Unabashed Candy Maker

Accidentally deleted my original account. Very slowly, I'll update everything :) Masterlist

[simonriley09]

P!link

Simon loves having his face between your legs, he comes home after a tiring mission and sees his missus all dolled up for him in the kitchen and he can't resist.

He's got you propped up on the bed, his head laying on your inner thigh as he uses his thick flat tongue to lap at your folds, making you quiver.

Simon's focused on making you cum on his face, maybe a couple times... then he'll fuck you properly, luv.

[partiallysame]

Soap who has never been causal about anything in his life trying his fucking hardest to find a way to lock down his “just for fun. Not looking for a relationship” hookup. But when the cute outfits and matching lingerie sets turn into comfy clothes and normal underwear and they finally agree to let him order take out and eat together he knows he’s got ‘em right where he wants them

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Soap: How was the honeymoon? Y/N: Simon got drunk and tried to set our marriage certificate on fire. He said "Good luck trying to return me without the receipt" Y/N: God I'm so in love with him

[should-be-sleeping]

In fifth grade a boy tried to impress me by swallowing a whole tadpole live and I punched him so hard that he puked and the tadpole was fine.

[should-be-sleeping]

I kept it in a terrarium and it became a normal 🐸 despite everything. About a year afterward (I thought) it died, so I sadly put it in a shoebox in the shed until the ground thawed enough for a proper funeral but when that day came I opened the box and the frog was fine.

[justprettygay]

[should-be-sleeping]

This is funnier than anything I have ever said.

[should-be-sleeping]

This post is to Easter what a Geiger counter is to radiation.

[goatgoesmbe-deactivated20250814]

Soap x f!reader

When you're all out together, whether to walk around at the mall or family vacation to disney world

Johnny would insist on carrying your baby. The chubby wee ane strapped to his chest, babbling happily as Johnny kept walking alongside you. There was no hint of weariness on his face, even after more than an hour walk

"You had this in yer belly fer nine bloody months- now it's my turn!" He said as he stomped away as the baby bouncing along with each steps

Because how dare you try to take his baby from him 🤨

[val3rian]

price commiting war crimes like it's jaywalking

[bunnis-monsters]

what about a vampire boyfriend with a human female on her period? He basically gets a feast that doesn’t hurt her!

Okay, pairing this with a squeamish vampire bf tho.

Your lover is a vampire, but he couldn’t even begin to imagine a world where he could hurt you in order to feed.

It pains him to see you bump your knee on something or whimper over a sore spot, you think he’d be able to sink his fangs into your neck?

No way!

But he’s starving. Animal blood only goes so far in satiating his hunger.

Usually you try your best to avoid him when you’re menstruating. After all, you know he’s squeamish and his sense of smell rivals even the best hounds.

But you’re wrong. He’s squeamish, but not with blood. He gets icked out seeing you in pain and with the thought of TAKING blood from you. His fangs being in your skin, feeling your pulse thumb against his teeth as he draws out your life essence…

Your blood isn’t the problem… hurting you is.

So when he shows up in the middle of the night, a bit pouty over you ignoring him all week, he nearly doubles over in hunger pains when he smells your blood.

And so much of it.

At first he’s terrified that you’ve been hurt. He rushes into your bedroom… only to find you fast asleep with a heating pad pressed against your lower belly.

The scent is so strong, he can tell it’s fresh and warm blood. He pulls back the blanket, sniffing your body until he finds where you’re bleeding from.

He pulls back your shorts and sees your clothed cunt, a small wet patch of blood seeping through your panties. You fell asleep before you could even put a pad on…

Your vampire lovers swallows, his throat dry and eyes wide. He licks his lips, leaning into to give your pussy a long sniff.

It’s enticing, and gods hes starving.

You wake up to him eating you out, a coil forking in your belly as you’re on the brink of another orgasm. His chin is dripping from your blood, his eyes glazed over as he feeds.

Maybe you should tell him the next time your cycle comes around.

———————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko

[wraithest]

incredibly sleep-deprived military dog handler!reader taking the leash from johnny's hand and instead of petting the dog's head, you tiptoe to reach up and pet his head instead. like full on stroking his hair and cooing praises at him, especially an enthusiastic good boy! before leading the dog to the back and leaving behind a very flabbergasted johnny, whose pants are tightening in record time.

[call-of-duty-incorrect-quotes]

Soap: I used to think it was big of me that I didn’t hold grudges but then I realized it’s the ADHD.

