Homemade Hair Masks For Gaz When He Comes Back From A Deployment. Especially From Dryer Places Where

Captain John Price cock hypothesis

18+ MDNI

A/N: Written at the request of @velvetyhydrangea. After much deliberation and research, these are the conclusions I’ve come to regarding Price’s cock.

Captain John Price cock head-cannons:

Naturally, he’s uncut. No surprise there. (I’m pretty sure that’s the norm over there in the UK. Can’t speak form experience, but if I ever get the chance to cross the big pond, I’ll be sure to investigate thoroughly and report back with my data.)

Price is hairy almost everywhere, so of course he’s sporting a full bush. Man so furry he could be mistaken for a bear. I need to suffocate myself in his chest hair. He doesn’t shave, either, and honestly, I think the world is better off that way.

Price is 8 cm long when soft, and 14 cm long when hard. So he’s slightly shorter than Simon, but he’s still packing something in his pants that you should be afraid of and I’m not talking about the glock. (Source: trust me bro)

Price has one of those cock where the tip is relatively normal sized, but it gets disgustingly fat in the middle before tapering off slightly at the base. Perfect for impaling yourself on. (If you know you know)

We begin with a diameter of 4 cm, but swiftly expand to a diameter of 6 cm and a circumference of 18.85 cm at the midpoint. For reference, that’s as thick as a can of Monster Energy. Good luck trying to fit that thing in your mouth.

Breeding balls… fat, fucking breeding balls packed pull of swimmers as hardy and resilient as he is. He’s the reason my IUD is only considered to be 99% effective. Johnathan Price is thee one percenter of breeding.

the simon and kyle blurb?!!! hello?!!! I rarely see this duo together and it’s so unfair 😣

Sugar and spice is the best way I can describe being sandwiched between Kyle and Simon.

Just imagine the sexual tension between them and the reader and how it just... comes to a head.

It's you three, shooting the shit, and the conversation somehow veers over into shotgunning. Next thing you know, you're in Simon's lap, Kyle's scooted a little bit closer and they teach—demonstrate, rather—the basics of shotgunning.

Which turns into Kyle's tongue down his Lt.'s throat.

Which then turns into Simon's tongue down your throat.

Which THEN turns into you sandwiched between the two, you and Kyle making out, your tongue down his throat, and Simon leaving hickies on your neck and groping you wherever he can.

Cheers, darling.

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.

in all timelines and in all possibilities 🫶🏻

key frames below the line!!

Have some more ✨Suggestive Boots✨

daddy cool ⋆˙⟡

john price x fem!reader summary: “I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.” ↪or the one in which hairy muscle daddy john price asks you to show him your skills disco style tags/warnings: 70s clubbing, body hair is a central theme, scent kink, daddy kink, deepthroating, rough oral (m), cigars, some alcohol, manipulation if you squint,vaginal fingering + sex, a bit of exhibition kink but not really at all (one line), 'little' not used as a size indicator, dom/sub, oral (f), tiny gape mention

“I think he’s interested in you,” Debbie whisper-screams in your ear. It’s hard to hear her over the boom of the drums, over the four on the floor beat and soaring voices. 

“Really?”

“Girl,” she laughs, incredulous. You look over your shoulder and sure enough he’s fixing you with a stare hot enough to burn through steel.

He’s flanked by two others, but you hardly notice them. You’re staring right into the deep V of his open shirt, at the fur peeking out of it, at the pink of his tongue as it swipes his bottom lip under his mustache. Sinful.

The booth he’s sitting in is draped with orange translucent curtains, creating some illusion of privacy. No overhead lights, either, just a soft cave and dark burgundy leather. Perfect for a bear like him.

“Should I go over there?” you whisper-scream back, curling closer to Debbie, “he’s a bonafide stud.”

She laughs, throwing her long hair over her shoulder, “yeah he is, and he’s looking at you, girl.”

You peek again. He’s smiling this time, like someone who knew you’d look twice. Beyond his shirt, his pants are so goddamn tight you can see almost everything. Christ, who let him out of the house looking like that?

“I’m gonna go over,” you say before you can stop yourself.

A saxophone disco beat booms through the club, thrumming right through you down to your toes, which you move to dance your way to him. Debbie laughs behind you, disappearing into the crowd.

Your hips go side to side, your teeth bite your bottom lip, and you fix him with what you hope is a clear message; you’re hot.

He stays exactly where he is. There’s a smugness about him now, the same smugness you saw when you looked twice.

