#camo trousers

[thisisrealy2kok]

Stick It Illusion Vest

[skinnbollen]

Swedish SKINHEAD Thomaz, Stockholm 1997.

[gunkbaby]

Shuu Tsukiyama the type of guy to say ‘Oops, sorry, didn’t see you there,’ when he bumps into someone wearing camo print.

[warehouse-staff-blog]

Lot 1224 1940'S USMC PARACHUTIST TROUSERS

こんにちは 名古屋店 コジャです。

先日のJKTに次いでパンツを。

WAREHOUSE & CO. Lot 1224 1940'S USMC PARACHUTIST TROUSERS 無地 ＼35.750-(with tax)   ※ONE WASHは\1.100- UP

WAREHOUSE & CO. Lot 1224 1940'S USMC PARACHUTIST TROUSERS ステンシルプリント ＼37.950-(with tax)   ※ONE WASHは\1.100- UP

個人的にPANTSが気になっています。 今ならお気に入りのパネルボーダーTと合わせるかなぁ。

179cm,69kg SIZE:33(ONE WASH)

↑このパネルボーダーTは後日、BLOGで御案内しますね。

カモは一癖あるものと捉えられがちですが＋Tシャツなら気兼ねなくいけますね。（柄＆柄は頭をひねらないといけませんが。）

179cm,69kg SIZE:33(ONE WASH)

173cm,60kg SIZE:32(ONE WASH)

これからはオープンカラーシャツ等の半袖シャツやサンダルを取り入れるのも◎

173cm,60kg SIZE:32(ONE WASH)

179cm,69kg SIZE:33(ONE WASH)

バックポケットが無いので物足りないですが、 これで便利さを求めてポケットがついちゃうと、 VINTAGEにはないのになぁ～。と、欲する気持ちが半減してしまうのも不思議ですね笑

ワイドシルエットで、 この“本場”の太さが"現代"においてはオシャレ効果を発揮。

ゆとりのあるシルエットは風通し良く夏場は涼しげですよ。

ジャケットは時期的にちょっと...と敬遠してしまいますが、 パンツは通年いけるので今はパンツに軍配が上がり在庫が少なくなってきてSOLD OUT間近となっております。

髙��はパンツもサンドベージュ側が好みのようです。

173cm,60kg SIZE:32(ONE WASH)

スウェットやGジャン等で合わせるのもネクストシーズンのお楽しみ。

179cm,69kg SIZE:33(ONE WASH)

是非御検討下さい。では失礼致します。

. . . . .

改めて福岡店のBLOGと先日の名古屋店BLOGもご参考下さい。

福岡店 BLOG↓↓ 【Lot 1224 1940'S USMC PARACHUTIST TROUSERS】

https://www.tumblr.com/warehouse-staff-blog/717370940169846784/lot-1224-1940s-usmc-parachutist-trousers-%E7%84%A1%E5%9C%B0?source=share

【Lot 2193 1940'S USMC PARACHUTIST UTILITY COAT】

https://www.tumblr.com/warehouse-staff-blog/718639698964250624/lot-2193-1940s-usmc-parachutist-utility-coat-%E7%84%A1%E5%9C%B0?source=share

名古屋店BLOG↓↓ 【Lot 2193 1940'S USMC PARACHUTIST UTILITY COAT】

https://www.tumblr.com/warehouse-staff-blog/719774980950376448/lot-2193-1940s-usmc-parachutist-utility-coat?source=share

また、 WAREHOUSEのHPのトピックや「STYLE PHOTO(コーディネート)」取り上げているので御覧下さい。

【超レアな海兵隊のセットアップが蘇った！】

https://ware-house.jp/newitem/ltng2305/

WAREHOUSE HP [STYLE PHOTO]

・https://ware-house.jp/coordinate/230614/ ・https://ware-house.jp/coordinate/230525/ ・https://ware-house.jp/coordinate/230517/

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ーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーー

☞ [営業時間のお知らせ]

平素よりウエアハウス直営店をご利用頂き有難う御座います。 ウエアハウス直営店では営業を下記の通り変更しております。

《2023.6.18.現在の営業時間》

◎東京店　【営業時間：平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】無休 ◎阪急メンズ東京店 【営業時間：平日 12時～20時　土日祝 11時～20時】無休 ◎名古屋店【営業時間： 平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】水曜定休 ◎大阪店　【営業時間： 平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】 無休 ◎福岡店　【営業時間： 平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】 無休 ◎札幌店　【営業時間： 11時～20時】  木曜定休

今後の営業時間等の変更につきましては、 改めて当ブログにてお知らせ致します。 お客様におかれましてはご不便をお掛けいたしますが、 ご理解の程、宜しくお願い申し上げます。

.

☞ 『WAREHOUSE直営店の LINE公式アカウント開設』

WAREHOUSE&CO.直営店からのお得な情報や、エリア限定のクーポンなどを配布しています。

LINE公式アカウント開設にあたり、 2019年3月26日（火）以降、提供しておりましたスマートフォンアプリはご利用できなくなっております。 お手数をおかけしますが、今後はLINEアカウントのご利用をお願いします。

ご利用されるエリアのアカウントを「友だち登録」して下さい。 ※WAREHOUSE名古屋店をご利用頂いているお客様は【WAREHOUSE　EAST】をご登録下さい。

※直営店のご利用がなければ【WESTエリア】をご登録下さい。

.

☞[リペアに関して]

弊社直営店で行っておりますジーンズ等のリペアの受付を休止させて頂いております。 ※ご郵送に関しても同様に休止させて頂いております。再開の日程は未定です。

ご迷惑お掛け致しますが、ご理解下さいます様お願い致します。 ※弊社製品であればボトムスの裾上げは無料にてお受けしております。お預かり期間は各店舗により異なりますのでお問合せ下さい。

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☞WAREHOUSE公式インスタグラム

☞WAREHOUSE経年変化研究室

☞“Warehousestaff”でTwitterもしております。

ーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーー

WAREHOUSE名古屋店

〒460-0011 愛知県名古屋市中区大須3-13-18

TEL：052-261-7889

《2023.6.18.現在の営業時間》

【営業時間：平日 12時～19時、土日祝 12時～19時】水曜定休

[roughandtough1]

Why camo cargo trousers are the best?

There are some reasons why camo cargo trousers are the best: Versatility: Camo cargo trousers can be worn in a variety of situations, from outdoor activities like hunting or hiking to casual wear or even as part of a streetwear-inspired outfit. Durability: Cargo trousers are often made from sturdy materials and have multiple pockets, making them practical for outdoor activities and carrying essential items. Trendiness: Camo print has been a popular fashion trend for several years, making camo cargo trousers a stylish choice for many people. Comfort: Cargo trousers typically have a loose, relaxed fit, making them comfortable to wear for extended periods. Ultimately, whether camo cargo trousers are the best choice for someone depends on their personal preferences and the specific situations in which they plan to wear them.

[eowylesbian]

throwback to friday night when i went to a show and a girl i used to see was there - which was whatever because we go to school together, i see her everyday and we're fine w each other. what Wasn't whatever, tho, was the fact we were wearing nearly the exact same outfit except hers was the basic version and mine the punk version

[whilstiveputdownthisfic]

Throwback ..

more from Nick's IG stories this day

November 2nd, 2022; 2:09 p.m.

[bits-and-babs]

✦ 𝐏𝐈𝐗𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 ✦

– KINKTOBER DAY 1: CAMGIRL!READER

simon riley x camgirl!reader | smut, 18+ | 1.3k words

summary: a new client sends a request for a solo-cam performance. his lack of detail and scarce details leave you unprepared.

cw: f!reader, sexwork, dirty talk, breast-play, m & f masturbation, use of sex toy, use of honorific 'sir' but no real power dynamic.

⇽ KINKTOBER MLIST | DAY 2: TOUCH STARVED ⇾

❝On Deployment. Don’t be afraid.❞

Cryptic in its context, the message that popped up from your new client in the lower right corner of your computer screen made you smirk at the time. However, gazing at the skull-faced mask that materialised on the pixelated video screen when you answered the video call that swiftly followed, your amusement slips from your lips. Username ‘Ghost’ hadn’t been making some kind of arcane joke about the size of his dick being too much for you… 

“Oh,” you let out a weak laugh, eyes slipping over the grainy footage as ‘Ghost’ leaned back in his seat, immense, bulging arms crossing over the plane of his chest, “When you said… I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Can’t take off the mask,” the gruff, northern accent that rumbles through the computer speakers sends a ripple down your spine– a concoction of a nervous chill and delighted arousal. It metastasises in your guts when you watch him spread his legs, the blackness in the eye sockets of the skull burning through you even behind a screen. “The URA don’t take kindly t’people contactin’ cam-girls.”

URA. United Republic of Adal.

“You’re– On a military base?” The question passes your lips before you have the opportunity to think better. The plain black t-shirt stretched across his humongous frame gives little away, but the khaki-camo pants and the silver dog tags glinting in the low light of the room seem to corroborate his claims. 

“Can’t divulge that information.”

Of course he couldn’t. Obviously. 

“Y’can call me sir.” ‘Ghost’ clearly had experience contacting cam-girls, leading with his preferred address. It’s impossible to ignore that tingling arousal creeping into the pit of your stomach again, knowing you were in for a ride– so to speak. 

“Yes sir,” you answer to his demand, watching as ‘Ghost’ rubbed his palms over the top of his camo-clad thighs. You note the grainy blackness across the back of his hands; a tattoo. Most clients were secretive in their own camera-exposure, focusing the frame on their head and shoulders while pleasuring themselves off camera. ‘Ghost’s’ whole body was on display, offering just as much of a show for yourself. 

It was thrilling. 

“Lose the bra.” 

“Yes sir,” you nod, compliant to his demands. Reaching behind your back, you unclasp the lacy bra you’d chosen specifically for this cam-session. Your contact with ‘Ghost’ had been minimal, limited in the information he would reveal to you. It was entertaining this way, guessing at what you should wear like taking a crack at an enigma code. A shot in the dark; you’d gone for simple black. Slowly slipping the unadorned bra from your arms, you made a note of your victory when you hear–

“Fuck, that’s it,” ‘Ghost' mumbles beneath his breath, and you’re unsure if he was unaware of the sensitivity of his microphone, or if he’d meant for you to hear his whispered praise. You can’t find it in yourself to warn him when his palm settles over his crotch, inhaling sharply as he lifts his hips up to grind into it. 

Cupping your breasts in your hands, you squeeze the supple flesh so it bulges slightly between your fingers. It’s as natural as breathing now, a learnt behaviour after months of cam-work. Nothing special, but it gets ‘Ghost’s’ attention. 

“Hmm, fuckin’ ‘ell,” he groans softly, quick to work himself out of the khaki uniform trousers. You have half a mind to inform his superior that one of his soldiers had stolen a weapon from the armoury, watching him wrap his hand around his throbbing cock in a tight fist. “Get real close to the camera. Wanna see you fuck yourself, love.” 

You remember his initial request, much like his communications with you; simple and lacking detail. ‘Fuck urself w/ ur largest toy. Panties on’. Though, gazing at the image of him on your computer screen through heavy lids, you weren’t sure even your largest dildo compared to the girth he held in his hand. The ruddy tip is shiny, and you can just barely make out the shadows of bulging veins where his palm couldn’t reach. 

“Fuckkk,” ‘Ghost’ groans when you ease the tip of the toy in, camera angled just right to see you clench around the silicone but also to show your eyes rolling back. “That’s it. Greedy cunt’s swallowin’ it all. Look at you creamin’ around it–”

For a man so unwilling to talk much in any other set of circumstances, ‘Ghost’ was particularly mouthy now. Even as the head of the toy touches something mind-numbing inside of you, a delirious, breathy giggle escapes you at the thought. 

Beginning to push the toy in and out of your cunt, you watch ‘Ghost’ begin to fist his cock with a grunt. His eyes stay glued to the screen, enraptured by the way your walls squeeze the toy so tightly. It’s hard to miss the way his lungs rattle with unsteady breaths, the sheer size of him making a slight tremble appear like a shudder so violent it could trigger an avalanche. 

“Christ, I’d fuckin’ ruin you. Fuckin’ split you open and flood that cunt with my cum,” he moans, the sound wanton and wholely unmatching his intimidating size. It takes you a moment for your vision to focus before you note the slow, methodical rise of his fist, matching the strokes of the toy inside of you. 

Like he was imagining fucking you. 

Your own arousal spiking with the realisation, you thrust the toy inside of you quicker, more eagerly. It's ecstasy, the head of the toy spearing something inside of you that has your legs quaking. “Ugh– hhahah, ohmygod, oh fuck–” 

‘Ghost’ continues to talk you through your squeals of delight, his gruff voice particularly throaty now as he matches the violent thrusts of the toy. “Good fuckin’ girl, love. If you were here I’d fuckin’ paint your face with it– fuck!”

It’s like a chain reaction, the usually stoic man’s filthy comments causing a visible clench of your cunt when you cum around the toy. It makes ‘Ghost’ cum. White floods your vision, but the static sound in your ears can’t drown out the gruff, choked sounds that play from your speakers. 

When your blurred vision finally centres, ‘Ghost’s’ fingers are drenched with thick ropes of cum, the creamy spend dropping from his knuckles onto the khaki of his trousers. Leaning his head over the back of the chair with a shaky exhale, the black hem of the ski-mask rides up slightly, exposing the bulging veins beneath the pale, rosy skin of his neck. It’s a tantalising glimpse of the man behind the obscure username, underneath the skeleton-veil. Instantaneously, you’re like an addict– desperate for more, one hit isn’t enough to satiate the screaming need inside of you for another inch of skin. 