Soap: I simply can’t remember what happened.

Ghost, taking his knife out: Don’t worry. I do.

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Soap: So I've seen you spending a lot of time with Y/N recently Ghost: Its not what it looks like Soap: Oh really? So no reason to be jealous? Ghost: No youre the only one for me Soap: Is that so? Ghost: I promise. Y/N and I are just dating ok? Soap: So there are no best friend feelings involved? Ghost: You are still my one and only best friend. Theyre just the love of my life ok? Y/N: Gaz: Good luck

[yeyinde]

You want a baby. Simon can't get over his hangups to give you one. The solution to both problems? Johnny.

18+ SMUT. breeding. mildly dubious consent. Johnny feasts on your pussy and then does his best to knock you up while Simon watches. slight body worship. bastardization of religious imagery. Mean!Dom Simon. rough, messy sex.

He's not the type to saw off his own hand to feed you, but would rather find a third man to satiate you both. The only one who can care for you, he said. Can't do that when he's dead, can he?

Maybe that's why he calls for Johnny.

down boy. eager mutt. lil' pyedogs got himself all twisted up in a rutt. help him, won't you, pet?

Johnny's softer than Simon but only just. This margin of distance, however, could be the gaping maw of a canyon for how wide it really is when scaled down to fit. Boxed inside a narrow bed—on your belly, cheek on Simon's knee; ass up, legs spread. Johnny behind you—colluvium to Simon's mountainside, but still so broad, so thick, your hips twinge with the effort of keeping your knees so wide apart.

You feel it whistling through the chasm when he licks his lips behind you—a loud, lascivious smack, a wet suckle—and feel the burn of his stare riveted on the split of your flesh. This bare seam Simon swears he found nirvana tucked deep inside of. A buried ravine. Aquifer he quenches himself on.

A pilgrimage Johnny has been aching to take.

And that's what this is, isn't it? Yatra to the hidden piscina. A procession to pollute the tarn—something Simon can't bring himself to do.

Bad genes. Trauma—sticky, noxious tar that oozes from the rotting filaments; festering deep inside. Cancerous: a mass you long to cleave from bone but know it's not cosmetic. Not just the ball joints, or the studs, but the foundation itself. If you start tearing up pieces now you'll have nothing but an empty plot and a pile of damaged debris.

So:

Enter the third man.

A tool. Vassel. Pays fealty by fucking a baby into your womb.

It's what you wanted, isn't it?

(yes, but—)

It happens faster than you can keep up with. Hands on your hips. Coarse hair tickling the back of your thigh. Warm breath against sticky, wet flesh. A broad nose parting your folds. Inhale. Exhale on a deep, reedy groan.

"fuck, ye smell heavenly, doe."

Simon hums before you can peel your tongue from the roof of your mouth, answering for you with a brassy invitation: tastes even better, Johnny.

It's all the permission he needs before he pushes his head closer to your bare cunt, groaning as his tongue cleaves a silky, thick line between your folds. Gorging himself without much preamble. Hands curled around your hips like expensive silverware, pulling you back into the wanting, eager suck of his mouth.

All at once, it's too much. Your hips shift, squirming away from his tongue, the too-sharp press of his teeth against soft, sensitive flesh. Mewling, whimpering into the rain-wet fabric of Simon's jeans.

His hand falls on your head. A gentle tap. Behave, it says, but you can't.

Johnny tramples over that thin line between pleasure and ecstasy, blurring them both until it becomes pain. Overwhelming. Shoving you towards the edge before you've readied yourself for the fall.

"Can't, Simon, can't—"

The words elide, slurring into a high-pitched whine as Johnny feasts on your cunt. Devours you from the inside out—all teeth and tongue, sucking your clit until your thighs cramp from how tight your muscles tense, bleeding lactic acid over sore flesh. The scrape of his stubble over your folds, chafing them until they are raw. Swollen. Drenched hole fucked with the spear of his tongue, digging so deep you begin to fear that he's trying to crawl inside of you. Salt your womb with his own two hands—

"Can take it, birdie," is all Simon says before his hand slides down your arched, trembling spine. Fingers digging into the meat of your cheek, spreading you wider for Johnny to eat. "Look how eager he is. Can't get enough of that sweet cunt."

"It's—it's too much—"

You don't feel him move. Can't see much from the blurry tears in your eyes. But his other hand whips out, cracking over your untouched cheek in a firm, burning smack. One that makes Johnny moan when it lands. Cruel. Open palm. Hard enough to leave a welt in the shape of his hand—something that makes him groan when he sees it.

