captainswhore

[captainswhore]

yes ghost is the scariest looking member of the 141, but price is the one that i wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. he's unpredictable because he's constantly switching between morality and military as the guide to his actions. he's loyal as hell but also willing to cut ties whenever someone doesn't serve him anymore. he's committed to the greater good but his definition of what the greater good is isn't solid. he's insubordinate. he has connections. so yeah, ghost might be scary, but he does what he's told. price does not.

[captainswhore]

Soap teasing u abt some insanely fruity cocktail ur drinking so u ask "do you want a sip?" And before he can grab ur glass u grip his jaw and pull him into a kiss. Literally forcing the drink into his mouth in front of the whole table, grinning when he swallowed and you lick into him for a moment to savor the taste.

Anyways ghost has to literally scruff soap to stop him from going down on u in the middle of a public bar lol

[captainswhore]

You ask Soap if you can eat out for dinner. In hindsight, you realize (as he has you bent ass up on the bed as you squirm and writhe under his straining, brawny arms, his tongue slick against your back hole) the beaming smile he gave you should have been a warning in of itself

[captainswhore]

18+ only please and thank you

John Price’s darling secretary, whose orgasm is scheduled every week, on Friday afternoon.

Friday afternoon, that’s the deal you've found yourself in somehow, after one terribly drunken and unforgivably honest night, where you found yourself naked and panting into your boss’s—

You know what, maybe it’s best if you don’t get into the details. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because you have your routine, and it works for both of you.

First thing in the morning, you bring your boss his coffee.

He takes one sip, and gives you an absentminded, “Thank you darling, shut the door please.”

Which you of course take care of right away, with your heels clacking cheerfully across the vinyl floor.

Then it’s morning briefing time, where you hover near the end of his desk and fill him in on any changes to his schedule that day, remind him of meetings and things he needs to sign off on, and just generally become more and more flustered because of what he’s doing.

Namely, that’s when he scoots his chair farther back from his desk, spreads his legs a bit, and strokes his beard while he looks at you.

Oh, the way that man looks at you.

You’ve tried to describe it to your friend once, and utterly failed because you started stumbling over your words with sudden embarrassment.

But your mind knows. Your subconscious perfectly understands the meaning of that particular gaze he levels at you.

It’s like you’ve found the most important person in the world, a person whose attention feels like it should be rationed in crumbs, and it's suddenly, fully locked onto you.

Not onto what you’re saying, though he does pay vague attention because that’s part of his professional day-to-day. But more than anything, he’s watching the changes in your face, the small shifts of your legs as you stand in one place in heels. It would be unprofessional to lean against his desk, so you just shift your weight slightly, planner in hand, and rattle off military organizational nonsense while Price’s eyes caress your face, linger on the curl of your fingers around the pen, lazily examine that spot where the skin of your throat disappears under your shirt collar.

���How was your weekend?” he'll ask softly, once he's certain you've got through the boring necessities.

"It was lovely, thank you sir. Saw a film with my friend."

He'll stretch out his hips slightly, forcing you to glue your eyes to his face and not drop them to the expanse of warm lap so close by.

“How are you feeling today?” he always inquires.

Which, of course, you know what it means. The words are cordial enough, but you've had this routine long enough to understand what's unsaid.

‘How’s our little arrangement treating you today? Do you need a break?’

To which you reply something like, “Right as rain, sir.”

And that's it. Business settled, coffee delivered, everything ship shape in that little office on base.

And then you get a different sort of attention, because that's what this is all about in the first place -- the fact that you can't get enough of his attention.

Some days, if there really isn't anything going on that morning, he'll let you suck him off. Those are really nice days, because it means he'll be in a good mood after that, smiling at you and giving you soft, happy eyes.

But mostly there isn't time, so he's forced to tend to you in other ways.

Namely, the Captain makes you come stand between his knees, so he can run his hands over your body. He'll talk to you while he does it, tell you a little bit about his weekend, the fishing he did, the reruns he watched, while he undoes the little buttons on your blouse.

He prefers you in those soft fabric bras without any padding, partly because he can see the imprint of your nipples through your shirt, and partly because it's so easy to tug the top down and let your breasts spill out onto his waiting hands.

Price is a boob man, in case you were wondering.

You keep your hands clasped carefully onto your planner behind your back, and endure each tug on your nipple while he shines those gorgeous eyes up at you, his expression full of playful fondness. That's all this is, after all. A little bit of playing with each other, because you both enjoy it.

"Does that feel good, sweetheart?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you miss me over the weekend?"

"I always do, sir."

Sometimes he finds other ways to play with your body, but you get the general idea. Ten minutes of touching and attention, and you're set for the day. Wet, breathless, and practically stumbling over yourself to please him in whatever ways you can.

