The Wandering Soul

Most of the men you meet aren't all that interesting, but there's this one guy...fucking hilarious, witty, a bit dry. His chat name might be "deadmeat" but by the pictures he sends it's anything but.

Deadmeat: thought of you again, bloody mess. Can't wait to have you.

The picture attached is his usual, hard cock covered in at least two previous loads, tip flushed pink and wanting. The calloused, tattooed hand it's cradled in is what drew you in initially. Most folk in the chat room were...well...gifted in size, and as fun as it is to imagine you can hardly manage two fingers on a good long day.

But this man? Perfect fit. About the width of his palm, fingers easily wrapping around. Not small by any means, but definitely not heart-stopping in a bad way.

You: just a few more days. Got the motel booked?

You make sure it's safe, of course you do. Swapping photos together in anticipation for the day.

Deadmeat, or ghost as he requested you call him now, is...a little different than you expected. Tall, for one, nearly brushing his head on the top of the doorframe when you nervously unlock the motel room.

You don't quite realize the breath of your mistake until you and ghost are half undressed in bed and you slip a hand under his waistband. You slide you hand along the soft hair at his base, wrap your hand over it and—

...no. no way.

The amusement on ghosts face as you frantically shove his pants down and pull out his dick is palpable. Holy shit, he's massive. You're a few centimeters shy of wrapping your hand around him, not to mention the length.

You swallow thickly, glance up at him.

The fucker has the audacity to chuckle, reaching down to wrap his impossibly large hands around his dick, give himself a few pumps "well? Everything you were expecting? Don't worry, i can make it fit."

​You didn't ask. But you begged for it.

​Simon didn't notice at first; he just thought it was a mere coincidence. How you always chose to drink the same beverage, using the same straw. The same bottle of water right after he had taken a drink. Or when you two shared food, and you always bit the exact same spot he had just bitten.

​Now, you two were in his room. You were in his lap, kissing his neck, leaving noticeable marks that anyone could see without effort. He desperately sought your lips, biting and savoring them, deepening the kiss.

​"Si, would you do something for me?" you asked, your lips brushing against his.

​"Anything for you, darlin'," he said, his voice sounding more like a whisper.

​"Could you... spit in my mouth?" you asked shyly. You had been wanting to tell him for a while, but you hadn't been able to find the bravery.

​"Spit?" Simon wasn't concerned at all; he just hadn't expected you to like such things. "I can do that for ya, luv."

​Simon cupped your chin, his touch soft against your skin. "Open your mouth, sweetheart."

​You obeyed, opening your mouth and showing him your tongue. And finally, your wish came true. Simon spit into your mouth.

​"Now baby. Swallow it down."

​And that's exactly what you did—you swallowed his saliva.

​"There you go, my precious girl. Do you like it, huh?"

​You nodded in response. Thereafter, you always found an excuse for any situation where Simon could just spit in your mouth.

Print art I made earlier this month of the best horseman to ever horse

The recruits cannot be killed, Soap ☝️. He will run them ragged for insulting his husband nonetheless.

“kyyyle,” you slur, leaning over the table to which Gaz cracks a smile. “so pretty…anyone ever tell you you’re pretty? like ‘men should be buying you dinner’ pretty.”

soap snorts, an amused smile on his lips. “Ya don’ even get a handsome, just fuckin’ pretty.”

“oi, piss off, soap,” replies gaz with no real heat behind it. “and you,” he starts, bringing his attention backed to your slumped form, “are a shitty drinker.”

you giggle, barely lifting up your head from the table.

price shakes his head, taking a large swing from the pint. “kids these days.”

the laughter dies down, everyone enjoying the relaxing ambiance that’s been so hard to enjoy with missions on end these days. that is until-

“ugh- I’m so horny.”

the table stills, all eyes landing on your slumped form before soap bursts into uncontrollable laughter. his fist slams the table as gaz tries to still the man who’s slightly tipsy and leaning back in his chair.

“bloody hell,” ghost mumbles, crossing his arms. “you’re one them, huh? those honest-to-god-drunks.”