"fuckin' hell—" his fingers dig into the aching flesh, grip bruising.

Johnny peels his wet, open mouth away long enough to pant into the slick spread of your cunt, resting his cheek on the swell of your ass. "Bit rough wit' 'er, Lt."

Simon considers it. Body shaking the bed when he shrugs, leaning back to trail his hand back up your spine, curling over the arch of your nape. Keeping you still as you sob into his knee. "She likes it."

"know she does. Fuck, Lt. Can feel 'er little pussy twitching. Tryin' tae suck me in."

Another hum. The grip on your asscheek eases as his hand peels away, sliding over swell before notching a finger between your cleft. Dry. Rough. It drags down your seam until it brushes over your fluttering hole, calloused tip digging in.

"soft, too, ain't it?" He asks, words mockingly cruel in their conversational tone. Nonchalant. But Johnny's hands tighten on your waist, palms slick with sweat. Glueing to your flesh. You can tell he likes that. Likes the way Simon talks about you. Demeaning and brutish. Butcher selling a piece of meat. "Bit of a tight fit at first—" he curls his finger inside of you, stretching your sore walls with the width of his knuckle. Sinking in deep. Another follows before you can remember how to breathe around the sting. "But swallows you up like a goddamn dream, Johnny."

His breaths grow ragged. "Fuck, Lt. Look at th'."

It makes you clench up around Simon's fingers, embarrassment scorching through your chest. "Please—"

Neither of them acknowledge you. Simon's fingers split, spreading wide apart as Johnny shuffles forward for a closer look, and nearly choking on his next inhale when he does.

"such a pretty fuckin' pussy—" he says it like a curse. Spitting the words out on a snarl. Angry, now, for reasons you can't discern slobbering over Simon's leg. "God, Lt. ah cannae—"

Johnny shifts back. You hear the clink of a belt. The rip of a zipper. Choked groans barely swallowed down as Simon buries his fingers inside of your weeping cunt over and over again, blunt tips cruelly skating over a spot inside, just behind your navel, that makes you feel liquid and loose between your hips. Debris floating down a whiteriver.

Pleasure peaks with each brutal thrust until you're howling into his leg, unable to move with their hands on your body, holding you down. Making you take it. Making you come undone as Johnny watches.

"fuck, fuck, Lt—she's gonna cum, ain't she?"

"Wanna feel it, Johnny?"

Simon's name falls out of his mouth on a whispered prayer. Drenched in thick reverence. Arched in need.

"aye, sir—" there's something about the hush of his voice, the way it slurs into putty. Enshrining his need in a halo of gold. It sends shivers down your spine. Heats you up fast like a fever. Sends you screaming over the edge—

"gonna miss it, Johnny. She's squeezin' me so fuckin' tight—"

Whatever else they say is swallowed by the keen clawing at the hollow of your throat when you feel the blunt, fat press of his cock knocking against your swollen, stuffed rim.

It's a burning thing—a sharp, heavy ache. Knock, knock. Simon spreads his fingers again, forcing you open. Pulling your hole wide apart for Johnny's engorged head to push up against.

It feels like being split down the middle. Ripped apart. Simon's fingers flex around your nape, thumb brushing soothingly against the knob of your spine.

Can take it, he mutters, brassy and low. A rumble just for you. Gotta take it, birdie.

You forget why. Why you need Johnny's too big, too fat cock inside of your cunt until the head bullies through, scissoring Simon's fingers apart until they're pressed tight on either side of the flared glands. Squeezed between your taut rim and Johnny's cock.

Johnny makes a noise like you've gutted him. A gutwrenching sob. "Oh, shite, Lt. M'—m'nae gonnae last—"

"gonna cum inside 'er, Johnny? Knock my pretty birdie up?"

Right. Right. A baby.

There's a heavy push. Your flesh wrenched apart to fit the fat, throbbing length of his cock—

(the cock that's gonna knock you up—)

Simon's fingers slip out of you as Johnny bucks forward, burying himself deep inside with a long, throaty groan. It's a horrible sensation—a bellyache. Without the splint of Simon's fingers forcing you open wide to near numbness, you're forced to feel the thick girth of his cock. Rim fluttering, spasming over the flared base. Too much, and somehow, not enough.