It’s why you leap out of bed at 04:27am when you receive a message weeks after you’d hit ‘end call’, the promise of your next fix delivered in a cryptic message deposited in a private messaging chat that had lay dormant since the footage went black. 

‘Want u on ur knees this time. Panties in ur mouth, fingers in ur cunt.’ 

Biting on a grin, you rush to answer. He was still in the URA, the digits on the clock in the top right of your phone evidence of a timezone difference. It was still relatively early there– like he’d finished his shift and immediately contacted you. Like he couldn’t wait to jack off to the image of you stuffing your cunt with your fingers and whining his name. 

Fuck the four figure amount he’d deposited into your bank as thanks for the last video call, the thought alone is enough to urge your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties, circling your clit as you clumsily type with one hand to respond to his demand. 

‘Yes sir x’ 

cod mwii/kinktober taglist:

@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @s-u-t @ghostslynx @solidly-indulgent @glitterypirateduck @gummyfang @bii-aan-ckaa @konigsblog @crissteetee @crissteetee67 @sylvanasthebansheequeen @akaym2 @exploremyworldsm @thriving-n-jiving @su57 @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @tusk89 @bellasbees01 @dog55teeth

@mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @babychoi03 @infectedkura @allekat1988 @whore-for-anime @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @mockerycrow @cyberpr1m3 @i-love-ghost @allekat1988 @infectedkura @babychoi03 @freakquenci @maviee @yunggoblin @sleepystaarr @watyousayin @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @damn-dean-blog @pheonyxmoon @magicalreviewphantom @limegreenbabx @johfaam0 @iaur @justsayk

@bloodmoon-bites @wiltedwonderland @doggydale @limegreenbabx @namelesshumanperson @ninahhh-brahh

[delightfultheoristfox]

Some type of skin (and two keys)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Currently crossposting previous works from AO3.

Inspired by "Some type of skin" by AURORA (I have an obsession and it's a Norwegian pale lady)

CW: talk of grief, death and loss, angst, broken promises, hurt/comfort, soft Simon Riley but also angry Simon Riley. Mention of pharmacological drugs.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

The air felt clogged; thickened and uncomfortably warm. You tried to blame it on the closed window and the unrelenting sun that reflected against the glass, but the truth was that you felt awkward in your own skin. The uniform clung to your body like a prison. Once, it had been your armor: the breathable dark green cotton of the tee, the black leather of the belt cinching your waist, until the thick camo trousers. They all felt bulletproof.

Yet, ever since you’d witnessed that bullet tearing a hole into Johnny’s head, each piece of clothing had turned into something akin to a goddamn straitjacket. It replayed in your head ad nauseam until it turned into a living nightmare. Until you saw his bloodless face in everyone around you, until you felt a hole in your own skull, as if his death were an omen of your end, as well.

For the first time in the years you had worked with the task force, you were the one who called for a meeting. Well, it was an informal encounter more than anything. A text you had sent simultaneously to all of them.

“We have to talk. Room 4A in HQ 10AM?”

By mere habit, you’d also sent it to Soap; it wrecked your heart to see the red alert on the right side of your bubble, the small Not Delivered right below it. The cracks shattered further when you received the automated response telling you that the number didn’t exist.

How could it not, when you had accumulated thousands of hours on phone calls? How could it not, when you could scroll for days on the chat and never find the first text he’d ever sent you?

You had tried, one of many sleepless evenings: your thumb almost ached due to the mere motion. Fingertip up. Swipe down. Fingertip up. Swipe down. You found it, then. Something old, ancient. The bubbles were green because iPhones still didn’t have the feature that allowed you to text using internet between Apple devices.

“glad to have you on the team. big boss gave me your number. this is soap anything you need im a text awya.”

“aywa*”

“away !!!!”

You'd laughed and it quickly morphed into strangled cries, until your vision got foggy, and your lids yielded. You fell asleep clutching the phone to your cheek.

After having spread his ashes on the Scottish Highlands, everyone had made the sensible decision of taking time off – a sort of unsanctioned compassionate leave. On the other hand, you stayed buried in the tight office you had in Stirling Lines. You couldn't handle the silence that your empty flat would bring. Granted, that didn’t mean you spent much time talking to passersby here at the headquarters, strangers and colleagues alike.

You hovered around the hallways like a specter – paled and depleted. Utterly unavailable to anyone who decided, for reasons unknown to you, to waste their breath on your person. You’d hear grieving words tossed your way, and you'd nod warmly at those. Polite. Affable. Like you’ve always been, even now that the light had been sapped out of you.

Johnny brought it with him - the light. The sun of the team: beautiful yet deadly. Necessary, but dangerous. Lethal only to those who tried to unravel his equilibrium, warm and inviting to the ones who embraced his person.

Now that he was gone, there was darkness – the world dimmed to pay its respects.

It had been eight months. During those, you had worked tirelessly to concoct a plan to have your revenge. Price sometimes knocked on your door only to find you hunched over blueprints and notes. The look he gave you each time was nothing short of pitiful. He didn’t try to stop you, but you could feel the disappointment seeping through your bones and grating them to dust.

Gaz brought you coffee, sometimes. He often came to your office, knocked softer than Price – a knuckle against wood, compared to all four of them incessantly rapping against the door. Sometimes, it wasn't coffee. Sometimes, despite how bad it might have looked, Gaz spilled a few drops of Rozerem in your chamomile tea, hoping it would force your eyes closed for some rest.

All of them, drove from their respective homes only to come and check on you. You wondered if they had an unofficial shift schedule, shared between them both.

Ghost, though. Ghost stayed. 

Angrier than you. Insatiable. Raging. Went for runs at ungodly hours, when the sun wasn’t even about to peek from the horizon. He monopolized the gym of the headquarters; an easy task for him, all he needed to do was use his thousand-yard stare against the unlucky lad who dared cross the threshold. When he felt like the punching bag had taken enough of his gauzed fists, he would come to your office – sweaty and bruised. He rarely bothered to shower. He’d sit next to you, and he’d help.

Everyday.

Ever the detached bastard he'd always been, he grew closer against his better judgment. Albeit it had been years since you had joined the task force under Price’s will, Ghost had always stood several steps away from you. Yet, lately, he’d woven himself to you like a spider spinning an intricate web. He wrapped you in a cocoon, and differently from the eight-legged creature, Simon didn’t want to drain the nectar of life.

He wanted to be your armor. A panoply of rustproof iron: encasing you in chainmail, helmet, and all.

It’s why, now, as you sat on your own at the briefing room table with the increasing temperature in the room, guilt ate you from the inside. Termites feasting on wood.

The first one to enter was Kyle. Pretty brown eyes looked at you fondly, as if they were taking in a long-lost friend. He sat next to you, exchanged a few tentative words, and smoothed the hair away from your forehead. He didn't care about the grease clinging to them, instead, he grazed short nails against your scalp as he told you about his week.

You were eternally grateful for him and his tactful ability to make you feel normal when life seemed to have turned askew.

Price walked in a few minutes later. Stoic as ever, but with kindness in his blues. He held a tray in his hands, four paper cups of steaming coffee balanced on it. He set it on the table and slumped on the chair in front of you. He asked you how you were doing. You answered that you were fine. You asked it back. He answered the same. No one believed a single word.

Ghost made you all wait. You explained that he was probably at the gym, or having a late-morning run around the training grounds. If they were worried about you, the concern for Ghost was something even greater. While only Price knew of the intricacies of his past, it didn’t take a doctorate in psychology to understand that whatever had forced him to wear the skull mask was something that still haunted him in the present.

────────────

You remembered it vividly, that one evening. Life had battered you both, kindred spirits in what seemed to be the inability to grieve properly.

You, with your head propped on the armrest of the narrow couch in your office. He, slumped on the cushions as he cradled your calves in his lap. A hand absently brushed the thick cotton of your work trousers. His eyes were to the ceiling. His empty stomach growled incessantly, much like yours – both running on fumes, caffeine, and nicotine, or the occasional shared bite stolen from the cafeteria after its closing time.

As your eyelids were about to flutter closed, you heard the rumble of his voice vibrating in his diaphragm, close to where he held your feet.

“Hooked by the ribs,” he said.

The inquisitive look you sent him was missed because he didn't divert his eyes from the ceiling.

“Buried alive,” he strained, “Crawled outta my own grave.”

It hit you later, that he was sharing. You slowly sat up, pushing your torso with your tired arms. You moved gingerly, afraid a mere shift in the air would cause him to sew his mouth shut. While you had an inkling that whatever happened to him must have been gruesome and cruel, those few words (which you were sure, merely scratched the surface) already caused your stomach to churn.

“They used me, tried to break me and they did.”

Your jaw worked. Propped on your elbows, you gulped down the stone in your throat. Eyes glued to the unmasked profile – to the crooked nose, flattened by punches and butts of guns, to the divot between his lips, to the absent brown eyes with their halo of pale lashes. His fingers curled around your ankle and his thumb brushed over your sock.

“Killed my family,” he went on, and you wondered if he was talking to you at all, “Killed my nephew, too.”

Barely noticing how your eyes glazed over with treacherous tears, you bent your knees over his thighs and scooted closer. The only indication that he had acknowledged your presence and wasn’t simply musing out loud was how his palms shifted: from your ankles, up to your calves. He furled his fingers around the meaty part, while his other hand blindly went to look for your neck. He rested his palm against the side of it, let his thumb trace the outline of your jaw.

“Took everything from me, turned me into this,” he muttered, and his brows furrowed while his pupils danced over the chipped paint of the ceiling.

Half of the times you were given the luxury to gaze at the face beneath the mask, you’ve wondered where those scars came from. What kind of heroic deed had he carried out that caused each mark, or what awful act he must have committed that ended up leaving perpetual memories of it, etched in his flesh.

Never, not once, you thought someone else purposefully did it to him. Someone so cruel, so brutal, that made him regrow his skin – like a snake, shedding his frail past to build a thicker armor.

“The army left me to rot, y’know," he whispered, and although you weren't answering (truthfully, you were barely breathing) he knew you were listening.

“But not Price,” his thumb pressed into your cheek, “Not Price, nor Garrick, or you – or Soap.”

It was grimly ironic how such an idiotic callsign could bring this remarkable heaviness on your heart. The silence lingered after he uttered it, either a way to pay respect or a simple inability to continue right afterwards. Because that’s how it felt like.

Months ago, when his body flattened against the concrete of a forgotten underground tunnel, the word Soap met an end. Forever, there will be nothing else to add right after it, if not things you already knew, or heavy silence.

“Can’t lose any more people in this life,” he sighed, “Johnny must be the goddamn last, y’hear?”

You heard.

You craned your neck to the side so your cheek would slot in his palm. Saltwater dampened your skin and moistened his calluses.

“Deal,” you croaked.

He nodded, taking in your word, digesting it. A stupid promise, really. No one can pledge such a thing, but at that moment he cared very little for it. Especially when he felt your lips press against his palm.

“Deal.”

────────────

You bit your thumbnail in silence, then brought it in front of your eyes to look at the red indent around it. A droplet of blood seeped through the crack, and you suckled on it to soothe it.

Ghost abruptly walked in, the door almost flying off its hinges. He closed it behind him but didn’t take a seat. Instead, he rested his back against the shut threshold and folded his arms in front of his chest. A nod of his jaw that shifted the fabric of the balaclava was all he offered.

Now that everyone was in, the moment you had been dreading the most arrived. Albeit you had been planning this for weeks, your stomach still felt like it had swallowed a rock.

You stood up, wonky on your feet. The chair screeched as it slid back.

“I’m retiring.”

If the silence was thick before, now it felt like a boulder.

When volcanos erupt, it’s rare for lava to burst into the air and fall like sizzling rain over the landscape below it. What kills every living creature, it’s the dust that settles afterwards: it's scorching hot, stops life in its tracks.

The moment the words bubbled from your throat like molten lava, the residues puffed out of your crater and deposited on everything surrounding you. The room now felt like a ghost town, with each breathing soul inside turned into a forever statue.

The only thing that moved was Simon, who wrenched the door open and left.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

It had been weeks since you last saw him. Well, you did see him: Stirling Lines wasn't that big. But he didn't see you. He didn't knock on your door anymore and barely acknowledged your presence if he found you in his vicinity.

It felt pointless to continue your search for attribution if he wasn’t looking for it with you, so with a quick swipe of your arm, you trashed every blueprint, every post-it note, every map, and leaflet. Maybe that would grant Soap some rest as well.

A signature away from your departure, you were lying in your bed, ready to knock yourself out with a few droplets of benzodiazepine. The route to the comatose dreamless night that awaited you, though, was interrupted by a series of raps against your door.

After years in the military, you had developed quite the remarkable hearing – if one was willing to exclude the tinnitus. It meant you could recognize whose footsteps belonged to whom, whose breathing was coming from whose mouth, and which knock pertained to which hands. You knew these knuckles, indeed. Hastily tossing your legs over the edge of the bed, you padded your socked feet against the linoleum of your private quarters. Fingers shakily curled around the doorknob, and you yanked the door open.

It wasn’t like in movies, when after such a long absence time slows down when your eyes touch, no.

It was raw, irate, and spiteful.

Simon placed a thick hand on your shoulder and shoved you aside to barge in. You barely managed to recollect your balance when he slammed the door closed behind him. He looked around the room as if searching for something but not being quite sure of what. Habit, you thought.

Brown eyes that never showed much of the constant turmoil brewing in his head now landed on you sizzling with hatred.

He yanked the mask off. It fell limply to the ground.

His cheeks were flushed, whether from the warmth that had been building behind the cheap fabric of the mask or from hot anger, you couldn’t tell.

"We had a deal.”

It ripped the air from your lungs, vacuumed them clean, and ironed them flat. Your hand flew at the base of your throat, fingers nervously rubbing against your collarbone.