“you shouldn’t be saying those things out loud,” advises price, knowing full well that it’s going to go unheard seeing as you’re shit-faced drunk right now.

you groan, forehead connected with the table again. “you don’t get it. you’re old- probably have the sex drive of a tumble weed.”

gaz and soap have a poor attempt at stifling a laugh and even ghost cracks a small and an unseen smirk at your comment. price doesn’t bother with a retort, knowing you’ll have your regrets when they tell you about this conversation in the morning.

soap puts an encouraging pat on your back. “aye, cmon lass, if ya wanted to get laid, all ye gotta do is ask.” it’s clearly a joke but your head perks up anyways.

“don’t tempt me, cause I’ve thought about it.”

“you don’t say…” his eyes light up with interest.

ghost interrupts with a warning tone. “don’t encourage her, Johnny.”

“too late, LT.” soap stalks around your chair, sliding his arms ‘round back. he leans in close till you pick up the scent of beer on his lips. “tell me, what d’ya think of?”

you match his lean with one of your own, eyes blown wide and curious. “are you rough in bed? tell me you’re rough in bed.”

soap smirks, flashing a charming wink. “aye, lass. why? want my handprint on your ass?” ghost flashes him a stern look but soap merely shrugs unapologetically.

you groan at his answer, “god, I hope I remember that in the morning.”

“we get it. we get it. you’re horny for soap. let’s stop before I hurl.” gaz puts his hand on your shoulders, urging you to drink more water.

“dont be jealous, gaz. you’re in there too.”

and suddenly, the angel on his shoulder disappears. “oh yeah?”

“god, you have no idea how hard it is to work with hot men all day long. takes everything in me to not just give up on the mats and let you just pin me down.”

by now, soap has his phone out, recording this for evidence when you’re inevitably going to try to walk back on your words in the morning.

“would love to be bent over a desk, don’t even care who’s behind me. or who’s the biggest? LT? probably not you then- at least not first.”

you ramble on and on… about how you could get off to the gruff sound of your captains voice alone, or how sometimes you’d be soaking wet through your panties if they praised you enough.

and it’s not until you go into an explicit and ultra-specific scenario that involves all four men, some rope, vibrators, and a blindfold, going to ultra-specific detail about soap in your pussy, price in your mouth, and how maybe you’d even let someone in your ass, does someone do the sensible thing of slapping a hand around your mouth.

“I’m gonna take my hand off’ya, and you’re gon’ be quiet, yeah?”

your eyes glance up to a stone cold stare behind a mask, meeting his gaze before you nod. “good girl.”

his hand slowly withdraws and you’re silent. it stays that was for a moment, everyone unsure how to break the tension left in the air after your revelation…that is until-

“aye, what’s that LT?”

and that, would be the stiffy that’s hardly concealed behind his jeans- perhaps he needs to buy baggier clothes from now on.

they are serious about bets

usual rounds..

"Simon, come on," you whisper. "Are you mad?"

He stilled for a moment, going more rigid than before. "No," He begins, "..'m not mad.."

"Right...so sharpening knives at 2 AM is a normal hobby-?"

He huffs, setting the knife down a little to hard on the bedside. "..'m not mad at you." his voice is gruff and snappy. Like he's teetering on the edge of fully exploding. He wouldn't, though, not around you...never at you either. He made that clear.

"So then, will you tell me what's wrong? Who your mad at?" Your voice is calm and soothing. Your body moves before your mind realizes, and you're behind him, arms wrapping around his torso. You nuzzle your nose into his neck, taking a breath and placing a small kiss there. "Whatever it is..you can tell me.." you pause "...you know that baby."

He lets out another huff, "Yeah...I do know that," he starts. "But this is different. This isn't..normal."

That makes your brows frown, and stomach drop a little bit. The room is quiet while you wait for him to talk again, but when he doesn't, you pull back slightly. "Simon, look at me," you say firmly. He moves back onto the bed fully, back up against the headboard, and hands clasped in his lap like he was waiting for a blow. Waiting for something to happen, but when nothing did, he relaxed slightly, and looked up at you. "..'m sorry..." He says quietly.