You sob through it. Each one ripples through your chest until it feels like it will collapse. Every inch of your body burns, throbbing. You don't think you'll survive this ache—

Johnny sets a brutal pace. Likes pistoning into you in quick succession until you're nearly howling into Simon's thigh before slowing to a crawl. Force-feeding you every inch. Making you feel every single one. Long strokes that batter the plug of your womb, bullying against the aching seal of your cervix until the flashes of pain, the savagery of this pleasure, makes you feel sick.

Getting fucked by Johnny like this is both a punishment and a reward. Baptism in hellfire.

Be careful what you wish for—

"gonnae fuck ye 'til it takes, doe. Knock ye up. Want th', don't ye? Aye. Can feel it. Feel this little cunt beggin' fer ma cum. Dinnae worry. Ahm gonnae give it tae ye. A' o' it, doe. Every—fuckin'—drop—"

Each awful word lands like acid on your spine. Chewing through flesh, tissue, until it melts bone below. Liquified. Helpless.

And with Johnny's hands on your hips, anchoring you in place as he hammers into your sore, abused pussy, possessed with the need to carve a space inside of your flesh where only he fits, rots, and Simon's hand on the scruff of your neck, holding you down, there's nowhere to run. Nowhere to escape the ragged breaths that spill from Johnny's slick mouth, the desperate way he pumps into you—thrusts growing sloppy as he stretches towards the precipice they dangle you off of, kicking and screaming as the scent of iron fills your nose, as his flared cockhead scrapes over that place you thought only Simon would ever know. Bluntly battering into the altar that sits, nestled behind your navel, like he's allowed.

Holy offering in a handful of seeds he'll sow over fecund land until something grows.

"Look at you take it," Simon coos, sticky, damp fingers petting over your tear-stained cheeks. It smells of loam. Salt. Iron and ozone. "So pretty when you're gettin' bred, ain't you, birdie?"

It rips a mournful keen from your chest, a feverish moan following on its heels when the lewd squelch, the echoing slapslapslap of Johnny driving into your cunt fills your ears. So wet, so messy, you can feel the slick drying, tacky and thick, on the inner crease of your bent knee.

"He's gonna put our baby in you, ain't he, birdie? Like a good mutt—"

The hands holding you over the precipice let go. Johnny's answering moan spears into your head, fluttering around the pulsing heartbeat of liquid bliss frothing in the pit of your belly. Overflowing over the rim.

Too much, you think, but that's not quite right because you can't feel anything at all except the length of his thick cock lodged deep inside you. Throbbing in tandem with your second pulse.

"gonnae cum, Lt. Gonnae—oh, fuck, Lt—"

His voice is a warm river washing over your spine. Pooling ecstacy. Something heavenly. Divine—

Molten gold blooms in the pit of your belly. Cockhead spitting against the seal of your womb as he cums, filling you to the brim. Fucking it into you even as his cock softens, unable to pull out he says.

Feels like fuckin' heaven, Lt.

"ain't she just?" Simon volleys back, sounding oddly dissonant. Off-key. "Pretty little birdie got what she wanted, huh?"

The drawl of his tone—acid-scorched, electric—forces you to blink through the tears, lifting your aching, wet eyes upwards at him. Searching.

He has the eyes of a predator. Leonine. The gaze of a beast after it's devoured something whole. His touch is as gentle as he can be—a rough, cracked scratch over your blistered cheeks—and when he meets your divining stare, he coos.

"Maybe I'll 'ave a go next time."

In the pounding, soporific slurry of your mind, you can't wrap your head around the words. Can't make sense of them. Struggling to keep your burning eyes open, even.

Not that it matters.

Johnny huffs a scorching breath of laughter over your sweat-slicked spine before wedging his forearm under your belly. Keeping your hips tipped up as he falls into you, resting his broad chest against your back and smothering you into the damp mattress.

"Yer cruel, Lt," he rasps, chin nuzzling over the arch of your shoulder, cock giving a feeble twitch inside of you at something you can't seem to piece together.

"m'jus' givin' my pretty bird exactly what she asked for." Huh? He prods, fingers tapping over your cheek when your swollen eyes slide shut. "Forgettin' y'manners, ain't you? Say thank you, pet."

With Johnny's half-formed chuckle echoing in your head, you mumble the words out on an exhausted sigh.

"an' say thank you to this mutt f'knockin' you up."

It comes out slower this time. Sluggish. His cock gives another twitch as he buries his face between your shoulder blades, smothering a groan.