His voice was clouded by an unbreachable fog of anger. You felt as if you were sailing through the ocean on a moonless night, only darkness ahead of you and a single oar in your hands. That’s how it felt to navigate through Simon Riley, even now that you had managed to have a grasp on the person he was.

Your pupils traveled along his person to settle on his face, not jaded like usual but contorted in a scowl. The strain at the junction of his jaw wasn’t a new sight, nor were the taut tendons of his neck.

Sometimes, he’d fall asleep on the couch in your office; your head on his shoulder or cradled in his lap. You’d wake up then, at the sound of teeth grinding. Bruxism in his sleep, jagged sounds that made your hair stand on end. Gingerly, you used to lift your hands and press the tips of your fingers at his jaw hinge, massaging the spot until he stopped.

You wished you could do it now.

"I’m sorry," you replied calmly, trying to quell his spirits and failing spectacularly.

He took hasty steps around the room, pacing like a lunatic. You didn’t have the guts to walk closer to stop him, not yet. What left his lips next, though, made you want to crumble to the floor like a house of cards.

“Leaving ‘cause I told you all tha’?” he snapped, “’cause you can’t handle another broken case to add to your file?”

Fear of approaching him left your body like steam from a cup, indeed that’s what you did. As he relentlessly paced around the cramped space of a military-issued room, you stopped him with a gentle hand on his bicep.

He froze and yanked his arm away. Your palm like blistering coal against his skin.

You knew he was as hulking as they come, you knew he was built like a goddamned brick house, and you knew he towered over you (he towered over most, in your defense). Yet, nothing could have prepared you for the way he languidly turned to face you, looking down. You craned your neck back, otherwise your eyes would only meet his collarbones, peeking through the loose black tee he was wearing – casual comfort clothes he wore to sleep at night, those few times he did.

"Never think that,” you stated, stressing the adverb, “Never think that.”

You swallowed thickly, yet your eyes never wavered, "I – It’s complicated,” but it truly wasn’t.

Your expression softened, but you knew it would do little to smother the flames in his eyes, ready to flatten the entirety of the room.

"After Johnny, I couldn’t anymore,” you whispered, “I can’t, Simon.”

The defeated tone of yours had the bite of a skillfully honed blade. It cracked his ribcage open and stabbed the heart he didn't think he owned anymore.

He murmured then, eyes narrowed, “The fuck you mean you can’t?”

Your mouth curled down and you rolled your lips between your teeth. The tip of your tongue soothed a crack in the skin.

"I'm scared," you wheezed as if the words were difficult to utter. Scared of loss, scared of death, scared of pain, scared of scars, both physical and mental. Scared of the future, scared of your past and his, scared it would haunt you until you'd turn cold and stiff - all the people you've killed and those who survived. Fear, in its unfettered, most gut-wrenching form.

He tongued his cheek, somewhat irritated by the statement. He let the words stick like molasses to his eardrums, muffling each sound. Simon wasn’t a stranger to fear; he walked with it hand-in-hand, a faithful companion that never left his shadow. Yet, he hated that you were feeling it because in his mind you didn't deserve it.

He would have liked to tell you that, but words always failed him when he needed them the most.

"Thought you’d have grown thick skin by now," his voice was low, controlled, and deadly. Meant to hurt, meant not to graze but to cut. It was all he knew, how to hurt – especially when he was aching as well.

You looked up at him through the furrow of your brows, brief anger flashing in your eyes. You set it aside, instead opting to cast your gaze sideways. You cupped your elbows in a sort of self-reassuring hug, thumbs indenting in the flesh of your biceps.

"I wish I did,” you murmured, “Can’t grow that type of skin, it seems.”

He wanted to rebuild the cocoon he had so carefully crafted around you. He wanted to go back being the shield that kept you from any harm. The chainmail that prevented each stab.

He wanted to be that skin you didn’t seem to grow, like a reptile losing its inborn ability to replenish its flesh.

Johnny’s passing took his cold heart and thrashed it. The bond he deepened with you afterwards made it regrow. He wondered, when he'd look at you during those days, as you leeched your brain dry over blueprints and notes, if you were aware of it.

You scared him most delightfully, and he thought whether his heart should reveal itself to be more than a muscle, or a fist covered in blood.

That's why the resentful look in your eyes felt like fresh water on the fire in his chest. How could he let you drain yourself dry over this, when you had been the only light the moment his world blew out each candle.

So, his anger took the backseat, and he sighed. Drawn-out, long, and tortuous.

“Where you goin’, then?” he said, softer.

You felt it, the sorrow of his tone. It made your head swivel in his direction. You blinked, opened your mouth to answer, and hesitated.

“Bury,” you breathed, “Bury St. Edmunds.”

His eyes narrowed in thought: you could almost see the map of England he had cast in front of him reflected in his pupils.

“’s about a four-hour drive from here," his voice trailed off.

"Yeah," you mused, slightly confused by the abrupt switch in his behavior. But you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, were you?

Instead, your hands slid up your arms soothingly, "Found a nice flat there, in the city center.”

You shrugged, trying to act as if it wasn’t a big deal, although Simon could tell it was by the way your eyes twinkled at the mention. Something new, something fresh that promised a new beginning, away from bloodshed and loss, closer to warmth and familiarity.

Closer to home.

"It’s nice. It has a small balcony that faces the cathedral,” you went on, sounding almost bashful, “Was thinkin’ about growing my own herbs? Like basil, and such.”

He didn’t reply or move. Barely breathed.

Just stared.

Stared at the soft expression on your face, at the way your lashes framed your eyes. Stared at the way your lip trembled, ever so slightly, as you blabbered about such ordinary things like balconies, and churches and bloody herbs.

He could already picture you with dirt under your bitten fingernails as you dug into brown, ceramic vases, refusing to wear gardening gloves.

He could hear your bare feet padding against the hardwood floor as you went on to brew your tea. Or the squeaking sound of the cushions of a leather couch as you dropped on it, without a care in the world, holding a book by its spine.

You truly disarmed him in that simplicity – a dress he realized he would’ve loved to see you wear more often.

You seemed unaware of the subtle awe that glinted in his pupils, since you went on to add how the flat had a guest room – although it completely flew over his thick head. What did reach his eardrums, though, was what you said next, "And it has two keys."

He snapped out of his reverie and swallowed.

"Two keys," he echoed.

His willpower felt as thin as an ice slab under the blistering sun. It melted pitifully and turned into a warm puddle in his chest. Nothing could’ve stopped him as his feet marched to you, closing both physical and emotional gaps.

He palmed your cheek and whispered with certain hoarseness in his voice, "Two damn keys.”

Your heart swelled three times its size. You swore you felt the indents left against it by each rib. Leaning your cheek against his hand, like you’d done many nights before, the most subtle of smiles graced your features.

Simon vowed he’d fight tooth and nail to see it grow.

You whispered, then, "If you want, you can just drive those four hours 'n pop in. I'll make you a cuppa, maybe take you for a tour around Bury.”

His eyes softened – crinkles at the corners and brows twitching in the middle.

"Four fuckin' hours for a cuppa and a tour,” he mumbled, "What are you, the Queen of England?"

You huffed a chuckle, pretending to find his sarcasm annoying by adding a roll of your eyes. Truthfully, you’d pay good fucking money to hear it daily.

"I'm gonna need the spare key, though" he whispered, his thumb brushed your cheek reverently.

You lifted your hand to trace his often-cracked knuckles with the pads of your fingers, “Not a spare key – your key.”

Simon swallowed thickly again. He ran his tongue over his teeth, clamping his jaw shut. His gaze hardened, his pupils danced about your face, awfully concentrated, as if he were refraining from doing something.

His sudden silence made your resolve waver. You removed your hand from the back of his, curling your fingers as if you were touching some hot surface. It stayed there, furled in a loose fist in the space between your chests.

“You could come and spend your leaves there," you whispered tentatively, "Leave your things at my flat, so each time you come over they're already there."

It took all your courage to speak, but you knew the die had been cast already. The only thing left for you to do was to simply go for it and take the damage, or leave victorious.

"Until it's full of you,” you released a shaky breath, “Until it's your little flat, too."

Simon’s breath suddenly shortened. He'd never felt at home, not even when he was supposed to have one. He'd come close to it when his brother got clean and managed to build a family for himself, or when the task force was tight-knit, with Johnny chatting his ear off with his incomprehensible Scottish lilt. But it was never his.

This, though.

He’d be damned if he let it slip through the cracks of his fingers.

"Until it's our flat," he breathed.

His other hand reached out as well, and he placed it on your opposite cheek, "Until it’s our little flat.”

You’d be lying if you said those weren’t words you had been reciting in your head ever since you put in your retirement request. Ever since you started looking for a flat that could host two people instead of one.

Indeed, you’d naively thought that the moment they would be uttered (if ever) you would have been ready for them. But you weren't, not at all – they felt like a gut punch.

You had to bite your lip to repress tears that had treacherously made their way into your eyes, now glossy and a little wide. To think that you were able, somehow, to give him some reprieve from a life that seemed to not want him, gave you incommensurable joy.

"Our home," you croaked.

"Our home," he echoed languidly, with a thick voice, as if it hurt to speak, "Our bed. And our bloody balcony on the cathedral, and our sofa, our kitchen, and – “

He paused. Swallowed, seemingly torn. Words seemed to fail him again, but he didn’t let them – not this time. He’d fight through the fear of it all being the umpteenth joke life was taunting him with. Not you, never you – his one good hand in a lifetime of poor draws.

"And every – fucking – thing in between."

You chuckled. It’s wet with tears and disbelief.

Oh, to see him thrive in anticipation for something, instead of dreading what life has in store for him.

Your hand left the gentle grip it had on his knuckles, and you cupped his face as well – mimicking how he was holding yours.

"Every," you whispered, "Bloody, fucking thing," and nudged your nose with his, "In between."

Your lips landed on his instantly.

It was stupidly clumsy at first because you were both torn in half between what felt good and what was right. His tongue slipped between your lips as soon as you parted them for air; your teeth clacked together. You chuckled against his lips; he drank it like an oasis. His life parched of what you could give him, what you were giving him.

It took him a moment to get used to the sensation, to adjust to you. But when he finally did, he kissed you back ravenously, nothing shy from desperate. He craved your touch so fiercely. A push and pull of wandering hands, tangled in your hair and yours in his.

You were finally back where he wanted you, in the cocoon he crafted just for you, made with his flesh. He held you to his chest as if his ribcage could open and like bony fingers wrap around you and keep you safe.

He placed his foot between your legs, pushing them open. You complied when he gently nudged your knee so you’d fall back against the mattress.

Eventually, your lips parted, yielding to his, to a shared breath.

You were positively flushed, breathless, and limp in his grasp. He thought he'd never seen anything this breathtaking.

You smiled, all teeth and creases at the corners of your eyes, cheeks tipped pink as they pushed against your eyes – little crescents he’d look at for days on end.

Simon was left a little dumbfounded, though, when you squirmed under his weight to extend an arm. He followed it with his eyes and saw your hand struggling to fumble with the drawer of your nightstand. You pulled out a key and held it in the space between your faces. 

"Your key," you whispered bashfully, as if unaware that the mere sight sent Simon's heart into arrhythmia.

You placed a soft peck to his lips, "To our home."

Simon let out a staggered exhale. He wrapped his fingers around the key, closed his fist around it.

A symbol of a new beginning, one that Simon finally didn’t dread. Something good rippling through his life like fresh water, even amidst the mud of shared grief and loss.

We're good people,

And we both deserve peace.

"To our home," he whispered back, "To our home."

And let breath be air, 

And love the things I know might disappear.

And the last light of the sun

I let it slow me down

I'll crawl where everybody runs.

[billthedrake]

LITTLE BRO'S HOMECOMING

Joseph Murphy didn't even have to knock on the hotel door. He'd texted Kyle to get the room number and as he strode up to 1139 in the downtown Boston hotel, the door opened right up.

Kyle was dressed in his Marines cammies - either he hadn't had time to change since checking in or else he wanted to be in uniform for the older man. A big smile formed on the 21 year old's face. "Hey," he muttered as he stepped aside to let the beefy cop enter.

"Hey yeuself," Joe hissed in his thick New England accent as he stepped right up to the young Marine and placed his hands around the stud's waist, drawing him in.

Their kiss was hot. A tongue heavy, facing sucking kind of kiss. Officer Murphy didn't do finesse, and it turns out Kyle Smith was A-OK with that. It had been TOO long since they'd been together, or even seen each other. They'd had a conversation before Kyle's deployment about whether they were dating. The cop didn't feel comfortable with that, and Joe hadn't even reached out to the Marine over the last few months. It was only an instant reply that Kyle received when he said he was coming home that made him realize there was still a spark there.

More than a spark. Officer Murphy was pawing at the ridge of hard military cock in the camo pants. And Kyle was feeling up all the cop beef through the man's long-sleeve Pats T-shirt. THIS was the young man's type to a T. Some heft on his bones, thick muscle, a beer belly. It had been the body Kyle had been into since he first started jacking off. Joe reminded him of his middle school wrestling coach - and even, if he was honest, of his own father.

Officer Murphy was even a dyed-in-the-wool working class New Englander like Kyle's father, only more brash even.

Indeed, the booming voice came as he backed off. "How's my fuckin' parn stah doin?" the cop bellowed, fingers tracing the long ridge of Marine meat sticking up in the uniform.

"Holy fuck, I missed you, man," Kyle said with a big grin. Maybe that was too much to say, but he felt it.

"I bet ya did," Joe said as he crouched down, fingers already fumbling with the uniform. "I know how to take care of this bad boy."

The cop's fingers felt good as they undid the trousers. "Are we gonna wait?" Kyle asked. "I mean, we said..."