Ten minutes, and then he's buttoning you back up, making you proper again, and turning back to his coffee with a casual, "That's all for now. Thank you, darling."

Thank you. As if you're the one doing him the favor. You're half convinced it's his own little joke.

Actual work begins about that time, and it often happens where you don't see much of each other. He's occupied with meetings or trainings or briefings most mornings, and you deal with your usual papers and busywork.

For lunch you often pop off to the mess, or occasionally bring sandwiches to the office mini fridge. Lunch is always overshadowed by your anticipating of the midday meeting. It's the next bit of time you get to spend time with Captain Price.

"How was your lunch?"

"Just fine, sir."

"Close the door please."

Much like his, 'How are you feeling today?' question, you believe the door closing is a signal of sorts. That he's ready and willing, and that nothing has come up that keeps him from the midday meeting, as things occasionally do.

Most days, though, he manages to prioritize it.

You appreciate that greatly, because it's your favorite part of the day. The part where you remove all of your clothes apart from your heels, and he guides you into his lap for wandering hands, and soft, interested whispers.

He never takes off a stitch of his own clothes. It's part of the arrangement, you suppose, to help you feel more vulnerable. The contrast of his rough, reinforced clothing against your bare skin, the occasional scratch of velcro, or the poke of a corner of fabric, only makes it better. The complex excitement and fear of it has your heart thumping like a trapped animal, which is obviously the point. The more trapped you feel, the more wrong it is, the wetter your pussy gets, and you both know it.

You attempt to relax like that, melting back against that broad chest, shivering slightly from the cold air of the room, and aware of every motion of those steady hands exploring your most sensitive areas.

When he gets his fingers in your pussy, when he starts touching it exactly the way you like, that's when he asks you the most difficult questions, in quiet little murmurs against your hair.

They're rhetorical, but you give him a quiet, "Yes, sir," or "No, sir," as you're meant to.

He'll ask you if you've been wet on the weekend while you were away. If you've been a selfish girl and touched yourself at all. If you went on any dates, if you let anyone fuck you. If you told them about how you're not allowed to cum, if you took precautions to make sure it didn't happen. If you were generous and let them use you. If you've been thinking about hooking up with anyone else at work, if having a wet pussy all week is making you more interested in being used by random people.

And he touches you through every question, regardless of how you answer. Until your knees are trembling, and every reply is coming out with a little more of a struggle, a little more whimpery and pitiful.

He doesn't make you edge yourself. He's got a pretty clear idea of where your tipping point is, after a few accidents in the early weeks of this. He'll just decide you've had enough, and his sticky fingers will dry while coasting over the other parts of your skin, sampling the feel of your heated body in his hands while you catch your breath and try to calm yourself.

Price always gives himself time to spend with you like that, gently petting you and letting you feel connected to him, until the soft warmth of that is almost as loud in your brain as your throbbing clit.

And then it's time to get proper again. Get dressed, get back on schedule, back to your office duties, with your underwear now uncomfortably sticky against your aching pussy.

Aching, because he's so fond of you that he gives you all this wonderful attention.

The end of the day tends to be the part that's flexible. Sometimes it's just a friendly pat on your ass and a, "See you tomorrow, good work today."

Occasionally he'll inspect your panties, maybe get rid of them for you since they're so wet and useless at that point. More than a few times you've had to ride the train home with nothing on under your skirt, your inner thighs wet from your own arousal wandering down your legs. It's very difficult to not think about fucking strangers when that's happening.

And sometimes, very rarely, he'll fuck you at the end of the day. Especially if it's been a very good day, or if you've done something particularly smart, you'll get bent over his desk as a goodbye, get your pussy filled while your eyes roll back and little whispered, "Thank you, sir"s roll off your tongue.

Those are the days you really wish he was coming home with you.

But then, the best day is always Friday. That's the day you're always extra nervous, extra good, trying your very hardest to do everything exactly right so that nothing will stand in the way of you and getting the orgasm you earned all week.

Price lets you pick it, because he's a very nice boss. Whether it's eating you out on top of his desk, or getting fingered uncomfortably close to the window, or just riding him until your knees have imprints of his chair, you're guaranteed to finally, finally, get to cum. He often stays late so you can get as many as you want, shuddering and gasping as quietly as you can while your pussy spasms in intense, long-delayed release.

You've never felt anything like it. Many partners, many different kinds of experiences, but your Friday afternoon fuck is something different. Something emotional and vulnerable, when you let your body do what it needs to do, while he watches. Watches, and offers hushed little comforts and praises.

Take what you need, you've earned it. You've been such a busy worker this week. His favorite subordinate, but don't tell anyone. Never met anyone so cute and competent at the same time, what a treasure you are. Doesn't that feel so much better? Let's keep going, you deserve it. You're doing so well, darling. That's my girl.

