Blueperry:)

I’m me.. idk you can call me anything. I’m 18! I’ve decided imma post freaky shit so if you're a minor just be careful ig, not a lot of freak but it'll be there.

Master list is actually in the works I have lot of post apparently and fat thumbs 😭.

It’s biology, we are humans, shouldn’t my brain know the answers????

I do chem and physics as my other options, biology is meant to be the easier one.

I never drink energy drinks, I think my capillaries are bursting in my head?? Like my eyes and body are tired but my brain isn’t now…

Also apparently I’m “loud” 😧😧😧 from not knowing how to, to this… I’m a little embarrassed. Find yourself a dude who encourages it ig.

your teammates tease you for being so specific about colors. you make art as a hobby so you have to know these things and it’s not just you being pretentious. god forbid you ever say “blood orange” or “cerulean” around them.

it’s all in good fun tho.

"It's Cerulean, Sergeant."

The argument started, as most arguments in the 141 did, because Soap opened his mouth.

"It's blue," he said, looking over your shoulder at the canvas. "Just blue."

"It's not just blue."

"It's very blue."

"It's cerulean." You didn't look up from the brush. "Cerulean is a specific blue. It has more green in it than cobalt, more grey than sky blue, it's the colour of -"

"Of blue," Soap interuptted.

"Of the Mediterranean in the morning when the light hasn't fully -"

"Blue."

You put the brush down with the careful energy of someone choosing not to punch him, "stop interrupting me"

This had been happening for three weeks. Ever since the team had discovered your sketchbooks during a particularly boring stretch of downtime in some forgettable safehouse, they'd appointed themselves critics of both your art and your vocabulary. Ghost had looked at your supply list, the one that included "burnt sienna," "raw umber," and "yellow ochre" and passed it silently to Gaz, who had read it with the expression of a man encountering a new form of warfare.

"What's wrong with brown," Ghost had said.

"There's no such thing as just brown," you'd explained, "there's brown that leans red and brown that leans gold and brown that's almost green in certain light and they're not interchangeable!"

"Brown," Ghost said.

You'd given up that day. You were not giving up today.

"Cerulean," you repeated. "Say it."

"Blue," Soap said cheerfully.

"Cerulean!"

"What's all this then." Price appeared in the doorway with a mug and the expression of a man who had, had enough of the petty arguments that arose in the 141.

"She's doing the color thing again," Soap said.

"I'm doing the correct thing," you said. "Tell him, Captain. Tell him cerulean is not the same as blue."

Price looked at the canvas. Looked at the paint. Looked at you with the expression he used when he was deciding whether to engage.

"It's blue," he said.

You picked up the brush again and turned back to the canvas with great dignity.

"Get out of my workspace."

"It's the kitchen table," Soap said.

Then being a proper tease when he took you clothes shopping! Bikinis in March, the audacity! Sure.. you didn't need him to help you with the clothes but having him in the changing room definitely helped, you did make sure to wear the pink underwear he chose the last time you went shopping...

Oh! and at dinner too, sure you were flirting with the server the whole time, making sure to be just a touch too friendly with the poor guy. He was probably melting under Gaz's death stare which you tried to de-escalate by turning your attention to Gaz! How else can you bother a man already at his wits end?

By playing footsie with him! you made sure he was well aware of... you, as you kicked this foot lightly, the cold leather of your heels made you foot incredibly hard to ignore especially as you went higher and higher.

To end the night off you decided to go home and watch a movie; classic, just what you both needed.

That was until you both got in the car, you just couldn't seem to stop, stop the complaining or the toying, or the grinding..

"you think I don't see you squeezing your thighs together?" he was looking at you through the corner of his eyes, still focused on the road.

"What?! I'm just - just uncomfortable in this shitty car kyle" but it was too late you'd been caught in the act, the blush spread across your face was more than enough proof.

"So if I put my hand under your skirt, I won't feel your drenched panties, hmm? I've known you long enough to know you love being put in your place. That's why you've been so... sassy today. Isn't that right?"

"What?! No, you just haven't been able to do anything right. And who says I'm even wearing underwear, huh? I took it off for the hot server from earlier, he probably using it to jerk off(EW what else does one say..) right now."

GUYS YOU DONT UNDERSTAND I CANNOT BRING MYSELF TO WRITE AFTER THIS POINT AHHHH, I NEVER EVEN SEEN A PENIS IRL HOW AM I MEANT TO ACCURATELY DESCRIBE A MAN??????clearly need to goon so i can be inspired. ive been very ill so havent been partaking in selfcare...

“Come on, just once! Please John, if you call me mommy even once I’ll be over the moon.” You had been bothering Price for a while now, poking at him, using that same sing song voice you know irritated him, just being a total distraction.

He had enough, before you even noticed him move he was behind you. Standing too close; you could feel the warmth of his breath on your nape, smell that woody aftershave he always wore. It was all too much.