Already the cop's big mitt was on the young stud's boner, pulling it out and gently stroking it. "You got a couple in ya, Corporal," he growled. "Come on, Jesus, four months and ya gonna fuckin' blue ball me?"

Officer Murphy didn't give Kyle a chance to answer. The question was rhetorical anyway. Because already he was taking the thick, long tool into his mouth.

"Oh fuck... fuck yes," Kyle hissed as he felt the police officer's hot wet mouth go down on him. The cop sucked dick like he kissed. No finesse. But it was amazing, especially after no sex for the last four months.

The Marine didn't realize he was carrying around so much tension in his body, but as Joe blew him, he felt himself relax, his stance widening just a little and his hand placed gently on top of the man's medium-short hair. He'd experienced a Joe Murphy BJ in full Boston Police uniform. THAT had been incredible, but even now he loved looking down on the man's thick-set daddy bod, face getting redder as he bobbed up and down more quickly. Kyle was still in full uniform, for his part, and he suspected that was driving Joe wild.

"It's not gonna take me long," Kyle warned.

The cop spit out his cock. "Dont ya dare, buddy." He wiped the spit off his chin with the back of his hand and leaned back. Kyle loved that view of him, the way it showed off Officer Murphy's broad rounded shoulders and massive chest.

Kyle knew what the man meant. He actually didn't have a lot of experience with other men. He'd met Joe Murphy when he was still 18, still a senior in high school. But the sex was electric between them. Joe was such a deeply sexual man, and the cop's hunger for a younger top, a much younger top, fueled Kyle's own lust.

"On the bed, Officer," he hissed.

Joe broke into a huge grin. Standing up, he started undoing his jeans and kicking off his sneakers.

"Keep that fuckin' unifo'm on buddy," he growled.

Kyle nodded. "That's 'Corporal Smith' to you, Officer."

"All right, Corporal," Joe chuckled. "Don't hold back. Just go for it, OK?"

Kyle was getting lightheaded now, he was so horny. Especially seeing Murphy pull off that T and reveal that beefy daddy bod. His big brother had teased him once when he showed him a picture of his cop lover. "You a chaser, Kyle?" Brandon had laughed. Kyle stood his ground those. The beer belly on such a meaty frame did something for him. He liked having a lot of daddy to hold onto.

That lot of daddy was naked now and crawling onto one of the queen beds on all fours. Kyle got in place.

"Aw yeah, eat my hole, Corporal. Aw, fuck yeah... root around with that tongue buddy. Get up in daddy's ass. Oh, fucking nasty, buddy."

Kyle remembered the first time he rimmed Joe Murphy he was worried the man would get freaked out. But it was one of Kyle's favorite things to watch in porn, so he just went for it. As they say, history was made. He and Joe rarely had sex without some ass eating.

Still, both knew it wasn't going to be a long rim session. Their absence had been too long. Kyle leaned back up on his haunches and gave a light slap to the cop's surprisingly smooth rump. Leaning over, he pumped out a couple of squirts of lube, which he applied to his boner, and then to Joe's hole.

The cop wasn't exactly slutty, but he was wanton in taking taking cock. Spreading his legs and wiggling his ass some as Kyle fingered him. Then, as Joe felt that thick piece of Marine cock bore in, he hissed and did his best to relax.

"Easy, buddy... easy... I'm fuckin' tight... ya gotta open daddy back up for business OK?"

"Yeah," Kyle hissed. He didn't want to cum yet. He knew if he could get through the penetration he'd be good for a bit.

Joe's verbal streak quieted down as Kyle slowly penetrated the older man. Murphy had lied about his age when they first met on the app, but the cop was 50. Squarely middle aged. The young man sometimes wondered why he was wired for older men, men like Murphy. But now that he was boning Joe, he didn't feel the need to question, his heart and mind and cock knew this is what he wanted.

Finally his balls pressed against the man's ass.

"God, yes," the Marine hissed. THIS was what a homecoming should be.

"I can feel your uniform against me, Corporal," Joe said in a surprisingly quiet tone. "So very hot."

Kyle held the man's waist. The skin was hot to the touch. "I dreamed about doing this in the barracks," he hissed. "Even fantasized about banging the Master Sergeant."

That got a chuckle from Joe beneath him. "I bet ya did, buddy. Just as I've had the hots for the new rookie on the force. Fresh faced fucker."

Kyle pulled back and pushed back in. Not fast, not yet. But he could feel the cop's insides open up for him, some.

"Anyone else fucking you, Joe?" he asked, an edge to his voice.

The reply was quiet. "A couple, Kyle," the cop answered. "It gets lonely, you know."

"Yeah," Kyle said, sadly. He wished he was the only one. But they'd never had that conversation. This was probably not the time to have it. "Man, I wish we didn't live so far apart."

The next thrust was hard, real hard. It knocked the wind out of Joe a little, and if Kyle hadn't fucked the cop like this before he would have been concerned.

"Give me a sec," Joe finally hissed.

Kyle slowed his roll and watched as the man reached over for his own squirt of lube.

The Marine didn't need to be told to resume fucking. That's how it was between him and Joe. Perfect synchronization of needs. The minute he saw the man reach down to jerk his cock, Kyle started fucking hard. Jack hammer thrusts in and out of the man's now relaxed hole.

"That's it, stud... horse hung Marine gonna fuck my cop ass..."

"Fuckin' take it, Officer," he hissed. Getting into it.

With other men Kyle had fucked it wasn't like this. It was usually fucking for his own pleasure or for the bottom's. But he and Joe Murphy were on the same wavelength, the older man rapidly jerking while Kyle threw his strength into hard fucking the beefy daddy.

Just the sight of the man's bare back, strong and full, and the love handles and the way Joe's face turned redder when he was getting close to cumming. Kyle felt that light headed feeling again and knew the cum was already traveling up his piss tube, pumping out from his balls.

"Oh FUCK!" he whimpered.

"SHIT!" Joe grunted.

Their orgasm was simultaneous. Kyle's body clenched and held still as his dick continued to unload inside the man. It had actually taken a few times to talk Officer Murphy into barebacking, but now he couldn't imagine sex between the two any other way. This was just sex, and it was just the hormones talking, but Kyle was in love with the man.

He started to pull back, but he saw Joe's hand reach back, as if to stop him. "Don't, Kyle... stay in me for a while longer, OK?"

The Marine nodded and placed his hand softly on Joe's lower back, feeling up the clammy sweaty muscle. He wondered if his dick was going to go soft. It usually did after a cum like that, but being connected with the police officer meant it still felt rock hard.

***

Brandon Smith waited in the hotel bar, sipping his beer. He was always a little nervous waiting for Preston, but he was getting that pit-in-his-stomach now. Maybe this was a bad idea.

But it only took the sight of his sorta boyfriend in the mirror to brighten up. Preston Weldman cut the vision of a real executive, as tall as Brandon, and his figure looking fit in slacks and a sport coat. The gray temples were the icing on the cake, so to speak. Brandon felt an instant chub in his jeans.

"Hope you haven't been waiting long," the business exec said as he sidled up to the hunky 32-year-old. He placed a hand on Brandon's shoulder. Not obvious but the touch felt electric between the two men.

"No," Brandon shook his head. "Anyway, it's good people watching here," he said.

Preston smiled. "Scoping out the business daddies?" he whispered. He knew Brandon's type. It was how they'd met each other on an app when Brandon was back home visiting family. Leaning in more, he growled. "You're looking really good, Sergeant Smith."

Brandon's heart pounded. "SO good to see you, Press." That had been his nickname for the man. Then, his eyes sweeping up and down, something clicked. "You're not wearing your wedding ring?"

Preston shrugged. "You disappointed?" he joked. "The divorce isn't final but it feels like it, you know?"

Brandon nodded and with concern asked, "How you doing?"

"We'll talk about it later, OK? We have the whole weekend, right?"

Brandon smiled. Long distance was tough, and there was military life on top of that. But maybe that's what worked for this divorced hunk. He had his own busy career to deal with, and his kids, too. "Yeah. I have some stuff I wanna talk about too."

"Yeah?" Preston replied. "You wanna talk about it now, kiddo?"

Brandon shook his head. "I think the guys are up in the room waiting for us."

Preston's lust was visible on his face, even if he normally had that WASPy repressed thing going on. "Sure you're OK with this?"

Brandon laughed. "I was gonna ask you the same thing, Press." He stood up and set down some cash to pay for his beer. "It'll be way hot."

"You're bringing out my naughty side for sure." Preston was definitely in a good mood.

Brandon leaned in and whispered. "How do you think I feel? He's my brother." Then he pulled back and gave a wink to the man before grabbing his overnight bag. "Come on, let's go up."

Even on the elevator ride up, the two couldn't keep their eyes off each other. Preston still couldn't believe he'd scored a young man as hot as Brandon Smith. 6'3" ex-football jock, his body honed by years in the US Marine Corps. The 26-year-old was like a porn character come to life. The superstitious, or realist, part of Preston knew this affair was on borrowed time, that Brandon would move on. But he'd sure as hell enjoy the ride.

***

Joe had dozed off but the knock on the hotel room woke him up. He was naked in the damp, disheveled hotel bed. The kid had gone for seconds, all right, and the middle-aged cop felt well and truly fucked. Like, a sleepy, tired and satisfied level of truly fucked.

The man felt bad for telling Kyle about the hookups he'd had. But he didn't want to hold back from the young man. Besides, there had just been two men over the last few month. They hadn't meant a thing and certainly couldn't hold a candle to Kyle fuckin' Smith.

Another knock came. Louder.

"All right," Joe called out. "Coming!"

He jumped out of the bed and sauntered over to the door. He could hear the shower running, and realized Kyle was in there.

Brandon and Preston were surprised to see the door fling open to reveal the full nakedness of a thick-set 50-ish man they'd never met. Lightly furred front, soft dick dangling beneath.

"Come in, fellas," Joe said. "Kyle's in the shower." Unceremoniously he turned and let the men indoors.

It took a second for Joe to pick up on their reaction. "Why be shy, right?" he said in his thick accent. He flashed an impish smile. "I can cover up if it bothers you though."

"Guess you're right," Brandon said. He held out his hand. "I'm Brandon."

Joe took the hand in his own strong mitt and shook it. "Definitely see the family ressemblance."

"Joe," the cop said.

"Preston," the businessman said as he greeted the cop.

"Jesus what the fuck kind of name is Preston?" Joe quipped.

Brandon got angry. Protective and angry. "We can call this off," he said through gritted teeth.

"Call what off?" came Kyle's voice as he stepped out, towel wrapped around his waist.

Preston's eyes noticeably showed excitement. If he had to pick, he'd choose Brandon's body, but Kyle had a shorter, more compact build that was scrlpted with tight, rounded young muscle.

Kyle immediately picked up on the vibe. "Jesus, Joe. Did you shoot off your mouth again?"

The cop looked genuinely contrite. "Sorry fellas. Guess I'm shitty at first impressions. Preston," he said, turning to the other daddy in the group. "I'm sorry man. Really. That was a shitty thing to say."

"All right," he said in a clipped Yankee accent. "I guess we're not here on a date or anything," he joked.

Joe nodded. "Yeah, the Smith brothers are the stars of the weekend, right?"

Brandon looked at Kyle. "You guys already get started?" he asked his brother.

Kyle nodded. "Yeah, couldn't wait, sorry."

Brandon turned to look at his lover. "I wouldn't mind a little one-on-one time with Press first."

"Yeah, babe?" Preston asked. He wasn't sure how this scene would play out. But as much as he wanted to see Kyle in action, he was drawn to Brandon first and foremost.

The hunky marine pulled Preston closer to him, then guided his arms around the man's waist to draw him into a kiss. It was soft and sensual. Brandon Smith was SUCH an amazing kisser, and inspired Preston to give his best in return.

"We can give ya guys some space," Joe spoke up. Amused to see a version of what he and Kyle had just experienced.

"Yah," Brandon almost said. Only Press' hand gripped his arm.

"It's OK if they watch babe," he said. The older man had a playful look on his face. "I kind of want 'em to."

Brandon looked at Preston in amusement. This buttoned-down divorced dad had a way of surprising him. "OK, he said.

Kyle was still in his towel as he sat on the bed, feeling Joe settle in behind him. The cop's mitts felt good feeling up his ripped Marine muscles. If Kyle hadn't just fucked the man, twice, he'd be boning up fast.

"You OK with this, Kyle?" Brandon asked.

Kyle nodded. "Go for it, bro. It'll be hot to see you guys."

That was all the green light it took for Brandon and Preston. It was like it was just them, alone in the room, even as they were also aware of putting on a show. They slowly stripped each other and made out.

About the only thing to break the spell was the cop's outburst when Brandon removed Press's button-down shirt, revealing a DILF-y gym-toned body.

"Holy fucking shit, he's a frickin' magazine model."

The cop's loudmouth approach had rubbed him the wrong way, but now he enjoyed having Preston's amazing body recognized.

The lovers were soon naked and Brandon was reclining them down on the other bed. Kissing softly even as their bodies humped more urgently. They were matched in height, but Brandon had some more muscle on him, and Preston was feeling up every inch with his hands.

Soon the older man was parting his legs, letting Brandon's body find that spot between them. Their kissing grew more impassioned, until Brandon leaned up.

"Fuck you feel so good, Press," he sighed. "I love ya, man."

"Love you, too, Big B." This was the only thing that made Preston self conscious about having an audience. But he knew this was part of sex between him and Brandon. The emotional openness.

"I need to be inside you, Dad," Brandon hissed.

"Please," Preston said. "I need you, Son."