You're left a sweaty, blissed-out mess by the end, when he tucks you into his chest and strokes your back.

Ahh, Friday. Fridays are the best.

[captainswhore]

sorry guys (slight dark content below)

thinking about ghost who overhears you talking to your friend about how you wish a real man would just take you away from the big city and build you a house yada yada his dick is already hard

so naturally he follows you home and before you can process the prick in your neck, you’re out like a light and waking up chained by your ankle to the foot of his bed, wearing his old recruit shirt and a wedding ring

[captainswhore]

Lowkey socially inept ghost who has NO CLUE just how horny reader is for him😔

You've pulled out all the stops, complimented his outfits, pointed out how tall he is, how warm he is. Fuck, you even compared hand sizes! But nothing! Ur pretty sure hes just dense, bc its not like hes rejected you yet, just nods along with whatever you say but he doesnt *do* anything!

You learn that ghost has a bad back and send him sex positions designed to reduce back pain, nothing but a thumbs up. Its not even you that ends up telling him, gaz sees you offer chapstick after *just* applying some and he denies it. He cant take it anymore, watching u is becoming actually painful.

"Ghost, mate, she wants to fuck you." He says blunty, dodging the indignant slap aimed at him "preferably sooner than later." Gaz gives you both a firm pat on the shoulder then walks away.

....anyways ghost ends up railing u into the mattress and u learn that u just need to be blunt with him. From then on you either drag him to ur room or say it to his face, only mildly embarrassed abt being so bold but the dick is worth it.

[captainswhore]

i have two (2) thoughts:

- alpha!kyle having you confined to his bed for the entire duration of his rut.

- alpha!kyle offering you a muscle relaxer when you start complaining about being folded like a pretzel all week long.

[captainswhore]

So I'm responding to your ask prompt about my going out attire + how if rizz a cod man, and I just have to know who I'd bag.

I typically wear something between bimbocore, or something that your childhood friend's older mean cigarette sister would wear in the early 2000s.

I'd probably rizz them up by being bashful at first, all doe eyes and shy smiles. Eventually I would get some courage though, and I would be ultra sweet while dropping some jokes (I'm literally a comedian) and some innuendos.

(these requests are now closed, btw, ty <3)

UM (♥ω♥ ) cropped baby tees, denim minis, choker chains?? that's Soap-bait. you look like the girls who ignored him in high school. he can't resist. 

he sees you across the bar with your whole lower-lip-nibbling, faux-innocent, "teehee i'm just a girl" act. you paw through your bag with all the cute dangly charms and pretend not to notice him. he pretends not to notice you noticing him. the long game. 

when you finally slip up and make eye contact (and damn are his eyes blue) it's all you can do to rip your gaze away, whisper something in your friend's ear--hand cupped to hide your lips--and laugh like you're so unbothered about sharing a little joke about the guy across the bar.

please, Soap knows better. that gets his blood up and going in a good way. 

you can only ignore him for so long. in fact, you just happen to walk by his table on your way to check out the pool cues. 

he kicks the stool out next to him--slung back, a boot up on the seat like he owns the place--just enough to block your way. 

"do i look funny, hen? got somethin' on my face?" he asks you with a loose, wide smirk. 

you go wide-eyed, blink slow, and tilt your head like a confused cherub. so sincere he almost frowns.

"thought ya liked jokes."

"i do," you answer. "but i like them better when they're on you."

the doe-eyed smile you flash him at your own punchline does half the work. he folds inward and laughs.

"c'mere, then, i'll buy the next round if you keep makin' a fool outta me." 

you know way too many pickup lines. all awful. yet they seem to work dangerously well with how quick he sneaks his hand around the back of your chair. 

suffice to say the next day he has several pictures of you with and without your club fit on. y'know, for the group chat <3

more Soap / masterlist

[captainswhore]

taking one (& another & another & another) for the team | soap x reader x ghost | inspired by: @softaestluv johnny's pent up blurb

It started as a joke. "I'm gonna die if I don't get my cock wet soon," Johnny whined, sprawled backward over the couch, legs spread, hand draped over his forehead like he was seconds away from his last breath. *"Swear I can feel it in my fucking molars, mate. I'm gonna explode."

At first, you and the others ignored him. Typical Soap — loud, dramatic, a walking sexual frustration PSA. But it didn't stop. If anything, it got worse: every mission debrief, every meal, every late-night sit around the barracks, Johnny lamented his poor, poor cock like it was a national tragedy.

When he started describing how tragic his wanks were — "My hand's too fuckin' rough, not the same, need something wet, something tight—" — you snapped. Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear: "Christ, Soap, I'll fuckin' take one for the team if it'll shut you up."

