you on edge while he did it, if he felt you were close he'd pull away, it'd take minutes or it'd take hours, and when he'd finally decide what needs to be done, he'd finally bring you over the edge.
Or if he knew he'd be dragged into a multi hour meeting that could've been an email, he'll slid it onto his cock, soft or hard, distract himself with the feel of your wet walls. Or if he could, sometimes he'd message you ask if you can move the portal, and slid his cock into your throat, and keep feel your throat muscles work around him. Not having to get up to go to the bathroom was a plus side as well, as he'd relieve himself without any notice.
And on long missions, what kind of friend would he be if he didn't share with his friends. Taking turns pounding your cunt for hours with them while they let off steam, sometimes they'll even share your hole, feeling how their cocks rub against each other in those tight walls.
It was the best gift you'd ever given him, and he hoped his use of it showed his appreciation.
When you find a polaroid tucked away in Price's bucket hat. ✨
It's been months since you got proper rest, a second of shut eye felt like a fantasy with the gaggle of a thousand two children under the age of four and it was all Price's fault.
Price and his stupidly delicious cock.
Now, you were currently in the laundry room shifting through the clothes into colours and whites with a huff because it seemed like there was no responsible adult in your house able to do the washing letting a mountain of clothes piling up in the corner.
It didn't help that John's sweaty piles were scattered everywhere; sometimes you wondered how this man could be so disciplined at work but a complete pig at home.
You pinch the bridge of your nose, staring at the damp, crumpled heap of his shirts like they personally offended you. Mud-stained cuffs. Sweat-dark collars. One sock. Just the one. As if the other had simply evaporated in the field like it always did.
The bucket hat appears when you dig deeper into the pile, its worn olive fabric unmistakable. You pause.
Price’s hat.
The same one he refuses to throw away despite the frayed brim and the faint smell of engine grease that no detergent has ever fully conquered. You shake your head, half fond, half exasperated.
“Of course this ended up in the laundry,” you sigh.
You’re about to toss it in with the darks when something stiff rustles inside the lining. Frowning, you reach in. Your fingers brush glossy paper. A polaroid slides free. For a moment you just stare at it, brain foggy with exhaustion.
It was a photo of you.
A photo that you had sent him years ago, with the momentous piles of letters that would get shipped to him every month. But this one was different.
If was a photo of you, on the bed, legs spread wide to show the mess you made in between your thighs, clit puffy and abused.
Footsteps sound behind you, heavy and familiar, and Price fills the doorway with a towel slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from a rushed shower. The moment he looks at you, something in your expression must give you away, because his attention sharpens immediately. You don’t say anything, just hold the polaroid up between your fingers.
He steps closer, leaning in to get a better look.
And then he stills.
Not dramatic, not loud, just a quiet pause. A flicker of recognition. Of being caught.
His hand drags over the back of his neck, the gesture almost sheepish, so unlike the composed, unshakeable captain he usually is. There’s a brief attempt at nonchalance, but it doesn’t quite land. The truth is already there between you, glossy and undeniable.
A short, disbelieving laugh slips out of you as your gaze drops back to the photo. The absurdity of it, the fact that this had been tucked away in his bucket hat, feels almost ridiculous. And yet, there it is. Intimate. Bold. A snapshot of something that was never meant to be casual.
You shake your head faintly, still staring at it, taking in the details again despite yourself. The way you’re leaning into him. The way his hands hold you, not just with heat but with something steadier. Grounding. Certain. And the way he’s looking at you like the rest of the world had simply stopped existing.
Behind you, he lets out a quiet breath, something close to a suppressed chuckle, and steps closer until his warmth settles at your back. It’s familiar, instinctive, his presence fitting into yours like it always does.
Your thumb brushes over the edge of the polaroid, slower this time, more thoughtful. The embarrassment is still there, but it’s softened by something else now, something heavier.
You turn it over.
There’s writing on the back, John's handwriting; rough and simple.
Miss this.
Your chest tightens, just slightly, but enough to notice. For a moment, the noise of the house fades into the background, the distant thud of small feet upstairs, the faint chaos of toys being thrown and voices calling out. It all feels muted compared to the quiet weight of what you’re holding.
You glance back at him over your shoulder. There’s no teasing in his expression now, no deflection, just something steady and honest that sits deep and unguarded. It tells you everything. When you look back at the polaroid, you don’t hesitate this time. You slip it into your pocket, pressing it flat against you like it belongs there.
Behind you, Price shifts slightly, one eyebrow lifting in silent question, but there’s a knowing edge to it. Your lips twitch, just faintly. There’s still embarrassment, still disbelief, but it’s tangled now with something warmer, something quieter, something that lingers.
His hands settle on your hips a moment later, grounding and familiar, and the warmth of him presses in close again. There’s a low murmur near your ear, something teasing threaded through it, hinting at future trouble more than anything immediate.
You nudge him back lightly, more out of habit than resistance.
Upstairs, the sudden crash of something hitting the floor shatters the moment, followed by a loud, indignant wail.
Reality rushes back in.
With a long, tired sigh, you turn toward the door, already moving to deal with the chaos waiting upstairs. Behind you, Price follows easily, unhurried, like he knows exactly how this will go.
As you walk, your hand briefly brushes your pocket, where the polaroid rests, hidden now, but not forgotten.
And despite everything, the exhaustion, the noise, the mess, you can still feel the quiet weight of it there.