Joe felt Kyle's body tense in his arms. The cop was a pervy enough man that the dad-son play didn't phase him. But he sensed it hit differently for Kyle. This was his brother, talking about "Dad." Joe just held the 21-year-old tight against him and kissed the side of his neck.

"OK?" he whispered.

"Yeah," Kyle whispered back.

Then Joe felt Kyle's hand grip his forearm, pulling it down. Joe thought the kid was rejecting his embrace but instead Kyle guided Joe's hand lower, right to the towel, where there was a ridge of hard dick. The kid was turned on.

"Jesus, it's a like a Lifetime movie," Joe almost said, but restrained himself. Everything was so frickin sensuous between the other couple. Even the lubing of cocks and the fingering of Preston's hole. The man was glas Kyle was into more animalistic fucking. The kid always had been, even at 18.

At last the divorced exec lifted his toned legs, and Brandon gingerly positioned the ankles on his meaty shoulders. The two locked eyes, silently, lovingly.

And Brandon entered his daddy lover.

Preston winced at entry but after a second, his hands were on Brandon's muscle ass, coaxing him to push in further.

"Not gonna last long today, Dad," Brandon hissed. "You feel so fucking good."

"We got all weekend, Son," Press countered. Before Brandon he didn't enjoy bottoming. Hell, the times he fooled around with men he usually preferred getting head. But this Marine had a way of rocking his world, turning it upside down. Of making him want cock like this. "Fuck me. Fuck your father."

Brandon let out a low deep grunt and powered in. Slowly, sensually at first. God he was SO turned on. Being with Press, hearing that roleplay talk. But also know his little bro was watching. "I'm gonna go a little harder, sir," he hissed.

"Do it!" Press urged.

And like that came a serious of slow, rough thrusts.

"Yes!" the exec grunted. Only Brandon could make him love it like this, too. Hard, with a roughness to each inward push of that meaty cock. "Attaboy."

Brandon had a few trigger words and that was one of them. He knew orgasm was coming now. So he humped more excitedly, hard stokes working to get himself off with this perfect man's ass.

"Yeah, Dad," he hissed. "Gonna cum!"

He felt Press's hands caress his sides, encouraging him to give it up.

"UNNGH!" Brandon grunted and unloaded.

"Yes!" Press said excitedly. He loved watching his Big B cum, loved seeing that mix of youthful masculinity and almost childish need. Already he was stroking his dick to get his own nut.

Brandon took a second to come down from the high but when he did he started working his dick in and out of Press's warm hole. Fucking slowly but hard, the way Press liked it.

The older man wasn't a loud cummer, but Brandon knew how to read the signs. Sure enough. the middle-aged man's body clenched and white hot sperm flew out. Preston Weldman came a lot when he orgasmed.

Brandon pulled out and only then was self conscious that his brother and his brother's lover were looking on.

Kyle had a look that was clearly horny and maybe a little embarrassed. "Why don't we give you some space, Bro?" he said quietly.

The older brother rolled off Preston's body. "We freak you out, Kyle? I guess I should have warned you that we do the roleplay thing."

Joe spoke up. "Don't let the kid fool ya, he loved that shit."

"Jesus, Joe," Kyle objected. But the man was right.

Preston leaned up. He felt a strange fondness for Kyle, a dude he'd never met. "Kyle, it took me a while to get into it." He ran his hand up and down Brandon's strong back. "I don't know... your brother's a persuasive man."

"Eight inches is a lot of persuasion," Joe quipped. He'd just witness the other brother's endowment, and Brandon was as hung as Kyle, for sure.

"Joe, what the fuck?" Kyle pestered. But Brandon and Preston were smirking.

"Fuckin' Christ. What the fuck are we for? It's supposed to be a fun weekend, right?" He patted Kyle's chest affectionately and gave a soft, contrite kiss. "Come on, let's go get a pint and we can talk more at the pub." The cop pulled his meaty body back from his younger lovers and stepped off the bed. "Apparently we need to talk about 'ground rules' or some bullshit," he bellowed.

Brandon had to admit the policeman was growing on him.

[mlmxreader]

Big Boy | König x m!reader

Anonymous asked: Ooohhh König with a short boyfriend? Someone jokingly asks about the height difference and his bf says “I have to climb him like a damn tree every time I want a kiss, it’s annoying.” And König’s like “you can ask me to bend down, you know.” “Nah, you’re my personal jungle gym.”

summary: König loves his pilot boyfriend, even if he is a bit of a pain.

tws: swearing, smoking

König was a lot taller than you, and although you did love him ever so dearly, you had to admit: it could be a pain in the backside and a half to be physically affectionate sometimes. But you made it work, and although some of your fellow pilots in the RAF did tease you for it, it was all in good nature and was not anything other than banter.

Often, when you were off of work for a while König would come home with only one thing in mind: cuddling you; he loved how you seemed to fit so well in his embrace, your head on his chest as he laid a large hand between your shoulders and an arm around your waist while some old song by Sodom or Slayer played quietly, too tired and worn out to talk, too overwhelmed with seeing you at last to even consider opening his mouth, he always kissed you too much for that.

But his favourite thing by far was when he would come to the air field; he loved to watch you land your plane - the Red Kite - while Perveen, Bashar, Pahwa and Cohen landed behind - their planes being the Golden Eagle, Peregrine Falcon, Red Tailed Hawk and Bearded Vulture respectively. What made König love it so much though was not the planes themselves or how they were painted to look like the birds they were named after, but it was how you reacted to seeing him stood on the tarmac.

Without fail, he would bring a thermos of your favourite coffee and would have two cigarettes ready to be smoked; when you first became his boyfriend, you said once that you loved a coffee and a smoke when you landed, and König never forgot.

He was dressed down as he stood on the tarmac, a camo print hoodie in dark green and trousers of the same, but sporting a bright orange beanie hat. If he remembered correctly, you had gotten that hat for him for his birthday as a present a few months after you first started dating, the thought of which made him smile as he felt the rain gently tap, a warning that it was about to start pouring.

Although it was going to be awful, the weather was actually on König's side, as it had meant an early return for the pilots who had been out on a training exercise, it meant his boyfriend would return early.

He watched the Red Kite eagerly, and when it came to a full stop and you climbed out, he grinned.

"Ah, fuck! Shit! Shit! Fucking shit! Why'd it have to fucking rain right as I fucking-" your little rant of complaints came to a halt when you saw König.

A grin spread across your features, and you quickly made your way towards him, running until you crashed right into his body, pressing your face against him as you tightly held onto him. "Hi, Maus."

König eagerly returned the embrace as he smiled. "Hallo, mein geliebter... bist du gut?"

You nodded. "Now I got you, yeah... ich bin sehr gut... und du?"

"Ich bin super," he admitted, unable to stop grinning as he held you tightly. "Wie war dein Flug?"

You shrugged. "Okay... fuck, I missed you."

He gently pulled back, and when you jumped into his arms to kiss him, he couldn't help but to laugh softly; kissing you back eagerly before he gently set you down again, resting his forearm on your head.

"Hey, (y/n)!" Parveen called, grinning from ear to ear. "How'd you kiss him?"

You shrugged, waiting for him to get closer before you dared to answer, "how'd you think? I have to climb him like a damn tree every time I want a kiss, it's annoying as fuck, mate."

König looked down at you for a moment, his brows furrowing. "You can ask me to bend down, you know, Bärchen."

Gently, you tapped his stomach as you shook your head. "Nah, you're my personal jungle gym... besides, it's like a positive reinforcement thing."

He cocked his brow, trying not to smile as he let his hand slip to your shoulders, resting between them as he slowly moved his thumb up and down, letting you lean into him. "You could still ask me to Kuss you."

"I'd rather not," you shook your head, licking your lips as you smiled. "It's more fun this way."

"Why don't you just punch him in the stomach?" Perveen jokingly asked. "That'll make him bend down."

König glared at the Squadron Leader. "Don't encourage him, bitte."

You were about to open your mouth, let off some smart ass comment, when König shoved his hand into his pocket, and gave you a cigarette and a lighter; he bent down, picked up the thermos, and held it out for you, doing his best not to smile when you eagerly lit up your cigarette and held it between your lips as you opened the thermos and let the stench of coffee hit you.

Sure, you could be a pain, you could be a nightmare, but König adored you, and he honestly couldn't wait until he had you back home; he couldn't wait to feel you in his embrace and to hold you so tightly, bouncing on his heels slightly as he waited for you to smoke your cigarette and drink your coffee. He knew you loved and needed it.

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[on-a-lucky-tide]

When Simon struggles, he finds Price for relief.

CW: D/s dynamics without it being explicitly outlined, blowjob, a bit of yearning Price.

Price looked up at the sharp rap on his office door and blinked out of the trance-like concentration that had kept him focused for four hours solid, without even a coffee break. The nearby clock said 0200 in flickering red numbers, which meant it could only be one person. No one else sought him out at such an ungodly bloody hour without an imminent mission.

"Come in, Simon."

The handle twisted instantly, like Simon's hand had been resting on it in readiness, and the looming figure of Ghost crossed the threshold. But it wasn't Ghost who needed attention now; Ghost was asleep, waiting for the moment he was needed once more, which had left Simon Riley to surface. The mask did little to hide the difference; Ghost moved like a force of nature, unrepentant and ruthless, but Simon... he moved like a man uncertain whether he was even real.

Price threw his biro down and leaned back in his chair, head tilted to the side. He knew that waiting for Simon to speak was futile; he never would, not in these fragile early hours when he was exposed like a raw nerve. So it fell to Price to take on the burden of deciding, just like in the field.

Price turned his chair to face to the side and Simon drifted over to stand before him, his fingers twitching at his sides in regular little ticks. The tension hummed off of him like radiation, a tight heat on a hair trigger. Price tilted his chair back, fingers twined together over his belly as he looked up at his officer.

Other than his mask, Simon had presented himself practically naked. Well, by Ghost's standards. Cotton shirt, trousers held up by an empty belt, not even a utility knife at the side, his boots were unlaced where he had clearly rolled from his cot and shoved his feet into them in a hurry. Price couldn't see his eyes; the light in the office was too dim, the battered lamp only enough to illuminate the dossier he'd been working on. The shadows hid Simon from him.

He spread his knees and dipped his chin towards the floor. "On your knees, lieutenant," Price said, and Simon obeyed. He dropped between Price's knees without hesitation, hitting the old rug with a dull thud. His shoulders remained squared, his arms rigidly at his sides, but now he was looking up at Price with doe-wide eyes, and Price felt the first stirrings in the pit of his stomach.

He made Simon wait as he evaluated those eyes, the only window he had into the man before him. They were still blacked out but the camo had partially smeared off in sleep; Price could see a few wisps of a blonde eyebrow and damn if Simon didn't have the fullest lashes Price had ever seen on a man.

"The airport," Price said, and saw a flicker in Simon's eyes that confirmed it. "I see."

Price leaned forward and saw the first judder in Simon's composure; a hitch in his chest, a twitch of his broad shoulders. There was no point in telling Simon it wasn't on him; Price carried the rank so he carried the responsibility. All Simon would be thinking of was the families he hadn't saved; the stand-ins for everything he'd lost. Ghost understood; collateral damage, the enemy taking their pound of flesh. That was just what happened in the field. Simon needed help forgetting and letting it go, because he would never be able to understand.

Now, Price wasn't a fool. He knew they were one and the same man, but trauma did something to a man's head. Fuck, it had done a number on his that he was sure some army psych would take great joy in unravelling when it eventually all caught up with him, but they managed in their own ways. Simon has pulled on a mask and called it Ghost, because his call sign was the one defence he had left.

So, to reach Simon, the mask had to come off. Just a little.

Price reached forward and Simon flinched from his hands despite the needy jut of his chin. "Stand easy," he said, the words falling out naturally as they would with any twitchy greenhorn about to take his first jump. Calm authority. And it worked on Simon like a dream; his chin pressed into Price's palm and his shoulders eased.

Price held him there, letting Simon rest in the literal and metaphorical safety of his commanding officer's hands. He felt the warm puffs of breath from Simon's nose on his wrist, and squeezed only enough to feel the strong lines of Simon's jaw. A handsome bloke, if memory served. One day, he'd get this damned mask all the way off and admire it once again, even with all of Simon's past etched and burned into it.

Price hooked his thumbs beneath it and curled it up until it folded just over the tip of Simon's nose. Those intense eyes were flickering, alert, and Price let them settle again until he turned to tracing Simon's lips. They were so unique; full, pale, gnarled across one corner by the scar twisting from his jaw to his cheek, disappearing beneath the band of his balaclava.

Simon was breathing a little heavier; excitement, anxiety, it didn't matter, the body reacted the same. Hairs on end, goosebumps on pale skin. Simon wouldn't pull away, wouldn't stop Price at any point. In these early hours, Price could make him do anything, which was precisely why he couldn't. Simon would shatter and Ghost would be there to harvest the pieces, absorbing them until Simon disappeared forever. Price would only go as far as they always did, because he couldn't risk losing Simon. Not this way.

"You're a good man for coming to me," Price said, the low timbre of his whisper sounding loud in the small office. "Always so good. So loyal."

Price tugged at Simon's lower lip and then stroked the pad of his thumb over Simon's teeth; Simon opened obediently under the lightest touch, and Price stroked his tongue, cupping that strong jaw as Simon surrendered to him, each breath coming easier. "Good, lieutenant. Come on, show me what you want..."

Simon's eyes flickered and rolled, his mouth closed only to suck Price in as far as his thumb would go, those full lips pressing down to his palm with the softest groan as the last of Simon's hesitant restraint tumbled away, like glacier ice cracking off a distant mountain.

"Ahh, there you are, Simon. Good boy." Price pressed a little on Simon's tongue and looked down between his knees. The front of Simon's trousers were bulging out, but his big hands remained firmly on his thick thighs; thighs that Price would give his damn pension to have wrapped around his waist, they would snap him in half and he'd be bloody grateful for it.