Johnny sat up like you'd just offered him oxygen.

Which is how you found yourself bent over the nearest flat surface, jeans yanked halfway down your thighs, Johnny pressed tight to your back, rutting into you like a man possessed.

"Fuck—fuckin' hell, love, yer savin' my life," he groaned, hips slamming into you like he was trying to crawl inside. "Warm 'n tight, fuck, could stay here forever."

You barely bit back a moan, hands braced hard enough to hurt. You weren't supposed to enjoy this, just do your duty to the squad’s sanity.

But then Johnny started whining again — not his usual loudmouth bitching, but these needy, half-choked sounds against the back of your neck.

"Need ya," he rasped, like he couldn't help himself. "Need yer cunt, fuck, not gonna be enough, need it again—'m not done—"

Even after he came — hot, messy, filling you to the brim — he didn't stop. Still rocking against you, still murmuring desperate filth into your skin, already hardening inside you again.

You realized then: You hadn't fixed the problem. You'd made it worse.

He barely pulled out before he was pushing right back in, thick and slick with his own cum, grinding into your overstretched walls like he could merge the two of you if he tried hard enough.

"Fuckin' perfect," Johnny slurred against your neck, teeth scraping along your skin. "Mine now, y'know that? Filled you up good—fuckin' claimed you—"

You tried to push him off, half-hearted at best — muscles trembling, brain fogged from how full you felt — but Johnny just wrapped an arm around your middle and held you there, hips rolling slow and filthy, fucking his own mess deeper inside.

"Nuh-uh, love," he muttered, pressing kisses to your shoulder, messy and possessive. "Said I'd lose my mind if I didn’t get to fuck you. Y’think one load's enough to fix this? After all that sufferin’?"

You whimpered, feeling his cock twitch again, fully hard despite just cumming. He chuckled low against your skin, voice dark and wrecked.

"Told ya I'd go mad. Now yer stuck with me, sweetheart."

He fucked you slow the second time — not like the frantic, desperate slamming from before, but a grinding, possessive rhythm, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. Every time you clenched around him, he gasped, praising you in that ruined, filthy brogue.

"That's it, good girl," he breathed. "Take it all, take it like y'made for it. Fuckin' born to milk my cock, huh? Gonna pump you so full you won't remember what it feels like to be empty."

You felt him bulge even thicker inside you, grinding down into your cervix, every thrust stretching you wider, making you feel owned in a way that had nothing to do with orders or duty.

Johnny growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. You barely registered it before he was moving — hands gripping your hips, manhandling you onto your back like you weighed nothing.

"Wanna see," he panted, almost delirious. "Wanna see how fuckin' ruined you are for me."

Your legs were shoved open before you could think to protest, ankles tossed over his shoulders. Johnny leaned back just enough to look — and groaned, obscene and ragged.

"Fuckin' hell, look at that," he hissed, watching his cum leaking out of you, your cunt red and puffy, still clenching greedily around nothing. His cock throbbed in his hand, still wet, still ready.

"So messy, love. Drippin' for me already. Y'know what that means, don’t ya?"

You shook your head weakly, breath stuttering in your chest. Johnny just grinned, all teeth and danger.

"Means I’ve gotta fill you up again. 'Til you can't take any more."

Without warning, he lined himself up and pushed — forcing his cock back inside your sore, sloppy cunt in one thick, slow thrust. You cried out, back arching, and Johnny moaned like you were his whole damn salvation.

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Started fucking you immediately — deep, grinding strokes that had your whole body jolting with each brutal snap of his hips.

"That's it, that's it," he gasped, head tipping back, sweat dripping down his temple. "Take it all, pretty thing. Gonna make sure yer stuck full of me. Walkin' round leakin' my cum for days."

Your brain barely worked anymore. Just open-mouthed whimpers, toes curling, walls spasming around him like you wanted it — wanted everything he was giving you and more.

Johnny's pace turned frantic again, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin filthy and wet between you.

"Belong to me now," he growled, words punching out of him with each thrust. "No one else. Fuckin' mine."

You couldn’t even pretend to fight it. Couldn’t think past the way he filled you so perfectly, the overwhelming heat, the way his cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you until you felt tears spring to your eyes.

He buried himself to the hilt one final time, grinding down against you, hips jerking as he spilled deep again, thick and endless. You could feel it — the heat, the stretch, the way he pulsed inside you like he was branding you from the inside out.

Johnny didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, mouth hot and messy against your jaw, still twitching inside your wrecked cunt.

"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "Still not enough. Need you again, love. Gonna fill you 'til you’re round with me, swear it."