Bringing his hand up to your hips, he kissed the back of your neck, the sensation of his beard making heat pool in your stomach. “You want to be a mummy that bad? Want me to fuck a baby into you hmm?” He asked squeezing the meat at your hips.

“You’d be perfect for it, all round and plump. Walking around full of me. Everyone would know who owns this cunt” Price said as his hand made its way down to your cunt, groping it.

You has started panting, the feeling of him being too much, all of it was too much, the warmth of his hands on your cunt, even through your clothes, him pressing into your back, straining against his pants.

Resting your head back against him, you let out a needy whine. “Please, I need it”

“Need what? Come on, I want to hear you say it”

“Fuck, I need you John, please”

“Need me to do what?” He asks, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Answer properly or I’ll stop touching”

“Please breed me” it came out as a whine more than anything, but you couldn’t take it anymore, you’d started grinding against his hand, hips working hard to chase what wouldn’t come (cum lol)

With a chuckle he pushed you onto the bed(or whatever surface you’re imagining… idk actually) fingers making quick work of your trousers.

“So needy, what happened to all that bravado, you sure you ready to be a mummy?” He asked as he ran a finger through you folds.

He gave a quick spank to your ass, watching the ripple go through your body “you always moaned like such a slut, my perfect slut” Another spank.

Freeing his cock from his trousers, he lined up with your entrance and waited there.

He was being a tease, without thinking you pushed your ass back to meet him “please just fuck me already” all you could manage was a mumble blood rushing to your face.

“What did you say? I couldn’t hear you. You’re always havin a go at me for being ancient” he was now running his cock head along your slit, making sure to tap your clit with it too.

“Please, I need to be bred daddy” Finally hearing it, he entered all at once, knocking the air out of you, vice like grip on your hips. He was using you, moving your body to meet his thrusts. “Such a needy cunt, Swallowing my cock whole”

It didn’t take long until he was cumming with a loud grunt, he made sure he was buried to the hilt as he came. That feeling; being pumped, hot and heavy. You couldn’t stop, you came with a loud moan. (How the helly does on describe people finishing 😭😭)

“Good girl, feeling better? This was what you needed after all. A good fucking” As he pulled out, he quickly replaced his cock with his fingers. Shoving the cum back into you he said “I want you to finger this back into yourself, can’t let any of it go to waste now can we?”

Price had barely even taken his shoes off when he heard it, that same needy whine, the little pants you did when you were frustrated. It made him stop in his tracks, hearing how desperate and frustrated you sounded. Slowly, with that practiced ease he made his way over to the bedroom. You didn't notice him, you were way too preoccupied with yourself. 

One hand groping your tits, slowly working the sensitive bud between your index and thumb. The other was between your legs, Price couldn't exactly see what you were doing but whatever it was didn't seem to be working. He could see it in your face, brows knit, forehead wrinkled in focus. They way your hand was working.. It seemed like you were prodding yourself? (lol)

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” asked Price, the amusement evident in his voice. 

“Er- You’re home early?! I just… I couldn’t wait any longer. You’re always gone for so long and you know a girl has needs…” you mumbled avoiding eye contact

“Is that what you call this? A pathetic little attempt at getting off?” Price said as he walked around to the other side of the bed. “You know, I really thought you were smarter. You should know someone as pathetic as you wouldn't be able to do it properly. Spread your legs for me” 

“Don’t say it like that! I know how to do it… Usually you’re doing it for me so I’ve never had to bother!” 

“I know, you’re my needy slut. Who couldn’t wait for me? Where’s the underwear you’ve been wearing today?”

You gestured with your head to the edge of the bed words weren’t working especially when all you could feel was the blood rushing to your face. 

Following your gaze, his eyes landed on it, a pink thong discarded haphazardly. “Cute, Good girl. I like you putting in the effort for me” 

He moved closer, spreading your legs further and started stuffing it in your cunt. (😳) “Since you clearly don’t know how to use it, why don’t we keep this needy hole stuffed for now. You dont mind, do you?” 

Your legs automatically closed at the sensation, which earned you a sharp spank on your cunt. “Keep your legs open, I saw how desperately you were shoving your fingers in there, no need to be shy now.” 

After he finished putting the underwear in you, he moved up to your clit, thumb rubbing the bundle of nerves, in tight little circles. “I want you to pinch your nipples, you seemed to be doing that pretty well… go on, now’s your chance” 

Since they're gone so often they can only really rely on videos and pictures you send them. Which is how you ended up face down ass up fucking yourself with a dildo you and johnny had chosen the last time he came to visit.

Even though your face wasn't visible in the camera, you were red as a tomato. Sure you were used to being this exposed when they guys played with you, they had fucked you in any and every position imaginable.

But this... they had all told you about how much they missed looking at your pretty little cunt, and how it moulded perfectly around their cocks. Hearing them sound so desperate is what gave you thr courage to be doing any of this.