The heat under his own skin throbbed warmer and he spread his legs a little further, yielding space to his hardening prick. As if he could sense Price's building arousal, Simon sucked harder, his teeth grazing Price's skin. "Hmm, eager to please, I see." Price pressed down, urging Simon's mouth open, as he pulled at his belt and button. It took only a little fumbling for him to free his cock, the shaft sitting over the elastic of his boxers and dripping shamelessly. Price grunted, a little abashed at his own eagerness. "You do things to me, lad."

Simon's eyes flickered between Price's face and his prick, his tongue wriggling beneath the weight of Price's thumb. "Fuck," Price breathed, fingers tightening on Simon's jaw once more. He eased thumb free and then his foreskin back until his frenulum could tease over the soft, supple skin of Simon's lower lip. Simon held fast, his eyes not leaving Price's face, and Price let him see the pleasure, the admiration.

He teased himself on Simon's lips, rocking backwards and forwards, leaking into his lieutenant's mouth until Simon's tongue was saturated in scent and taste. Price couldn't deny the feral attraction of it; of having Lieutenant Simon Riley on his knees, Ghost tamed into quiet submission, all that power coiled away, and the man himself so desperate to submit.

Simon's tongue curled up to press at Price's slit and Price groaned as his glans yielded to the tip of it. "Impatient, as always," Price said, the words croaked through a miasma of listless pleasure. He leaned back and drew Simon with him, sliding that hot, eager mouth down his shaft. Price wasn't sure what was better; the wet, needy heat that swallowed him to the root, or the way that Simon's eyes rolled back into his bloody head.

Simon pushed his nose to Price's groin, his throat spasming reflexively. "Steady," Price managed, checking the swell of his own excitement as his balls pulled tight. Fuck, so soon? His own bloody thoughts had ridden him to the razor edge and Simon hadn't got his fill yet. Price let his head fall back and closed his eyes, but his hand stayed on Simon's chin, not guiding once Simon had slowed so much as holding. He pressed his thumb into Simon's cheek and felt his prick slide through Simon's mouth and it was almost enough to shove him over the brink.

"Bloody hell," Price hissed through clenched teeth as Simon drew off to lick through his slit again, seeking that concentration of taste and arousal. He licked the thick vein that snaked up from the base, finishing just shy of the tip and then slowed. Slowed right down. Price played with the fuzz of blonde hair at the back of Simon's neck, revealed as his mask hitched a little higher, and felt the cooler tip of Simon's nose at the cusp of his boxers, the puff of hot breath and another deep, guttural groan, and Price's stomach bunched tight.

It was sweet, sweet torture, but Simon was teasing him deliberately, baiting him out for something a little more, and Price gave gladly. He pushed his lieutenant back enough to stand, before hauling him around by the chin until the back of his head pressed to the edge of his desk, cushioned by the meat of Price's free hand.

Simon's mouth hung open for him and Price thrust in deep with a low growl. Price rolled his hips slowly, savouring each drag of Simon's lips and tongue down his shaft, but he couldn't temper his pace for long. He moved faster, stopping only just short of ramming Simon's head back into his hand. Simon's eyes were closed, his body completely slack, and the absolute submission was enough to rip Price's orgasm from him.

His hips stuttered as he emptied down Simon's throat and the lad took it all, consumed every last drop of it, and Price once again revelled in the power yielded to him. He may never have Simon over his desk in the way he wanted, but fuck was he going to enjoy every shred of him he could have like this.

Price dropped Simon's chin in favour of propping himself up and watched as Simon licked absently at his softening prick, the sparks of oversensitivity leaping up his bloody spine like burning shrapnel.

When he was certain his legs would hold him, Price pulled back, returning to wipe Simon's mouth clean of spit and cum. Simon hung in his hands, soft and light, and Price stared at his lips. The urge to kiss in these moments after was almost overpowering, a breath between Price and the taste of himself in his Simon's mouth. Ahh, and there was the bloody problem. His. Not now, not ever.

Price swallowed and sat back on his heels, discarding the scarf he'd used to clean Simon's face, and eased Simon's mask back into place. He rose on aching legs, the afterburn of his climax making him a little dizzy. "Bed. Now. Mess at 0600."

Simon uncurled to his full height - all six-foot-giant of him - and left without a word. Price slumped at his desk and stared at the ceiling. The dossier would have to wait. He felt like he'd just run Test Week at double time.

***

"Ahh, L.T., bit of a wee bounce in yer step t'day. Get lucky at the bar?"

"Focus on the mission, Soap."

"Ahh geddit, you don' kiss an' tell, pwoper English gent."

As Ghost walked to the back of the plane, Price was sure Simon glanced at him from beneath that balaclava, but it was Ghost that rumbled through the intercom. "Ready, sir."

"Ghost takes point, radio silence until we rendezvous at agreed coordinates, go."

Ghost slid his rifle behind his back and threw himself into free fall.

[captainlondonman]

Workie Big Jim

WORKIE  BIG JIM to J-BOI

What the hell is going on outside the front door? James looked through the window and saw 2 young guys setting up bollards in a square on the pavement outside

‘I’ve not had any notifcation for works to be done.’

As he looked out there were two guys both in their 20.s in full Hi Viz gear wearing white helmets and orange kit. One had a really good bod and knew it wearing tight trousers so he showed off a tight arse. He had a tight fitting T shirt on showing the full 6 pack and protruding nipples, making sure his waistcoat was open for all to see. He was unshaven, a good dark stubble and tanned. One arm was full of tats and he had gold earrings in both ears and a ciggie droping down from his lips. As he turned so James could see his cock pushing out from the tight confines.  His head was shaved and gleaming.

Sex on legs but a mouthy son of a bitch by the look of things

The other guy was shorter and a good rugby build with hairy arms and shaved head. He was wearing dirty camos and high rigger boots. He kept wiping his nose on his cuffs. A dirty little bugger James thought

Even if James was annoyed at seeing them outside his house, he found his cock twitching at the sight of the lads.

Nothing to beat a dirty workie  he thought. Christ I don’t why but the sight of these dirty young guys in Hi Viz always gets me horny . I can’t stop dreaming of being a mucky workie and having a good fuck with these guys. As he stared at them so his hand went down to his dick and started rubbing . Shit I love Hi Viz gear he said as his cock started tenting big time in his trousers. Christ I have to have a wank and they wont be able to see me getting my rocks off.

With that he took his good 6 incher out with its thick head and started to rub himself. That cocky one really gets me so horny he said watching the young lad bend over showing the tight arse. What I would do with that he said but knowing full well he never would which made his excitement even more. His hand groped his dick and he slid his sweaty hand up and down his shaft faster and faster working his thick head wet with precum. Oh God I’m coming as he shoved his head back and his cum spurted all over the wall under the window.

James showered and washed off all the excess spunk that had run down his legs Time to get to work. As he walked out the cocky lad looked over at him and winked.

‘What are you guys doing right in front of my house.’

‘What the fuck does it look like. Digging a hole mate, electrical problems. Can you not see what it says on the back of my coat.’

‘I only asked’ James said

‘And I only told you’ was the reply.

‘Have you not any foreman’ asked James

‘Nope, he buggered off, its just Jake and I, ain’t it Jake?’

‘Sure thing, Wayne but we reckon we know what were doin’

‘I certainly hope so’ James said somewhat arrogantly

‘Christ man can you not take a joke. A bit strung up ain’t you?’

‘How long is this going to take?’

‘As long as we feel like. Looks a good job for us with no one in charge so a good few cups of tea and breaks plus of course our ciggies, a good week I’d say. Wayne gave James another wink as as he did so he let his hand run down the shaft of his cock making sure that James saw the full length of his dick.

James realized that Wayne was a bloody  troublemaker just baiting so decided to go off to the office without any more to say.

‘You know mate you’d be better off as one of us workies. A fucking better life than stuck in an office.’

Sitting on the bus James kept thinking what Wayne had said about being a workie and the idea of being one working along side Jake and Wayne in full Hi Viz gear made his cock rigid under his briefcase. Christ I’d be so horny working with them I’d never get any work done he joked to himself.

When he got home the two blokes had left. During the night he could not take his mind of Wayne’s arse in those Hi Viz trousers and those tats and dirt and the shaved head. He kept waking up with a raging knob on but decided not to wank as he was waiting to see the two of them the next day.

He remembered waking up early because the doorbell rang. He went to open and on the doorstep was a bag, no one there. What the hell is this?

Might as well open he thought and as he unzipped he caught sight of bright orange HI Viz clothing.

Someone must have left this but I didn’t see yesterday evening.

As he put his hand in the bag he stroked the gear and felt his cock harden.

I’ve got to look at this. He took out everything and laid it out on the table. There were a pair of thick rigger boots well used and filthy with the leather on the toe caps worn so he could see the metal. A pair of yellow socks with holes in the toes. a pissed stained worn jockstrap, A pair of mucky Hi Viz trousers with a thick belt, a ripped T shirt stained with dirt and snot, a waistcoat and helmet.

They are all much too big for me he thought sadly but he leant over the table and started smelling everything. Christ the socks are stinking with a real cheesy feet smell. It’s as though they’ve never been washed. The T shirt smelt of BO and dirt and as for the jockstrap it really smelt of piss and fresh piss at that full of yellow stains. As he stroked the jockstrap there were hard sections which he could see were of dried cum. The smell of it all as he rubbed his hands over the clothing had him so worked up he thought he might cum, his cock was already oozing precum.

‘Just looking at all this is making me so horny I’ve got to try it on even if it is too big, I just want to feel all this dirt and piss against me.’

He picked up the jockstrap and started rubbing it over his face. He wanted to cover himself with the smell of stale piss. He rubbed it over his nose and over his eyes then started stuffing it into his mouth until he was almost gagging with the smell but the more he stuffed in the more the precum appeared on the tip of his cock. With the jockstrap now moist from his spit he put on the jockstrap knowing it was far too big. As he pulled it up his legs so he suddenly felt dizzy and different. His legs started growing not just in height but width, they were bloody chunky legs with big muscles and his soft downy leg hair changed, thick dark hair started sprouting all over his legs even across the top of his feet. He pressed his stiff cock into the jockstrap and the outline changed. What was just a normal erect dick strained so much as the cotton he thought is would burst. It was a monster tool and thick as his arm scarcely able to be contained. Black curly pubic hair suddenly was growing all around sideways, upwards like a bloody gorilla,. His waist had expanded and the elastic was straining around his waist. The colour of his skin had changed from pinky white to a dark tan which with so much hair he could hardly see.

James could not understand but he knew he had to continue getting into the gear. He next put on the socks, dirty stinkin and his toes were popping through the end he must be a size 12 at least what had happened to his size 8.He lifted the Hi viz trousers and thought they were much too big for him but as he dragged them up his leg they started to feel tight. He could hardly get them over his pouch so hard was his big cock. He pushed them over and they felt so tight across his arse but as he looked down so his stomach started to change and push out. Not just a little but one hell of a lot. He had a bloody great beer belly and the hair from his pubes was rapidly speading up over the top of his trousers. As he tied his belt so his belly spread out over. He lifted the T shirt and smelt the armpits. God they stank of sweat, and there was a rip down part of the front. As he put it over his head he felt his arms ache and his chest tense. Looking more carefully his arms had expanded to reveal hard muscle he knew he never had and not just muscle but Tattoos all the way down both arms and yet more thick black hair. Christ it looked so bloody macho. The hair moved over his shoulders and he could feel it moving down both back and front. He seems like a bloody gorilla His chest seemed to blow out, the belly more pronounced and a big pair of hairy tits. The rip in the T shirt meant that one of his tits was poking through showing a big juicy nipple with a thick steel ring. As he went to put on the Hiviz waistcoat his arm brushed his face. Where was all that smooth skin of his, instead he took his thick nicotined fingers over a big bushy beard and up to a shaved head.. Only one thing left, his helmet. It looked miles too big but as he brought it down it was the perfect size , he head had expanded so much.

However the biggest change was when the helmet was fully on. James suddenly felt a strong rush of blood running round his entire body. His brain felt fried. He put his hands up to his face and shouted not in his well spoken soft voice  but in a strongly accented deep tone.

‘I’m fucking Big Jim and where are those fucking skivers. Time someone fucking told them who’s Boss and its me. Time they make it up as I’m needing a fucking shag.’

With that he opened the door and Wayne and Jake were sitting with ciggie in hand  and no sign of any tools.

‘What the fuck do you two think your doing. I hate fucking skivers. Get the hell in here now.’

Wayne could not believe what he saw but both were so surprised they stood up speechless and went inside.

‘So you’s think that jus because I’m no with yos you can do whit you like. Well I’ll tell you I’m the one who gives the orders not fucking you. And its lucky for you that I’m feeling fucking horny so no docking of wages but time to keep me happy and shoot a load.’ Big Jim shouted and belched rubbing his hand down the length of his cock

‘That’s a fucking monster you’ve got there Jim and I can see its already rock hard the way its tenting.’

‘Too fucking right and see that arse of your’s boy well that’s where its going. And don’t tell me you don’t like big cock. ‘

‘No way Big Boy’

With that Big Jim grabbed Wayne from the back and yanked him back bringing his bushy bearded face against Wayne. I told you what I’m doing and you do nothing but agree. Right got that?

Jim sent a big gob of spit into Wayne’s face.

‘OK mate sure thing’

Still holding Wayne by the collar with one hand  Big Jim yanked open Waynes flies and pulled down his HI Viz . As he did so, Wayne’s erect cock sprang up.

‘No way you say? That stiff dick of yours is telling me something else. A good size boy and any dick as stiff as this wants a fuck. So bend over now.