"Sweetest thing, Lt. Christ—"

"more where that came from, Johnny. Jus' you wait an' see." Another tap. You mewl in response, feeling war-torn and achy. Unable to open your eyes for a second time, all you can do is whimper, burying yourself into his thigh. Pleading, silently, for clemency. Later, you think. Later—

But Simon has other plans.

"Fallin' asleep on me, birdie? Ain't even gonna give me a chance to put my baby in you? Greedy little thing, ain't she?"

Buried under the weight of Johnny as he peppers sucking, open mouth kisses over the width of your shoulder, cum leaking out around the softening plug of his cock, all you can do is snuff out the sob on the arch of his knee, resisting the urge to bite instead.

"Maybe next time then, eh, birdie?" Since you've been so good for this mutt, huh? Maybe I'll give you a reward.

Just be careful what you wish for, huh, birdie.

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Y/N: So when are you going to go out with me? Ghost: I don't know. When are you going to ask me to? Gaz: And you just ran away?? Y/N: I didn't expect him to flirt back!

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Y/N, pointing: Is this seat free? Ghost: That's my lap Y/N: That doesn't answer my question Ghost: Yeah its free Ghost, pointing to his face: but this ones more comfortable Y/N: *short circuits*

[metallictastinglifesupportliquid]

Price: Ok everyone, if Y/N is crying what do we do? Gaz: Cry with them Soap: Bring them hot cocoa Ghost: The person who did it would fall from several miles in the air Roach: Yeah, Ghost's one

[dante-mightdie]

inspired by that sound on tiktok

simon standing at a bus stop in london, he fucking hates this city but sometimes he has business to take care of here. as usual, it’s pissing down with rain and he didn’t bring an umbrella or a hoodie

he’s more bothered about the fact that his cigarette is getting wet and keeps dwindling out. he’s got 5 minutes until the bus gets here and he really doesn’t feel like rolling another one

he’s already agitated and he’s gonna take it out ont he next person who talks to him. or so he thinks, until he feels a light tap on the back of his shoulder. he straightens up and turns with purpose, only to slump in annoyance when he sees you. a pretty thing that he already knows he can’t be a cunt to

there’s normally only one reason someone as sweet as you might approach him and his eyes scan about for any wrongen who might be bothering you but he finds none, just your hand held out with a closed up umbrella wrapped in your palm

“hi… sorry to bother you, I just thought you might want my spare umbrella. I brought it with me by mistake and you look like you need it more than I do…” you smile nervously, clearly off-put by the furrow in his brow and steely look clouding his eyes

he stares at you for a few seconds, unmoving and he thinks you might give up. he sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out an old receipt before scribbling something on the back. snatches the umbrella and shoves the piece of paper into your hand

“take this.” he grumbles, not looking at you. he doesn’t need a reminder of your unwavering gaze and welcoming eyes so soon

“anyone gives yeh any bother, call me. I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em for yeh.”

he doesn’t give you a chance to respond before stubbing out his cigarette and getting on his bus which arrived a bit too soon for his liking

[monstersflashlight]

Gargoyle who stalks you from the victorian building across the street.

You realize there's creepy figures across the street, and one of them seems to be looking at your bedroom. He's a creature to be admired, big and tall even from afar. His wings so big they cover half the building, his torso naked and his horns pointy. He has something about him that draws you to him, that makes you have thoughts... Naughty thoughts.

The idea of the gargoyle being alive turns you on. You always had a bit of an exhibitionist side, and thinking that gargoyle is looking at you as you change... That makes you wet. Thinking he could see you touching yourself makes you so horny you have to rub one off. So you do all that. You change clothes and do little jumps to make your tits jiggle, you do little naked dances in front of the window, you touch yourself looking right at him. You try to get a reaction and you chastise yourself for such silly thoughts. He's a statue. Just that.

You think you see him move. He looks back at you. But that can't be, that's not possible. He's a statue... Just a statue. But his eyes are looking right at you, right at your fingers still buried inside your pussy. You stare back, but laugh it off. You ignore it, might be a trick of light or something. The gargoyle didn't move. He's just a statue. A statue which you thought about while jerking off, but that's your problem.

Until your dry spell is not your only problem. You wake up in the middle of the night with a big gargoyle right outside your window, intensely looking at you as he knocks on the glass. He grins at you, his fangs bright under the moonlight, his wings moving behind him. He looks like a destroyer of words and it ignites a fire inside of you...

You approach the window, opening it slowly.

"Hello, little morsel, had fun teasing me?"

[laswells-ashtray]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That makes Ghost laugh.