You can’t really blame him for it. Someone that looks like that is bound to expect attention, desire.

God, he’s just your type. A quiet kind of arrogance, one arm slung over the back of the booth as he lifts a cigar up to his mouth and puffs. Lazily, like a big lion that knows he doesn’t have to hunt to get his food.

“Hello, love,” he says slowly when you get close enough. You’re still bouncing to the music, but you lean forward to hear him better.

“Interested in me, are you?” you’re going for a coy, simpering kind of approach. Something about him makes you want to lay it on thick, want to seduce. To preen a little.

His knuckles are dark in the lighting, hairy and tough like he works with his hands, which you catch as he pats the booth beside him. 

You hadn’t even noticed his companions leaving.

“Saw you dancing,” he lifts a glass from the table, dark liquid, his mustache getting wet, “thought you might be interested, too.”

“You thought right,” you slide in beside him, the leather seat cool even through your tight bootcut pants. You tilt your knees towards him, lifting an elbow to match his on the back of the booth.

Reds, yellows, oranges dance on his skin. The occasional sparkle of the disco ball peeks through, but mostly it filters through the orange booth curtains and spreads into an archipelago of little bright spots. This lighting agrees with him, accentuates the best parts, makes them look darker and more defined. You’d feel like a pervert looking down his shirt if he wasn’t also doing the same to you.

“Name’s John, love,” and when you tell him yours he says, “that’s fitting.”

“So, what do you do?” boring, typical– but it’s all you’ve got. You’re surprised you can get words out at all with the drool pooling in your mouth. This close, you can see how his shirt strains where his shoulders move. A little too small, but it’s probably on purpose.

Should be illegal, honestly.

His eyes crinkle in the corners. He’s the kind of guy whose entire face changes when he smiles, who looks disarmingly more approachable that way.

“I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.”

“Talent?” you cross one leg over the other, trilling internally with satisfaction when you see his eyes fall to your thighs.

You know you aren’t being subtle in the least– and you aren’t trying to be. But you won’t say anything outright, not yet, not while the anticipation feels this tasty.

The booth isn’t private, but it is insulated. The music is loud, but not too loud, just enough that it thrums through you, that you can hear him. Anita Ward croons in your ear, encouraging you. He can ring your bell, that’s for sure.

“That’s right,” he puffs again. The smell makes you lightheaded.

“Moviestars, you mean?” you roll your ankle around, watching him watch you, wondering if he likes the polish colour you picked. 

You like that he’s visibly affected; licking his lips, that meaty hand climbing higher up his thigh.

“Something like that, love,” he smiles again, leans back in the booth and launches a counter attack to your leggy flirtations – he spreads those legs, feet pointed out, hunched just so that his belly starts poking out of those sinfully tight pants.

Motherfucker.

Looking back up at him, his eyes are crinkled at you, head tilted forward. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Which movies have you produced?” you lean your head on your hand, looking at him through your lashes, “anything I’ve seen?”

“I hope so,” he hums. His eyes flit down to your feet again, up to your midriff, then back to your eyes– it’s hot, but it’s also not just a flirtation. He’s assessing, “have you seen Swan Lady? The Nun and the Two Vikings?”

You frown, “no, I haven’t heard of either.”

“How about Call of Duty: Servicing the Captain?”

Ah, it clicks. Your eyebrows go up, into your hairline, “you make pornos?”

“Aye, smart girl,” he gruffs.

Pornos, huh. You could laugh– he looks the part. A little sleazy, unabashed. Masculine not to the point of parody but it’s close. The ‘stache is in style, but in combination with everything else is just the cherry on top.

You only have one question, “you don’t star in any?”

“I prefer working behind the scenes,” something about the way he says behind feels filthy.

John tells all. He does scout, finds girls who want to have a good time (like you), and gently (or so he says) nudges them in front of the camera. I can always sniff ‘em out, he says. The ones that’ll do well on film, that have star quality.

“How can you tell?” you ask, lips pulling on your straw. John has ordered you a tequila sunrise.

You can’t help but trace the skin of his neck with your eyes, roving at the bob of his Adam's apple as he explains. Girls who can take the gloves off, so to speak. Says he can tell by the way they move, how free they are with their bodies.

A little dubious, but it’s honestly doing it for you. You wonder what he saw when you danced up to him, if the sway of your body was free, liberated.

Doesn’t take long at all for him to invite you out either way. John puts his hand on your knee and squeezes, gets real close, gruffs that his place is nearby.