And as for you Jake stop staring and rubbing your crotch. I can see that knob on from here, getting you going is it?

‘Sure bloody is Big Jim’

‘So fuckin unzip yourself and lets see what you’re made off.’

Jake stuck his hand into his Hi Viz and pulled out a long thin hard cock.

‘You can have a good wank when I say so but first your goin’ to suck yer mates dick and when I say suck I wanna see his tool all the way down your throat.

Right Wayne I said bend over .

As he pushed the lad down he took his other arm and slapped hard across his arse

‘Fuckin hell man that hurts’

‘I want to get your bum nice and hot for my cock, so quit the moaning and with that he struck again as the arse showed red.

‘Time to give you  a sackful of cum boy. He dropped a gob of spit onto his throbbing cock and worked it, then taking hold of each cheek he spread them apart to get a look at Wayne’s hole.

‘Big hole boy for someone like you. Don’t tell me you’ve not had a dick my size up that crack of yours’

 ‘Now inch that arse back so I can spear you and don’t worry I’ll take my time.’ Slowly he inched his cock into the hole his spit giving as much lube as necessary

‘That’s it boy you now start moving back onto my prick’

‘Fuck I feel I’m going to explode’

‘Oh stop the crap and take it like a man.. That’s it you’ve got the hang of it now. Keep moving your arse further and further in. You’re tight but fucking fantastic ‘Keep going you’re almost at the hilt.’

‘I fucking hope so cant take much more length.’

With one push Big Jim was fully in.

Right Jake just fuckin looking and rubbing your dick, its time for you to give some action and give our mate here some head. I can see you can’t wait to get his knob down your throat.

Jake bent down while Wayne pushed himself further and further into Big Jim’s pubes.

‘Christ I can feel you right up’

‘I fuckin well hope so’

Jake  started licking Wayne’s head dripping his spit and feeling it mix with Wayne’s precum.

‘Load of pre there man. You’d have to with a dick this size up you

Jake slowly let his mouth move up the shaft, making sure his saliva made the cock easy to get down his throat. He loved cock especially Wayne’s as the further down he got the thicker the cock was making him open his mouth fully. Once fully in he starting sliding his mouth up and down the shaft getting faster and faster

‘Fuck man, you always give the best head. Come on Jim get that prick of yours moving in and out. I wanna come with you spurting inside me.’

‘You asked for it boy and with that Jim started lunging in and out making sure his groin was right into Wayne’s arse, pounding him. He could hear the noise of the precum and spit getting louder and louder the more he fucked.

Jake had his hand wrapped around his dick wanking hard ready to swallow all Wayne’s juice

Jesus man I’m going to come, your big dick is making me so fucking horny I can’t wait any longer. Jake get ready to swallow, I’ve got bags of cum going down yer throat.’

Big Jim slowly took his cock back ready for the final push.

‘Ready boy I’m cumin all the way up you. So fucking much it’ll be coming out yer mouth.’

‘Fuck man I’m cumming

‘So am I, take it Jake, shit what a fiuck’

‘Yes  boi here is comes yea, Fucking hell.’

And with that Big Jim threw his head back and all went dark

James woke up. It had all been a dream but not only had Big Jim spunked but James’s dream was so real he had come all over his chest, spunk all the way to his neck.

‘God what a dream that was amazing. I’ll need to go and shower.’

And with that the doorbell went not just once but several times.

‘Christ I’ll have to answer that. He quickly put on his tracksuit and hoping no one would notice his dripping cock making a stain, he opened the front door.

Wayne was standing leaning against the door frame with mug in hand, his eyes glinting at James, dressed in full HiViz with a thick jacket and trousers.

‘So mate, I need some water for my tea. Thought I’d get some from you. You going to ask me in?’

‘I’m busy but if you just want some water come into the kitchen.. Where’s your mate?’

‘Buggered off so just me today, at least for the moment.’

‘Let me have your mug and I’ll fill up.’

‘Don’t think I’m wrong mate but you smell of spunk. Am I right? Looks as though there some left overs staining your trackies. Been wanking thinking of me, eh’

James was speechless

‘I saw you looking at me rubbing me crotch the first day and when I saw you looking out the window I bent down knowing you were getting off seeing my tight bum. Right eh? I fucking knew you were wanking at the window. So you get off on Hi Viz workies do you? I tell you we get hit on all the times by blokes who love the gear like you. So you wanna try some on, what about mine. Bet that would really turn you. You’d feel my body part of you eh?’

Wayne gave his cock an ru knowing full well James was staring at him, and all this talk was getting not just him but James also really horny

‘Well em, if you want.’

‘Right then get your trackies off and I can first see that bod of yours and all the spunk that’s drying off.’

James did as he was told took his trackies off

‘Shit man that’s a hell of a lot of spunk I can see. Good balls eh? And not a bad sized dick either which I can see is looking for some hot action. Got a wee surprise for you mate, hope you are ready. I knew I would have you today.’

Wayne undid his jacket and opened up to take off. Underneath James saw a white T shirt with the word SKIN in large red letters on the front and red braces. His tats showed strong all the way down his arms

Wayne let down his trousers and under he had a pair of bleachers and 19hole Doc Martins with yellow laces.

‘Eyes out on stalks boi? Like what you see. This is me when not a workie but I still luv being a fucking workie.’

Wayne stood there in front of James with his head fully shaved and glistening and all the tattoos showing down his muscled arms, he was the perfect skin.

‘So get the gear on.’ Wayne barked at James.

All James wanted was to put on the Hi Viz gear and he could smell Wayne  he hadn’t washed for several days but that made it all the better.  James just wanted to please Wayne

God it felt great and knowing it was Wayne’s made him start to feel so horny.

Wayne put his arm around James’s neck and pulled him in to him so their faces were touching.

‘Now open yer mouth.’

As James opened his mouth so Wayne kissed him and stuck his tongue down the throat releasing a huge gob of spit into James mouth.

‘Swallow that’ he barked.

As James let the gob slide down his throat so he suddenly had a burning sensation like an electric jolt through his body but it felt bloody great.

‘Feeling good boi eh?’

‘Yea feel different.’

‘Bloody right what’s yer name?’

‘J-boi’

‘Yeh and what are you?’

‘Your bitch’

And what does my bitch do

Lick your boots

‘So fucking get down and do it in my hi viz gear. You love my fuckin gear don’t you bitch’

J-boi did as told and knelt on the floor covering Wayne’s boots with spit and licking. Wayne put one booted foot on J-boi’s head and pressed it down.

‘I said fucking lick, so get on with it. You love it boy licking my boots and being my bitch.’

J-boi licked as though his life depended on it and the more he licked he more his cock hardened making him feel so horny. He loved his cock rubbing against Wayne’s trousers making him feel part of Wayne, a skin workie.

‘Now work your way up my bleachers’

Slowly still tonguing J-boi made his way up until he came to the hard long outline of Waynes cock. Shit what a cock. His full length was straining down his bleacher leg wanting to be released but not before he made J-boi work for it.

‘Now get your mouth round my head and feel the length. Good aint it, it’s what you want you fuckin little bitch.

J-boi said nothing,  he was too busy loving feeling the cock through the bleachers. He sat back looking up at Wayne like a pup.

‘You want my dick down that throat of yours don’t you boi’

‘Fucking right I do Master. You do with me what you want.’

With difficulty Wayne pulled down his zip and forced outhis thick juicy dick. It bounced up in boi’s face.

‘Look mate you’ve got be fucking hard, that what bitches do. So open that fucking mouth wide and take what’s coming to you’ as he smeared his pre cum cock against J-boi’s face

Wayne grabbed boi by the hair.

‘Once you’ve had my spunk I’m getting rid of all that  fuckin hair of yours. I wan my bitch a true skinhead. As you’r goin to be a fucking dirty workie you’ve gotta look a real man

He rammed hic dick into Boi’s mouth. At first he gagged with the size and ferocity that Wayne rammed it in but he wanted every inch Wayne could give him and let his mouth and throat take the full length. He felt the pubes rubbing against his face.

‘Jesus you love my sweaty dick. I haven’t washed for a couple of days knowing I was coming here. Nice a cheesy with some hardened cum on it. Thinking of you in my Hi Viz gear sucking me off had me wanking big time but better knowing that now you’re no longer a fucking pansy but one of us Skins. A bit of work but I’ll have you tattooed, hair shaved and smoking packets of ciggies in no time

His hands still grabbing Boi, he pulled him in and out, Boi’s spit dripping down his face

‘Christ you know how to give head boi. I picked the right one to be my bitch. I’m going cum and you’re gonna take all. There’s a sackful going down.

Boi in Wayne’s Hi Viz could only think of all that cum and sucked quicker and quicker.

‘Christ I’m coming ,take it all boy’ and he exploded into Boi’s mouth. Too much for him to swallow and it oozed down his chin and on to the Hi Viz jacket. ‘Christ what a fucking blow job. Jesus boi you’re the best.’

He hauled Boi up and stuffed his mouth down bois throat licking his own cum and feeling Boi’s spit.

Master, my cocks so fucking hard in your gear, I need to cum.’

‘Ok Boi but rub yerself off in my gear, I want all that cum to run down and harden inside. Let me see you wank now Boi.

Boi had his hand around his dick rubbing up an down on the trousersfeeling Wayn’s hardened cum inside and knowing he was going to cum and mix it with Wayne’s

That’s it Boi, shoot yer fucking load inside.

Christ, I’m cumming, shit I’ve still a fucking great load in me balls Yeeees fuck man , shitttt! And Boi gushed a wad of cum inside Wayne’s Hi viz and Boi could feel it running all the way down his leg, loads of good white cum.

He sat back exhausted still oozing Wayne’s cum from his mouth

Zipping himself up Wayne said

‘Right Boi its time you got your hands dirty and came out to do an afternoon’s work in your Hi Viz. I’ll watch you with me mug of tea. Then it’s off to the barbers for you and a full razor job. I want that head of yours gleaming. After that the Tat shop to get your fist tattoo and I’ll choose what it is. Like the idea of a swastika on yer neck. Have you looking like a real skin. We’ll pick up a few can of beers with your money and then home to get you into some good skin gear of mine before we hit the pubs. Seeing you get into my skin gear will make me so fucking horny that you can expect a right good fucking before we go out. It what you wanna be mate, a fucking Hi Viz Skin. My bitch. If yer lucky I may share you around with some of the blokes

‘Sounds fucking great, master’

‘That’s my J-boi’

To be continued?

[heartbreak-sandwich]

Good Cop/Bad Cop - Gator Tillman x Fem!Reader 🐊

Gator loves playing good cop/bad cop – but he plays both parts, and it’s deliciously unpredictable. When you asked him if his handcuffs fit everyone, he answered the question with a demonstration followed by his favorite game. Words: ~900 CW: SMUT - gator tillman x fem!reader, slightly mean!Gator, light bondage, hints of oral (f receiving), light spanking, unprotected p/v sex, basically porn without plot, honestly.

NSFW UNDER THE CUT! ❤️‍🔥 Master List

The chain of the handcuffs jingled sharply against the metal frame of the headboard as you tried to relax your arms, but it was no use. You let your gaze drift down in between your thighs, spread open by a pair of large hands, long fingers digging into your flesh as they pushed your legs even further apart.

His once gelled back hair was falling into his eyes after having worn your thighs as earmuffs for the past half hour, and he had just finished you off for the second time. He placed one harsh bite on your left inner thigh, then one to the right, your oversensitivity causing you to gasp. He smirked up at you, his chocolate eyes dark with mischief, before pushing himself up onto his knees and cleaning your slick off of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You’ve been so good for me, Princess. But you’re still movin’ too much.” His voice fell flat at the end of his sentence. He was scolding you for making too much noise with the handcuffs, but you couldn’t help it – and he knew it.

“Please, Gator,” you whined. “You know I can’t do anything about the noise –”

Before you could finish your excuse, he leaned forward, pressing a finger to your lips and shushing you gently.

“None of that now,” he crooned, the menacing glint in his eye matching his devilish smirk. He stood from the bed, fussing with his belt before quickly removing his camo trousers and tossing them aside along with his briefs.

Your mouth watered at the site of his already hard cock as he approached the side of the bed. Instinctively, you tried to move your hands to touch him, the rattling of metal on metal resounding throughout the room once more, and he scowled.

“What is it you don’t understand about keep fuckin’ still?” Gator spat in his hand and began to slowly fist his cock, careful to swirl his palm around the head in between pulls, and all you could do was watch.

“I said I was gonna fuck you dumb, but I might not even need to,” he chided, picking up his pace with his hand, his shaky breath turning into low, gravelly moans as he toyed with you.

“Feels so good,” he gushed. “Bet you wish you could touch it – feel it sink into you nice and slow, pretty little pussy tightening up like a vice.”

He used his free hand to slide two fingers up and down through your glistening slit, stopping just before your clit every time, knowing it would drive you over the edge, all while still using his hand to fuck himself, the wet sounds starting to drown out your own heavy breathing.

“Gator, please!” You were finally begging him, and your eyes stung with tears of frustration.

“Oh, now you’re runnin’ your mouth, too?” Both of his hands ceased their busywork, and he finally climbed back onto the bed, nestling himself back between your thighs before pushing them up and back, your knees almost touching the bed underneath you.

“Please,” you begged once more, softer now, as his dark eyes drilled into yours, his pupils completely blown out with hunger for you. He leaned down close to your face so your noses were almost touching, and you could smell the hint of fruit mixed with your own arousal, the sweet and sour mixture making you salivate all over again.

“So polite,” he whispered through a mean looking smirk.

You yelped as he pushed himself all the way inside of you in one fluid motion, and the delicious stretch of being suddenly full of him had you seeing stars already.

