Captain John Price Cock Hypothesis

Ex husband!Ghost that just shows back up in your house (no matter how many times you've moved without saying a word) anytime he's on leave.

"what the fuck are you doing here?" (18+)

he's standing outside your new flat. he's still wearing his gear and that god-awful mask that you hate so much. if his eyes could change color, they would be red—they're dark with something foul, something that is your fault, but you have no obligation to this man anymore.

that doesn't seem to register with him.

this is the fourth new flat you've moved into within the last year. you keep signing very short leases, picking up and leaving again, but he finds you—every time. he must have sewn a tracker into one of your things; maybe a beloved purse of yours or inside some valued heirloom that he knows you'd never part with. he's such a sick bastard, you don't know what you ever saw in him, you don't know what ever made you feel like you could stand in front of him and God and make factitious vows about a future that never would be.

he's disgusting. he smells like the desert, and his boots are caked with mud. his clothes smell like they've been worn for days, coated with dried sweat and grime, and he reeks like the cigarettes you see peeking out from his jacket pocket. he walks into your flat anyways, not bothering to take anything off, and he sits himself down on your couch and spreads his legs like he's been here before, numerous times, like this is where he lives.

you threw away all his things. you burned the papers that remained. you tossed the rest of his shit that didn't fit in trash bags out the window of the last place you lived, so why the fuck is he in your flat, and why does he seem so fine with it?

"get your dirty ass off my couch, and get out."

ghost is like a fixture there. he picks his head up from where it was laying against the cushions, and he glares at you as he lays his palms against his thighs. he clicks his tongue, sucking on his teeth, and he just stares at you.

the audacity.

but you can't help it. when he thinks you're not looking, he looks at that photo in his wallet—the one with people who aren't here anymore, the worn, scratchy picture that's fading with age and use, and you get that pit in your stomach all over again, the same one you got when you served him the papers for the first time.

ghost is all alone.

he's all alone.

that's why he's at your table. eating your food. that's why he's in your bathroom, having a hot shower, that's why his clothes are in your washing machine (the only ones he owns anymore), and that's why he's laying in your bed, on his side, masked face against a silk pillow as he pumps his cock lazily.

he has no shame. he groans audibly, he says your name, and he hums with delight when you shriek with anger at his cum on your fresh cotton sheets.

but he's all alone.

it feels like way when you hike your sleep shirt up and sit down on him. it feels that way when he pushes you to sit up on his lap, chin against his chest so he can watch your hips shift and your tits bounce as you hold it up with your teeth and whine. it feels like he's lonely when he thumbs at your clit and comes too fast, making a mess between your thighs as his thick cum coats his unkempt hair.

when you try to pull off, he digs his thick fingers into your ass and holds you there.

he's lonely. so he's not done yet.

it's a nasty sight. ghost keeps you there, fixed on his cock, and even when you whimper from overstimulation, he holds you down and tugs at your pebbled nipples as he mumbles about how warm it is here. ghost can't waste another minute, especially not with his name attached to you anymore—he needs to make every orgasm count, so he doesn't have time to hear you whine, he needs to keep you there, and he needs to keep you fat and pleasured and sticky.

he likes missionary the most. he likes feeling your thighs tense up around his hips, and he likes being able to pin you down and keep you underneath him. but most of all, he likes pressing against your tummy, and he likes closing his eyes and grunting, feeling the tip of his cock just underneath his palm. it gives him a sick sense of satisfaction knowing he's so deep inside of you, branding you like he knows only he can. there's a shape inside of your cunt that he fills better than anyone else, and your wobbly legs and curled toes and open-mouth moans only encourage his disgusting sense of ownership.

you can sign whatever fucking papers you want to sign, he's carved his name in your pussy, and that's for life.

Gaz who frequents your flower shop

I think he’s a big believer in getting ephemeral gifts. Things that are so so good that have a short window of time to enjoy. Fresh fruit, freshly baked breads, flower bouquets.

So he’s at your place for almost every occasion. Promotions at work, birthdays, holidays— even if it’s just a single rose, fresh flowers always brighten things up, don’t they? He thinks it’s a tradition that needs to make more of a comeback.

Anyways, one Valentine’s Day, one of your busiest days (full of rush orders from rude people whose romantic relationships apparently hang in the balance, and probably for good reason), you see Kyle coming in around closing. For anyone else, you’d say you’re afraid you’re closing up for the day, but for him? You can stay open a little while longer and do a quick arrangement.

Only he’s already got flowers in his hands. Beautiful ones. You recognize the work and the signature filler— it’s from an extremely nice shop. Not a competitor— because it must be at least a 3 hour drive from yours.

The bouquet is dwarfing the little teddy bear that’s got its arms wrapped around it, backdropped by the satin ribbon on what looks like a beautiful chocolate assortment. You smile, a little puzzled.

“I’d ask for your order, but it looks like you’re already kitted out for the holiday, hm?”

He almost looks a little nervous.

“Well, I— these are for you, love. I figure you spend the whole year making romance come alive for everyone else, I wondered if someone thought to get you a little something…. Then again, maybe you have a boyfriend and I look like a right prick right now,” he says with a little smirk, realizing he kind of just assumed you’d like the gesture. “Or maybe you’re a bit tired of flowers, hm?”