"No, no...shh...don't do that. Nothing is 'not normal' to be mad about, and there is nothing to be sorry about," you whisper gently. You move back to sit against the headboard next to him.

"come 'ere" you whisper, your arms open and inviting.

He moves without a thought. His arms wrap around your torso, and his head rests on your chest. He lets out a long breath, and you feel him relax.

"You don't have to tell me, but at least let me hold you. Okay?"

He only nods. Your hands run through his hair gently, and every once in a while, you kiss the top of his head. You whisper sweet words. Repeating that you love him no matter what, and that he's not alone.

Well, just imagine doing that with JOHN PRICE. He'll be out there in the garden (in the process of making one, actually, on his backyard, because you always wanted one, and he moved you in with him for a reason), with a shovel in hand, looking at what he had already digged out for your plants to grow nice and pretty when he sees something flashing from the sliding glass doors. And when he snaps his head and really looks, there's you. In just your panties, and lifting your t-shirt to show him you titties. The reason? Well, you were bored. And now you had your boyfriend all grumpy and possessive of just thinking that the neighbors could have seen you.

And when you do the same for KYLE "GAZ" GARRICK, you don't really do that for him in the first place. You daughter, who was entirely breastfed for a whole nine months, was acting cranky and sleepy, wining and sobbing, clearly tired and ready for sleep. You saw some trends of a breastfed babies reacting to titties, and decided to participated (without documenting it). Kyle licking his lips, and, scooping the immediately calmed down baby girl, murmured "Make sure to have 'em on display after I tuck the lil' one in."

You thought nothing could stant JOHNNY "SOAP" MACTAVISH anymore. You two tried a lot of stuff in bed, and, being together for years, you genuinely had no idea he would react the way he did. But when oversleeping and being in a hurry, you burst into the bathroom to hop into the shower real quick. Johnny was just brushing his hair out of his face, already in cargo pants and tight t-shirt, when you dropped your nightgown and stepped out the piece of silk, as if it was a routine at this point. "Bonnie, really?" He sighed heavily, and, quickly undressing, joined you in the shower. "Since ta girls are invitin'". They were not. But in was worth being a bit late to work that day.

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY doesn't react immediately. He just sits on the couch, beer in one hand, and staring at your titties as you flashed them out, jumping out of the corner. For a second you begin to feel a slight embarrassment creeping through your spine. But then he sets the beer bottle on the floor, gets up, and with two long steps, lifts you up and throws you over his shoulder. You're buffled, trying to straighten up, when he brings you to your bedroom. He wasn't indifferent. He was just thinking about the things he would do to those things of yours.

Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost stand behind your pilot’s chair, chests heaving from the effort of throwing themselves through the plane doors, fresh off the op you’re supposed to be flying them out of.

But you just sit there, jaw stupidly slack as you take in Simon’s already dark clothes, absolutely drenched in the proof of what a powerful predator he is. Deep red dots splatter his mask, too, and streak down his forearm, his fingers curled lazily around the handle of a knife. 

Then he turns sharply, like he’s just noticed that the plane isn’t moving.  

“The fuck are we waiting for?” Simon snaps.

Soap looks from him to you, then lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Don’t look at me. Seems the pretty pilot’s got a thing for blood.”

Simon’s head whips towards you. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and your hand flies to the throttle. But then his gaze catches yours and he chuckles darkly.

“ 'S that right?” 

The rich brown of his eyes grow molten beneath the smudges of red across his mask as he takes in your expression, and for one incredibly embarrassing moment, you almost forget how to actually fly this fucking thing. 

Without breaking eye contact, Simon steps forward and crouches down to your level. 

Your breath catches as his gloved hand closes over yours, gently pulling back the acceleration lever. The plane lurches forward hard enough to send the boys tumbling into a pile of grunts and curses. 

Your stomach dips and you snap back into gear instinctively, flipping the switch on the dash to pull the wheels up, hands flying to the control stick as you build in altitude. 