He fumbled with a bandana hanging over one of his bedposts, and quickly stuffed it into your mouth before gripping your chin roughly in one hand, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“One more fuckin’ sound out of you, and I’m pullin’ out and leavin’ you here like this. Got it?”

You searched his eyes for any hint of playfulness, but you could tell he was completely serious.

“I don’t got all day now. When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. Y'hear me?”

Your eyes widened, and you nodded hastily, biting down on the bandana and taking extra care not to rattle your cuffs again.

“You’re bein’ so good for me, you know that?” Gator leaned into the crook of your neck, sucking another sweet bruise on the trail of the ones that had started to fade, and he slowly pushed himself into you just a little bit deeper until you couldn't take any more of him.

He started at a brutally slow pace, taking care to roll his hips at the end of each thrust all the way to the hilt so the tip of his length hit just the right spot inside of you while small whimpers just barely escaped around the sides of the already damp bandana in your mouth.

“So fuckin’ wet for me,” he growled against your ear, finally starting to pick up his pace as your eyes rolled back and your shoulders relaxed, your cuffs clanging against the headboard once more.

You expected Gator to stop, but he didn’t. Instead, he pushed one of your knees to your chest and hooked your leg over his shoulder before landing a hard smack on your asscheek and pounding into you harder and faster.

You felt the fire growing in your core, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before he had you reeling for a third time that day, and there was nothing you could do or say to stop it.

Thank you sm for reading! This was inspired by my loveliest Gator anon, and I couldn't keep the thots to myself ❤️‍🔥🐊 dividers by @cafekitsune

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Bonded Pair. - OCxGhost Backstory.

|| [Part Two ->] ||

pairing: COD OC!Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x Simon "Ghost" Riley bonus: Moot!OC (Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley) x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish words: 2K~ cw: injury (nothing major or too explicit)

May 2020

“How long until the American comes?” Soap asks to Ghost’s right as the lieutenant is halfway through assembling their camp/nest for the foreseeable future.

“Laswell said he’d come before sundown.” Ghost muttered. 

“What do you think he’s going to be like?” Soap asked.

“I think you should start heading to your spot and setting up camp, instead of yapping. It’s gonna get dark soon. You don’t want to spend the night lying on a pile of sticks, do you?”

“Jeez, L.T., calm down.” The Scot quipped with a chuckle. “I have plenty of time!”

“You really don’t. Sun’s setting soon.” A voice called out from behind them, causing them both to turn sharply, already pawing at their guns. The southern american accent was the only reason they didn’t draw them or shoot at the source.

Whiskey stepped out from behind the treeline, setting her hands on her hips after slinging her rifle onto her shoulder. She was on the tall side for a woman, standing at 5ft8, and had broad shoulders and strong arms.  Her dark brown hair was tied back into the usual military-standard low bun, though a few loose strands of damp hair were glued to her forehead, and the lower half of her face was concealed by an Army green neck gaiter that was pulled up to her nose. 

Ghost wasn’t particularly keen on working with her. But at least she looked more capable than some of what he’d seen come from the US.

She wore the standard combat uniform he had grown used to seeing on the Americans: camouflage cargos trousers, jacket, and Kevlar with the American flag. To keep her warm from the unforgivingly rainy and cold weather, she wore a brown fleece jacket under her camo, which was zipped up all the way, covering her neck and the bottom of her gaiter. She had on tan fingerless gloves, tan combat boots, and a camo backpack over her shoulders, from which hung her helmet. 

“You’re the Navy SEAL?” Ghost asked in greeting as he approached her.

“That’d be me.” Whiskey replied evenly as she reached forward to shake hands with Ghost. 

“I’m Ghost, this is Soap.” He explained as they shook hands, eyes locked into a strong, unyielding eye contact. 

“Whiskey.” She replied as she let go of his hand and turned to shake Soap’s. Only for her eyebrows to knit together and then set dangerously low, darkening her hazel-brown eyes. “You.” She said as she pulled her hand back before he could shake it.

“Me?” Soap asked, his own eyebrows rising up to his hairline.

“You’re screwing my best friend!” Whiskey said bluntly as she pointed at him.

“Am no! I have a girlfriend!” Soap said while shaking his head, entirely convinced of 

“Yeah, my best friend!” Whiskey replied with a nod.

“No? My girlfriend’s name is Meabh and her best friend is Victoria.”

“Right. Victoria, who’s American and part of the SEALs?” 

“Oh shit!” Soap said in surprise as he looked at her. “You’re her?”

“Yeah I am. And you’re the piece of crap that-” Whiskey stopped herself, biting her tongue and pointing a finger at him.

“Woah, you’re nothing like Meabh said you would be.” Soap said with a dropped jaw. “What’s with the aggression? I dinnae do nothing to ye-”

“You did enough.” Whiskey hissed at him through gritted teeth, her hand shaking as she wagged her finger in his face. She seemed so pissed off at Soap, Ghost couldn’t help but wonder what the sergeant did.

Ghost was watching the whole scene go down, the entire situation sending some alarm bells ringing in his head, not because of the animosity… But because Whiskey was loud and feisty. And he already had Soap to deal with, and now there was another one?

He didn’t even want to imagine what comms would look like between them, how they’d talk his ear off.

Whiskey turned away with a huff, shaking her head. “I’m gonna go set up shop. I suggest you do the same.” She told the lads.

“Wait!” Soap said as he stepped forward toward her. “What’d I do? Why do you hate me so much?”

Whiskey looked back over her shoulder, eyes locking onto Soap’s. Then, she looked up at Ghost and, for a moment, Simon swore he was seeing right into her soul and her right into his. Whatever reason she was pissed at Soap, it was bad, and he could tell.

“Just get to work and don’t piss me off. Gonna have to deal with you for three weeks…” Whiskey grumbled about Soap as she turned and walked off, heading downrange to her own overwatch coordinates.

Soap exchanged a glance with Ghost as she walked off, before softly murmuring. “What was that about?”

Ghost shook his head. “Fuck if I know. Just do as she said and get to your campsite.”

“Yeah…” Soap trailed off and waved a goodbye at Ghost before he headed out to his camp, following after Whiskey’s trail.

-

Night 1: 2000 hours

“I was thinking we take turns sleeping. 24 hours in a day, we could trade and do 4 hour straight of sleep.” Ghost suggested over the radio as he snacked on a protein bar.

“Copy that, L.T.” Soap replied, his voice chewed up, a clear sign that he was also eating.

“Sounds good to me.” Whiskey replied from her camp, her voice clipped and curt, even through the radio. “You can take first shift, Ghost.”

“I’d rather take last.” Ghost replied.

“Alright. Soap. Take first shift.” She demanded.

“Nae? I wanna stay up and speak to you about something.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Victoria, c’mon, I don’t even know what I did.”

“It’s ‘Whiskey’, Soap. I still outrank you and we’re still at work. Haven’t given you permission to call me by my name.” Her voice was so blunt and strong, Ghost found himself almost impressed.

“I’m sorry.” Soap ended up saying with a sigh. 

“Save your sorries. Go to sleep.” She demanded. 

“Aye, ma’am.”

It took a good half an hour or so, but soon, Johnny’s PTT was turned off, so, Ghost spoke up.

“Switch to 3, Whiskey.”

“Copy that.”

After switching frequencies, he finally spoke. “What’d he do?”

“Something he shouldn’t.”

“Cheated on your friend?”

“No. He’s stupidly devoted to her. At least from what she says.”

“Sounds about right. He talks about her a lot. Tires me.”

“Bet it does.”

“Then what?”

“Can’t talk about it.”

“Hm…” Ghost murmured. “Okay.”

-

Ghost was supposed to be sleeping. He really was. But with a new team member alongside them, he knew he wouldn’t be able to. 

Besides, he wouldn’t risk missing the shitshow of the other two bickering.

“So, how long have you and Meabh known each other?” 

“Longer than she’s known you.”

-

“How’d you meet?”

“On a ship.”

“Her ship?”

“No.”

-

“So how is it, being a Navy SEAL?”

“Fine.”

-

“So, how old are you?”

“Old enough.”

-

“Where are you from?”

“America.”

“Yeah, but which state? You’re obviously from the south.”

“None of your business.”

-

“You and Meabh ever work together?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Classified.”

-

At one point, Ghost couldn’t help but start to smirk at the way the conversation was going. All throughout Days 1, 2 and 3 of their watch mission, she answered Johnny’s incessant questions with nothing but nonchalant dryness.

He could almost guess what answer she’d give and what tone she’d use whenever Johnny asked another question. 

While she had been sleeping, the Scot had confessed he had wracked his brain thinking of reasons why she didn’t like him and had come up short… And that he wanted to make friends with her, for his bird’s sake.

But he wasn't succeeding. She was cold and stubborn and curt with her answers, not giving him more than a few words at a time.

Even as the questions got more probe-y and personal… She gave him nothing. In a way, Ghost saw himself in her answers.

“What do you and Meabh usually do when you’re together?”

“Hang out.”

“Yeah, but what do you do? Go out for drinks? Go on holiday?”

“We hang out.”

-

“So what does Meabh tell you about me?”

“The usual.”

“Elaborate?”

“No.”

-

“How come Meabh has never shown me a picture of you?”

“I don't do pictures.”

-

“Why the mask?”

“To hide my face.”

-

It’s as the sun sets on Day 4 that she finally gets tired of playing nice:

“You know, Meabh described you as really cheerful and funny… But I don't see it.”

“Meabh sees the best in people. Don’t take it personal. She lies about you a lot too.”

“I’m not that bad, you know? I don’t know what your problem is with me but… I’m just trying to befriend ye.” Ghost can pick up on Soap’s annoyance in his tone of voice.

“I wish you wouldn’t.” Whiskey replied.

There’s a long, long moment of silence before Johnny tries again.

“How often do you and Meabh talk?”

“Often enough.”

“I miss her a lot when I’m on missions… Can’t talk to her steadily…” Soap admits, this time a lot more sincere. “Do you miss her too?

“No.” She replies. 

“No? Do you not like her the same as she does you?’

“I do.” Whiskey tells him. “But I’ve got ways of communicating with her.” She announces. 

“How’s that? Sending a letter and waiting weeks for a reply? I’m not satisfied with just that. Need to hear her voice… and she doesn’t have signal out there in the ocean…”

There’s a sound from the radio, which Ghost can swear is a snort from Whiskey laughing. Then, she speaks again.

“Can you see my camp from where you are?”

“Yeah?”

“Alright well, take a look at this.” 

Out of curiosity, Ghost decides to turn his binoculars toward Whiskey’s nest too, and adjust the focus until she comes into view.

“It’s a real shame that you can’t talk with your girlfriend.” Whiskey said while waving a black radiotelephone in the air for them to see. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Ghost smirks at the sound of her sarcasm, shaking his head, already anticipating the dramatics that Soap would engage in.

“Wait, you’ve got a phone to talk to Meabh WITH?!” Soap’s voice is so loud and high-pitched one would think he just suffered the greatest betrayal.

“Oh yeah, I’ve been speaking pretty consistently with her the past 4 days.”

“No?!”

“Oh yes.”

“That’s it! I’m going down there, I want to talk to Meabh!”

“No you’re not, don’t you desert your post!”

“I’m not deserting! I’m going to you!”

Ghost has to turn off his PTT so he can laugh without them noticing. Soap had been talking about Meabh for forever, talking the ear off anyone who’d listen, raving about the girl and how much he loves her. At this point Simon feels he himself is dating her with how much he knows about her… 

And now, here was her best friend, showing him just how much higher she ‘ranks’ in the girl’s consideration.

Turning his binoculars toward Soap’s nest, he watched the younger sergeant slip out and, under the shadows of the rapidly approaching night, rush out behind the treeline, dashing toward Whiskey’s nest about 2 kilometers out.

“He’s really going over.” Ghost murmured into the PTT.

“I know he is. Meabh is laughing over it.”

“YOU’RE TALKING WITH HER RIGHT NOW?!” Soap shrieked into his own PTT. “Tell her to hold on!!! I want to hear her voice!!!!”

Ridiculous, Ghost thought as he heard Soap’s desperation. How ridiculous it was to be so obsessed with a woman. Girlfriend or not.

By the time he reached Whiskey’s station, after a few minutes, Ghost got to watch a flurry of limbs happening.

And, after a moment, Whiskey came back onto the PTT. “Ghost contact Laswell, Soap needs to be sent on medical.”

“What happened?”

“He tried to get the radiophone off me, so I broke a couple of his fingers… And his wrist. And kicked him in the balls.”

Ghost pressed his lips together to stifle a smile. He shouldn’t be as amused as he is… But God, is the situation hilarious.

“Rog.”

[mrhaitch]

Random fashion questions Mr Haitch! Do you normally care much about this aspect or Mrs Haitch will do it for you? Or like have you two ever had opposite taste in clothing?

This has changed a lot in recent years, probably in the past two.

I never dressed well, or appropriately. When Haitch and I first got together I went everywhere in camo cargo trousers and oversized band t-shirts - rush or opeth being the ones I remember. At university I had some better days (open short, t-shirt, jeans) but mostly bad.

Then I had a flannel shirt phase which lasted for years, probably most of 20s, and I discovered a deep love for a good pair of boots. In my late 20s I bought my first overcoat, discovered cable knit jumpers, and things started improving. Nowadays I'm largely jeans and t-shirt, sometimes a shirt, or a jumper - but everything fits well.

Haitch was instrumental in encouraging me to rethink how I dressed, bringing me closer over time to something that looks like me - the kind of clothes I wanted to wear but didn't have the confidence. I usually talk to her if I have an idea of something new I want to try.

There was surprisingly little resistance when I started wearing suspenders as a core part of my work attire.