Johnny stayed buried in you for a long moment, hips grinding lazy, slow circles, as if trying to force every last drop even deeper. You could feel it leaking out around his cock — hot, sticky, obscene — and you whimpered, overstimulated and wrecked.

Johnny noticed immediately. Growled against your throat, feral.

"Leakin'," he muttered, almost offended. "Can't have that. Gotta keep it all in, love. Need you drippin’ full for me."

He finally, finally pulled out — and the flood of cum that gushed out made you sob, weak and broken. But Johnny didn’t give you a second to recover. He dropped between your legs, shoving two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep and obscene, scooping the mess back up.

"No wastin' it," he rasped, fucking his cum right back into your cunt with slow, filthy thrusts. "Take it all, greedy girl. You fuckin' need it."

Your legs kicked weakly at the overstimulation, but Johnny just grinned — wild and unhinged — before spreading you wider, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit while he stuffed you full with his fingers.

"Gonna breed you proper," he whispered hoarsely. "Fill you so deep you’ll be round with me. Belly all heavy, stuffed full of my fuckin' load—"

You sobbed, hips rolling despite yourself, body desperate for more even as your mind shattered into static. You should have known it’d be like this — Johnny didn’t do anything by halves.

He leaned down, mouth dragging messy, possessive kisses along your trembling stomach like he could will it to swell.

"Mine," he murmured. "All fuckin' mine."

And that’s exactly when you heard the door creak open. You barely had the strength to lift your head, vision blurry — but you saw a tall shadow in the doorway.

Ghost.

He stood there, silent, unreadable behind his mask — just watching. Johnny didn't stop. Didn’t even slow down. He curled his fingers inside you again, making you cry out, making more of the mess spill down your thighs.

Ghost's head tilted slightly, almost curious.

"Problem?" Johnny barked over his shoulder, voice wrecked but cocky as hell. Like he wanted Ghost to see — to know.

Ghost said nothing. Just crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest.

Johnny smirked and turned his attention back to you, dragging his fingers out with a wet squelch just to stuff them right back in — slow and possessive.

"That's right," he said lowly, clearly for Ghost’s benefit now. "Had to take care of it myself. Filled her up so good she's fuckin' leaking. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?"

You whimpered in response — too broken, too full, too wrecked to argue.

Ghost watched you for a long, heavy moment — chest rising and falling — before he spoke, voice flat and unreadable: "You better clean up after yourself, Soap."

Then, calmly — without another word — Ghost shut the door behind him with a click.

Johnny barked out a wild, breathless laugh against your stomach. "Come to help, mate?" he panted, fingers still lazily dragging through the wrecked mess of your cunt. "Think she needs it. Poor thing's so fuckin' stuffed already, can't hold it all."

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to.

He stalked closer, heavy boots thudding against the floor, until he was standing right at the edge of the bed — looming over your trembling body. You watched through blurred eyes as he popped the button on his cargo pants, dragging the zipper down slowly, deliberately.

Johnny shifted you slightly, spreading your legs even wider, thumbs digging bruises into your hips to keep you open — presenting you like a ruined offering.

"C'mon, Ghost," Johnny muttered, voice rough and wild. "Don't leave the girl waitin'. Look how pretty she is—drippin' fuckin' ready."

Still silent, Ghost wrapped a hand around the base of his cock — thick, flushed, already leaking — and lined himself up.

He didn’t ease in. Just pressed the fat head against your already-used, dripping hole and pushed.

You screamed, body arching off the bed, overwhelmed instantly by the stretch, the pressure, the unbearable fullness of taking another man inside you without even a second to adjust.

Ghost let out a low, broken sound, not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, and buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"There we fuckin' go," Johnny whispered against your ear, laughing breathlessly. "Take him, love. Take us both."

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Ghost fucked you without mercy — slow, devastating thrusts that forced Johnny’s mess and his own spit to spill down your thighs in filthy, wet streams. He said nothing — just breathing harshly through the fabric of his mask, hands brutal on your hips, using you like a living, breathing fucktoy.

Johnny kept whispering filth into your ear — encouragements, praises, commands — while Ghost destroyed you from the inside out.

"That's it, good girl," Johnny crooned, petting your hair while Ghost slammed into you. "Take it like you were fuckin' made for it."

You felt your mind fracturing — pure overstimulation, pure broken pleasure — as Ghost fucked you harder, grinding deep, his cock stretching you to the point of tears.

And then Johnny shifted again — ducking low between your legs to lick around where you were stuffed full, his tongue dragging over your overstretched rim every time Ghost pulled out just a fraction.

"Fuckin' hell," Johnny gasped, almost reverent. "Look at that, Ghost. Cunt's swallowin' you like she needs it."

Ghost let out another low, broken sound — and picked up the pace. The bed creaked violently under you, your body jolting with every brutal, punishing thrust.