So you made sure that your ass was in the centre of the screen, made sure that the pretty little heart shaped plug Price and Gaz had picked out for you was visible and fucked yourself even harder.

That isn't to say you weren't desperate, every time the dildo rubbed against your gummy walls you moaned louder, felt yourself get a little bit more lost in their memory, you could almost feel their hands on your hips, their lips on your neck. You were just as needy for them as they for you, if not more.

Johnny knew what he was meant for all his life, it had been drilled into him from the beginning. Wife. Children. Steady work. A good man.

Good men don’t—

He swallows.

Across the room Simon’s claimed the desk by the window sleeves pushed up, mask discarded, surrounded by a pile of paper work. He’s working steadily, he’s always so steady, so sturdy.

Johnny can’t help but stare. Stare at the way Simon’s fingers adjust their grip, the faint scar on his knuckles, at how the light from the window catches the tendons as he moves the pencil across the paper.

Things he’s not meant to notice. Why is he noticing them? It’s just tactical awareness. Things everyone notices about their teammate.

This stupid.

He shouldn’t be staring.

This is nothing to stare at.

Just Simon, his superior doing paperwork… but the quiet focus on Simon’s face does something to his chest. It’s makes his heart sink, it makes the air feel thicker, like the rooms shrinking, like the weight of the feelings he won’t admit is going to crush him.

What the hell is wrong with him?

It’s nothing, just admiration, respect, nothing else.

“You ok, Sergeant?” Simon asks, not even looking up.

His spine straightens, eyes again fixed on Simon.

“Yea, just tired Lt”

“Why don’t you get freshened up, the meetings about to start”

That burned, he didn’t even look at him. He doesn’t see Soap, hasn’t tried to look back at him like that. The dismissal burns.

Johnny hates that it burns.

He stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. The sound is a terrible one, sharp, loud. Almost as loud as his heart beat. It’s pounding in his head.

He needs water. That’ll fix it.

His knuckles are pale from his grip on the sink, breath uneven, as he stares at his reflection.

Cold water runs over his hands but it doesn’t cool anything. It just makes him feel more awake. More aware. Of himself. Of it.

Wife.

Children.

Steady work.

A good man.

Good men don’t look at other men like that.

He stares at his reflection like it’s someone else. Like maybe he’ll see the flaw written across his forehead. Like maybe it’ll explain why his chest felt tight just watching Simon hold a bloody pencil.

Good men don’t feel their chest cave in over a pair of hands and a stupid pencil.

Then why did it hurt when Simon didn’t look up?

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Get a grip,” he mutters, anger rising hot and mean.

Not at Simon.

At himself.

Pancake Day sneaks up on them somewhere cold and very much not home.

Soap’s the one who notices.

He goes quiet when he sees the date, then suddenly he’s on his feet like he’s been activated. “We’re making pancakes.”

Gaz blinks. “We’re what?”

“Shrove Tuesday,” Soap says, already rummaging through cupboards like this is a sacred military operation. “Before Lent. You use up all the good stuff. Sugar. Flour. Proper pancakes.”

Price sighs but doesn’t stop him. Simon just leans back in his chair, watching the chaos unfold with that long suffering look.

You hover by the counter, confused. “Wait. Pancake Day is a thing?”

All four of them stare at you.

“You don’t have it?” Soap demands.

“I mean… we have pancakes. Just not, like, a holy pancake.

That earns a laugh from Gaz.

Soap whisks batter aggressively. Too aggressively. Flour puffs into the air. Gaz tries to “help” and somehow makes it worse. Price critiques from the side like a disappointed judge. Simon eventually takes over the pan when the first one comes out looking like a tactical error.

You watch the batter hit the pan.

It spreads thick. Puffy.

You blink. “Those are American.”

Soap pauses mid flip. “Pancakes are pancakes.”

“In England they’re thin,” you insist.

Price nods. “More like crepes.”

Soap looks betrayed. “Since when?”

Simon flips one perfectly, landing it clean. “Since always.”

The debate spirals from there.

“Sugar and lemon’s the only way,” Soap argues.

“Golden syrup,” Gaz shoots back.

“Bit of fruit,” Price adds.

You quietly pour maple syrup over your stack.

They all gasp like you’ve committed a crime.

You take a bite anyway.

It’s fluffy. Warm. Comforting in a way that sneaks up on you.

Soap’s talking about racing his sisters to flip them when he was a kid. Gaz’s arguing that sweet is superior. Price mutters something about tradition. Simon’s quieter, but you catch the way his shoulders loosen when the kitchen fills with butter and sugar.

For a few minutes, it doesn’t feel like deployment.

It feels like noise. And laughter. And home.

You bump Simon’s arm lightly. “Next year we’ll do the thin ones.”

He glances at you, faint smile barely there. “Yeah. Proper ones.”

Outside it’s still cold.

Inside, it’s syrup sticky and messy and loud.

And somehow, that’s enough.