“Don’t worry, Bird,” Simon says gruffly, raising that knife and dragging one finger down the bloody blade. “It’s not mine.”

Imagine asking your friend soap to do you a favor when you finally decide to go out drinking and meet some people, right?

"Please, johnny? Just, if anyone is weird I need you to come pretend to be my boyfriend and pick me up." You pace your apartment, picking out clothes while soap groans teasingly.

"Aye. I'll handle it, yeah? Just enjoy yourself and stay off the news."

That's the end of it. You have a backup incase anything happens, you've never known johnny to be the guy to leave you hanging.

It's not until you actually need said lifeline that you begin to curse him. Some guy you thought just wanted to hear about your latest hobby wouldn't take the hint after you shoved his hand off your thigh, so you played up all the disgust you could muster and said "I have a boyfriend, dude. He'll be here soon."

You send the text to soap, praying to god he's quick because the creep is now going on about keeping secrets and—

"Hi, lovie, who's this?" A voice you don't recognize interrupts, and you look up to see a giant, terrifying beast of a man. He's six foot fuck-off and as wide as a damn doorframe.

"Uhm–" you try, stuttering over your words. What the hell do you say that won't end poorly?

"Who the hell is this, then?" The stranger asks, glaring at the creep who's suddenly gone pale. He stumbles in his hast to vacate the seat next to you, muttering something about freaks in masks.

You think, for a moment, that the gods may pity you and the stranger will leave. To your horror, he takes the now empty seat and grunts "you okay? Didn't drink anything?"

"Who the hell are you?" You send another text to soap, because what the fuck where is he??

"Simon. Johnny sent me." The stranger rolls up his mask, takes a sip of your drink then grimaces and pours the rest of it on the floor "good thing you didn't drink it."

....what the hell.

"The one time I go out," you groan, rest your face in your hands, "and I think some guy wants to talk about bugs– and– instead this happens."

The man perks up, pulls his weird skull-painted mask back down, and says eagerly "what kind of bugs?"

Wholesome!Price who has always maintained he is interested in women, not girls.

Much to his dismay, something about his appearance continues to attract the younger sort. At bars, he grudgingly acknowledges flocks of college-aged girls shooting him looks and giggling, with some even bold enough to openly flirt. He’s started to use Johnny as buffer, quickly redirecting their attention towards the gregarious Scot to spare his admirers the awkward realization that their age is working against them.

There’s nothing wrong with the young birds, of course. They’re plenty cute, and they even have that fiery confidence he’s always been drawn to. But there’s something about a twiggy girl using gobs of makeup to look more fuckable that kills his libido.

He blames it on his own deflowering. In high school he’d messed around with some girls his age, but none wanted to go all the way. Being the cocky piece of shit he was, he figured he’d talk an older woman in his relieving him of his virginity so he could truly consider himself a man. He certainly wasn’t expecting the 30-something he met in a chatroom (it was a different time) to have the most insane thighs he’d seen in his life, or breasts with actual stretch marks. The weight of them in his hands felt like an epiphany. Something entirely apart from cupping a budding mound. The utter self-possession in the way she moved, like she knew exactly what she was, all that her plush body had to offer, altered his brain chemistry.

He’s been addicted ever since.

Unfortunately, the sort of women Price is drawn to rarely return his interest – either because they don’t believe it’s genuine or because they’ve got too much else going on in their life to be arsed with a man.

So when you’re hired as the new compliance officer who performs weekly inspections on base, he knows he’s done for. Cupid may as well have shot him in the heart with a fucking Uzi. You, with your wide hips and disappointed-mom attitude and hair that’s always messy in the most artless, charming way he could imagine. You wear practical sneakers and an ugly, navy polo that does absolutely nothing to the soft rolls around your midsection and an ample rack that he would happily suffocate in. When he finally gets you alone and starts putting the moves on you, your only response is irritated confusion and clear desire to get back to your task.

Price has his work cut out for him. But damned if that man doesn’t love a good pursuit.