You could feel it building — some dark, overwhelming climax you couldn’t fight — tightening low in your stomach, burning up your spine.

Ghost suddenly reached down and gripped your throat — not tight, just heavy, possessive — and that was it.

You shattered. Clamping down around him so hard Ghost actually groaned, thrusts going sloppy, brutal. And then you felt it — hot, thick, spilling deep inside you, Ghost’s cock pulsing violently, joining Johnny’s mess inside your ruined cunt.

You lay there twitching, barely conscious, as Ghost finally pulled out — slow, heavy — and watched as his cum immediately leaked out after him.

Johnny's hand was already there — catching it, stuffing it back inside you with lazy, satisfied fingers.

Ghost pulled his gloves back on silently, redressing with mechanical efficiency. Said nothing. Before he left, he pressed one gloved hand to your trembling thigh — firm, approving — and then disappeared out the door without a word.

Johnny leaned down over you, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

"Told ya, sweetheart," he whispered with a wicked grin. "Was gonna fill you proper."

And from the ache in your gut and the obscene mess between your thighs —you knew he wasn’t lying.

Morning hit like a slow, heavy sledgehammer.

You barely even remembered falling asleep — just flashes: Johnny fucking his cum deeper into you with lazy, loving thrusts while you sobbed into the sheets; Ghost’s heavy hand gripping your thigh one last time before disappearing without a word.

Now your entire body ached. Your thighs were sore, trembling even at the slightest twitch. Your pussy was a wreck — raw, swollen, still leaking a slow, lazy drip of milky white that soaked into the crumpled sheets beneath you.

You tried to shift — to roll onto your side — and whimpered immediately. Everything hurt. You could feel the mess drying on your skin, inside your cunt, coating your thighs.

And Johnny, of course, was already awake.

He lay stretched out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, a smug, satisfied smirk spread wide across his face.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he drawled, voice rough from use, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "Sleep well?"

You glared at him weakly, too exhausted to even muster words. Johnny just grinned wider.

"Y’look wrecked," he said cheerfully, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from your sweaty forehead. "Proper job, that."

You tried to move again — a pathetic, sluggish attempt — and Johnny laughed, full-bodied and warm.

"Aw, poor thing. Can’t even fuckin' walk, huh?"

His hand drifted down — over your collarbone, the bruises he’d left, the fingerprints, the possessive marks — until he palmed your lower belly, pressing down just slightly.

You gasped, muscles clenching reflexively around the lingering mess inside you.

Johnny's grin turned wolfish.

"Still full, are ya?" he murmured. "Good girl. Holdin’ it all for us."

He sat up slowly, bare chest gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat, and pulled back the sheets.

You whimpered as cool air brushed your ruined, sore cunt — thighs automatically trying to close, to hide yourself.

Johnny tsked softly, spreading you open with two rough hands like you were something precious to be displayed.

He hummed low in his throat — a sound of satisfaction.

"Ghost’ll be pleased," he muttered, almost to himself.

You blinked sluggishly at him, confused.

Johnny chuckled and gestured toward the nightstand. There — sitting neatly next to a bottle of water — was a simple piece of paper. No name. No explanation. Just three short words, written in Ghost’s heavy, blocky scrawl: “Hold it in.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest.

Johnny laughed again — delighted, wrecked — and leaned down to press a filthy, claiming kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

"Guess we’re not done after all, love," he whispered against your skin. "Orders are orders."

And from the wicked glint in his eye, you knew you weren’t getting a break anytime soon.

[captainswhore]

You go out drinking with ur friend gaz, happy to catch up with him.

You two are besties, so its totally expected to talk abt ur sex life with eachother. Ur in the middle of telling gaz abt the most insane mind blowing sex you've ever had with a guy you grabbed from this bar. Explicit details, hell, you even mime out the dick size and that really makes gaz blush.

Gaz is in the middle of his own lackluster recounts when you perk up, subtly nod to the entrance of the bar. "Kyle- the three that just entered. Grey hair? He's the guy"

Gaz turns and nearly spits out his drink when he sees his fucking *captain* walking in. Surely not. Surely gaz hasn't just sat here and listened in explicit, pronographic detail, about how his captain fucked his best friend....

His jaw drops when prices eyes find yours and wink.

[captainswhore]

please PLEASE Can you write reader ovulating with Simon Riley, his dick would hurt by the end.

what happens to simon riley when you're ovulating (his dick would fall off if it were me tbh)

your sex life with simon is already active as is, so the moment you start ovulating, he's in trouble. serious trouble. you can barely keep yourself off of him. everything he does sends a throbbing want to your pussy.

manspreading? you're already on top of him, tugging his jeans down just enough to ride his heavy cock. his big hands find purchase on your hips, grunting lowly.