You take them gratefully from his arms into yours, the sound of the cellophane and tissue gently crinkling. “I… I don’t remember the last time someone got me flowers.” You look closer at the arrangement. Smell them. Bleeding hearts— an appropriate choice, but not very popular in the arrangement world. “Would you… would you want to come back to mine? Help me pick a vase to put these in. In my line of work, you tend to accumulate them, and it becomes so hard to choose. I can make coffee,” you offer hopefully. He sighs in what can only be described as elation and relief.

“I was hoping you’d say something like that.”

18+!

you love kissing kyle’s face all over, particularly special when he has you on his lap — just having came back from deployment — within the bathtub, the waves of the water slowly dancing around while you lazily ride his cock, hands cupping his face lovingly, watching the way his eyes flutter shut.

he’s so exhausted, it’s clear as day on his face — from the way his brows had that subtle furrow onto them to the way his arms were tightly wrapped around your waist, squeezing as if you’d disappear any second.

some of the foam from the soap was still present on his shoulders and your arms, your lips gently pressing against the beauty marks that adorned his face. it was like a worship of some sort, your lips soon reaching the faded cut on the side of his face. it had gotten old, though the slightly scarred skin was present. you decided to kiss it over and over, not wanting to let go until he’d get tired of you.

heck, you’d even kiss each and every freckle of his if it was possible in the moment. maybe some other day, when your attention would be compliant enough, you’d count all of his freckles and caress each of them, pour all your love onto them.

“you feel so good… don’t feel as if i deserve you.” his voice was weak, a rarity that only you had the privilege of hearing amongst the other three of his team that he was close to. you’d ask the details of the mission he had just came back from later, this was more important right now, getting him to relax.

“you do. you deserve everything.” your hips didn’t cease their movements, taking your time to ride his cock while it was nestled cozily within your warmth, your hands not letting go of his face, relishing in the way he groaned once your walls squeezed around him.

“do y’know how much i love you, dove?”

“how much?” you smiled at the way his eyes drifted down to your mouth as his face leaned closer, capturing your lips with his.

“more than anythin’ in this fuckin’ world.” his voice was muffled against your lips, hands slowly traveling down to grab your hips, cock gently thrusting up into you. the warm water provided comfort to both of you, a pleasant aroma roaming in the air. putting the scented candles beside the bathtub was definitely a good idea.

Gaz is drowning with bitches, and Johnny is envious of it coz he can't pull.

So when you came out of Gaz's quarters crying, Johnny grinned as he preened before approaching you.

Because stealing Gaz's favorite bird is a hell of a way to one up the casanova.

his teeth snap, jaw grinding and nostrils flaring. tipping over that sweet heavenly bliss, had his veins coiling and nervous system running hot. he was almost angry, fingers curling into fists, and he’s sure there’s blood pooling beneath his fingernails.

“s-stop, no… n-no.” his syllables crush in a soft whimper, voice stiffening into a cutesy high pitched gasp. he can feel the tears build on his lower lash line as your hands slips up the hot length of his cock.

it feels so painfully euphoric, a winding knot that he knows you won’t let snap. he’s begging, gasping, body shivering up with every passing second. and you watch his hips, twitch, a heavy groan slipping past his lips.

and though you pull your hand off him, simon focuses, feeling his balls go taut, unaware to the stumbling, spasming of his thick thighs. and his cock jumps, pretty ropes of pearly sweet cum roping from his cock, just to land and pool right beneath his belly button.

you don’t even let him finish before you’re slapping at his cock, so so disappointed in your luvie. “i told you on my word, si.” you scowl, tightening your fists around his sensitive cock.

and he gasps, throat pulling up a broken sound that hiccups out. his legs jump, back bowing up when you pick up a quick angry rhythm. he can’t breathe, the only sound filling the room is his agonizing cries, his pathetic pleading.

“shut the fuck up,” you snap, pinching the tip of his cock between your fingers just to have him in hysterics. “this is what happens when you don’t wanna listen to me, you deserve it, ‘member that, baby?”

Thinking about being a little too good at getting Johnny off. The way he grits his teeth as he thrusts into your fist, whining and begging: “Not yet—fuck—please not yet.” Brain begging for one thing, body begging for another. Hmmm

Price is literally so gross. silver fox seeking a pretty young thing after a divorce to the MAX. his ex wife comes over to drop off their son but you open the door instead, cotton-plated in one of his shirts and hair damp from your recent shower. Price takes over and you can hear his wife’s voice from the foyer—“how old is she? she barely looks an undergraduate, John” and he acts sheepish but Lord knows he doesn’t care. Ou.

Bravo 6-1

Some biker Ghost for nat and pirate ghoap for Tree! Thanks so much 🏍️☠️

(+ period ghoap for me...)

Soap who’s so fucking nasty

Soap who does every single thing that your other boyfriends refused to do.

He kisses you after you suck him off. Eats his own cum out of you. Pins you down to get a taste of you when you’ve just come home after a long day— doesn’t let you shower. Likes you unshaven. Doesn’t want you wearing deodorant or perfume on his birthday.

He likes to fuck you when you’re sick because fevers just make your cunt even hotter than usual. And he’ll still shove his tongue down your throat— he doesn’t give a damn if he gets sick.

When you wake up he’ll start making out with you, smearing his cheek against the drool you left on the pillow.

He tells you he can practically smell your sweet, wet cunt. Then when he gets you undressed, he just buries his head between your legs and breathes deep.

Every time you go hiking he wants a pussyjob from you. He wants to leave a sticky mess for you to feel in your panties on the way back down. The leggings you wear just drive him crazy like that.

He likes for you to get each other off while you’re still clothed and then swap underwear.