"fuckin' eager, huh?" he's only half hard by the time you're bouncing on him, and you don't get off until either of you can't speak, and you've ruined yet another pair of his jeans from the amount of slick and cum that stains the fabric.

rolling up his sleeves, seeing the way his forearms and veins flex? you're begging him to finger you, and he gladly listens.

"need me t'fuckin' fill ya full, don't ya?" bent over whatever surface of your house, stuffed full of his fingers knuckle deep as your walls clench around him. one orgasm isn't enough, two, three, four, five until you're babbling incoherently and spraying the front of his shirt with your release.

the thing men do when they reverse, placing one hand behind the passenger seat? belt, GONE. you make hasty work of his jeans just so you can suck his dick as he drives—bonus points if he's still reversing. half-way laid across the center console with a face-full of his throbbing cock, already leaking pre. he's a mess, whimpers spilling from his lips as he bites down on the plush flesh. he's pulling your panties to the side, burying three fingers deep in your cunt with ease at the sheer wetness of your pussy.

him, reading with glasses? you bet he isn't taking his eyes off a single page as he ruts into you from behind, book laid across your back slick with sweat. he might be a little mean, make you fuck yourself back on his dick, balls slightly slapping your clit enough to make your eyes roll back into your head. get a drop of cum on his book, and he'll punish you.

getting passionate about his interests? fuck in missionary so he can continue yapping as he toys with your clit and pounds into your throbbing cunt. his words are long lost on you—you don't even notice when his words start getting condescending.

"always gettin' in m'pants..." he grunts, the sound of skin slapping and mindless whimpers and mewls fill the room, "fuckin' slut, you tryin' to get pregnant? want me t'fill you? dirty whore..."

by the end of your ovulation phase, you might've definitely gotten knocked up, and his dick is no longer with us. (he still has his hands and face, ladies...)

[captainswhore]

couldn’t tell you tbh. simon x reader. brat dynamics

it was an innocent prank. that’s all it was supposed to be anyway.

folded over your bed, listening to the familiar sound of fabric and metal clashing in simon’s hasty effort to get his cock free, an idea sprouts before you have time to cut it.

the joke is notched between your teeth, and you hide your smile in the sheets when you feel his hips crowd your ass. try your damndest to take his inches while relaxed, minimizing your flinches when he eventually bottoms out.

then, you croak, “is it in yet?”

a sadistic pause. you feel the air short circuit, frayed ends of electric wires making the hair on your back stand up. immediate regret when you feel a hand grab your jaw, turning your face to look over your shoulder.

his features are calm, but the look in his eyes reveals boiled frustration. your courage drops to your stomach, and runs out straight out your cunt when his nostril notches.

“don’t feel me? let me help you.”

and suddenly you’re on your back, knees by your head. there is no warning, only a cock that digs straight into the gummy walls of your cunt, tip knocking the consciousness from your cervix. lightening shoots up into your throat, forming a plea,

“f-fuck simon- deep.”

he grunts, an annoyed version of a laugh, before continuing to ruin your cunt with the insatiability and aggression of a man challenged.

“feel me now, sweet’eart? or do i need to go deeper?”

you spend the rest of the night as a sore loser, with a sorer cunt.

[captainswhore]

Okay… I hope this isn’t weird but I really do love cannibal kinks and the symbolism of giving oneself to the other for them to live but also… I like it when they’re deranged as hell.

I remember you talking about Ghost and how he’d definitely survive the apocalypse by going to cannibalism when food runs out and you’re so, so right.

I want to say he doesn't even wait for food to run out but that would be a lie, the man is utilitarian to his core. He stockpiles dry food, canned goods, he butchers the cow and deer he buys from farmers outside the city, stores them in his deep freeze (the one with its own generator). He has meat for months, rations for years, and yet as soon as shit hits the fan his shitty apartment in the city doesn't cut it the way he thought it would. There are too many people, too much noise, too much chaos. Not the sort he relishes in, the kind that crashes into buildings like a wave, attempting to shake their foundations like the horns of Jericho. It's a chaos he knows, the kind that always follows political upheaval, the kind that makes leaving the city feel less risky than sticking around.

So he packs what he can into his car, and to be fair he can pack quite a bit in there, and he gets the fuck out of the city. Takes the back roads, avoids highways and the city center. He pats himself on the back for getting something suited to rough terrain, remembers Soap complaining that he was bringing the military home with him. He finds a cabin out in the middle of the woods, remembers seeing a listing for it on some bnb website while the internet was still up, and hopes no one else had the same idea.

He avoids opening the freezer he managed to stuff in the back seat, digs a cup into a sack of beans, eats them just barely cooked while he checks the ropes on the generator strapped to the top of his car. He chews on jerky while he drives, tries to remember the farms in the area, reasons over whether or not he could nab a cow even just for the milk. Considers setting rabbit traps, nearly grabs a duck from a pond he drives past for the eggs, thinks better of it when he has the poor creature by the neck and isn't sure where he's supposed to put it in his crammed car.

All this to say he's fucking exhausted by the time he reaches the dark little cabin. Somehow all that sleep deprived insanity reaches a peak spotting your little sedan sitting between the trees, the flutter of someone peeking through the curtains... he hardly waits to unload his own vehicle before breaking the door down to see what a suddenly merciful God has granted him. Toys, he thinks to himself as you spit and kick and scream for someone to help, knew I forgot something.

The skin around his eye is starting to darken by the time he gets dinner on the table. Most of the fight went out of you at the promise of food, and you'd even been kind enough to help him get the freezer inside once he'd gotten the generator running. He'd have to get some of the trees around the place limbed up so the solar can keep it running, but he'll worry about that tomorrow.

"What's this," You sniff at the meat sitting nicely charred on your plate.

"Don't remember 'is name." Ghost smiles, the scars around his lips tugging the skin twisted. You grimace and push the plate away, your lip starting to wobble for a second time. "Eat," He tell you, "or it'll be you next."

You give him a long searching look, likely trying to see if he's serious. You must not like what you find, because you drag the plate close and start to pick at the meat. You do your best to hide the gag that nearly slips past your lips, choking down distinctly inhuman meat. Oh well, Ghost thinks, be easier to get you to eat it later.

[captainswhore]

two characters: flirty banter, clearly getting off on the power dynamics between them

people who are scared of going to hell for masturbating: he loves him like a son

me, hauving covid: can he call him that while they fuck

[captainswhore]

Oh to be nik’s pampered kitty with a big scary Simon for a mate 😩🫶🏻 (love that hybrid writing my thanks to the chef)

Thinking about a couple scenarios for them

Simon using his teeth at your neck to scruff you, making you lay still while he settles his weight onto you and purrs violently. John will tell Nik— Simon isn’t usually the type to purr at all, so it sounds rough and low. He grinds himself against the soft white cotton covering your ass after rucking up your skirt, determined to get his scent all over you.

And Nik sitting behind you, holding your legs open by your thighs so that Simon can bury his rough tongue in your cunt while you unsuccessfully try to hide your face in Nik’s shoulder.

By the end of it you’re practically burning up and too dizzy and overwhelmed to move, but you can faintly hear John saying something about coming back when your heat sets in.

[captainswhore]

"why do you only torture johnny" "why don't you ever torture ghost"

fool. torturing the loud mouthed scot is torturing that sad british man in a halloween mask. it's torture thru osmosis

[captainswhore]

I know this is a very “same shit different day” idea coming from me but

I’ve not been able to stop thinking about being Nikolai’s painfully shy, sheltered little house kitty hybrid. And of course he loves you more than anything, he’d give you anything in the world. You have a lace ruffle collar with a sweet little sterling silver bell because otherwise he’d keep losing you in the house— so quiet and withdrawn when it comes to anything and anyone that isn’t him. But there’s one thing he can’t give you, something he knows would be perfect for you—

He wants to see you round and cute with kittens.

So he’s looking into getting you paired, but of course he won’t trust just anyone around his precious kotonek. There’s only one person he knows who has a cat hybrid— and that’s John. His cat, Simon, happens to be terribly socialized, surly, and notably doesn’t get along with other hybrids. In fact, he doesn’t get along with most humans either. But he’s extremely well trained— so Nik decides to give it a chance.

You already know something is strange when Nikolai leashes you. He never does that— not unless he’s afraid you’ll run off. Which means something scary is about to happen. At first you think it might just be John— though, he’s one of the only people who you let pet you. Then, you see the massive frame of the scarred up hybrid coming in behind him, leashed as well, and your tail bristles. True to form, you do twitch and shudder, but you know you can’t run.

“Milaya, you remember John. This is John’s hybrid, Simon.”

You sniff the air, and you remember this scent. Nik placed a blanket in your bed that smelled a little strange a few weeks ago— you regarded it cautiously but eventually were able to settle against it, which he took as a sign you’d accept Simon. If only you’d know what happened at John’s house— how Simon had smelled the pillowcase from your bed just as soon as John was in the house and nearly tore it from his hands, stealing it off to his own bed. He buried his teeth and face into it, taking the scent in deep and tugging at his cock until the frilly thing was covered in his cum. Price sent a picture to Nik immediately when he found the evidence.

“Think he’s got a crush on her, Nik.”

Now, Simon’s looking at you like he wants it straight from the source.