“What do you say, sweetheart?” and of course the only answer is yes, please.

Boney M. soars around you as you follow him out, your hand holding his, your fingers stroking the hairs on his knuckles. 

She’s crazy for her daddy!

On the drive over, he keeps that big paw on your thigh, squeezing almost subconsciously. Just the flex of his fingers.

You widen your knees, hoping for that rough palm to slide upwards, glancing at John as he drives one-handed. Not your first rodeo going home with a man from the disco, but it sure is the first time you’ve felt so keyed up about it.

He’s huge, takes up an absurd amount of room in the car, knee knocking into yours. He even drives sexy, so sure and in control.

“You think I could be in one of your movies?” you say, impish, looking to provoke.

John glances at you for just a second too long, too intense. You can tell he’s picturing you in front of the cameras.

“That what you want?”

“Just picturing it,” you simper, shifting your knee to deliberately touch him again. His fingers flex against your thigh again, jaw moving.

The air is warm, breezy, lights passing by like twinkling firebugs. You roll your window down, smiling at the feeling.

“Picturing it, aye? Is that making you wet, sweetheart?”

Fuck. It certainly is now.

“Only if you can be my co-star.”

“Is that right?” he laughs, low and deep. His hand climbs higher, “‘fraid I’m just the recruiter, but I’ll have to do a quality test.”

“Quality test?”

“Mm,” he hums, “need to make sure you’re ready for the camera, don’t I? You think you’ve got star quality, then prove it.”

Your panties are sticky.

“I can do that,” you breathe.

“Yeah? Can you prove you can be a good girl for me, sweetheart?” his fingers slide, achingly slow, to the gusset of your pants, “that you can look into that camera and show the world you’re a good girl?”

They press against you, right up against your clit through the fabric. You fight to stay still, to not come across like you’re desperate, but god it’s hard. You ache.

“Mhm,” you breathe, subtly tilting your hips forward as he idly pets your pussy.

“Not an answer,” he says firmly. Butterflies dance in your stomach, the air slowly being siphoned out, leaving you hot and bothered. John is barely affected, it seems, driving still, gliding through the night.

“Sorry,” you swallow, “I can do that, daddy.”

“Much better.”

“Still want to prove it to me, love?” he moves to a glass cabinet, pulling out a little box. It opens with a click, revealing a neat row of thick cigars.

“Yes,” you stand in the middle of his living room, appreciating the atmosphere he’s made; low lighting, oranges, reds everywhere. Brown leather and the heady smell of cigar smoke, of leather polish and an incense-y kind of musk.

He walks back towards you, brand new cigar between his fingers, steps heavy on the carpet. You’re made aware of the height difference when he stands right in front of you, looking down not unkindly.

Your skin prickles at his gaze, the same one from the club; that assessment. Like he’s measuring you, testing you, scanning you.

John leans forward, breath puffing lightly across your face. He smells like his house does, only there’s a bit of whiskey mixed in.

You can’t help but squirm just a little, thighs rubbing together, both to relieve the pulsing ache of your pussy and that it’s impossible to stay composed under that gaze.

“Drop down,” he says finally, “to your knees, sweetheart.”

From your knees, you get a good fucking look at those tight pants– at the bulge in them. The hair on his chest sticks out a little, too, peeking at you from above. Hot. So hot.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, daddy,” you bite your lip again.

“Keep those hands down, alright?” he leans to the side and picks up a cigar lighter, watching you as he lights up.

John stands over you, new cigar lit, plumes of smoke drifting from his fingers. His expression is neutral, though he hums in a pleased way as he strokes the softness of your cheek.

“Take me out,” he commands.

You lean forward with your mouth, unable to resist giving him a good long sniff before you pull at his zipper with your teeth. He smells good, musky and strong, a little cologne there but mostly it’s natural.

When your teeth gently take his briefs, pulling, he cups the back of your head with a big hand and strokes your hair.

“Are you going to take it all, sweetheart? Right down your throat?”

You let his cock flop out of his underwear, heavy. The bush surrounding it makes your mouth water. It looks so good, long and a little curved, bouncing as if it’s teasing you.

You nod finally, hands squeezed into fists in your lap just the way he asked, “yes, daddy.”

“That’s my girl, aye? Are you going to give daddy’s cock a little kiss first?”

You lean forward, lips pursed, planting a little kiss on the mushroom head of his cock. Though you ache to lick your lips, to taste him, you wait.

“That’s a good little girl,” he murmurs, “open your mouth.”

You do, holding your tongue out.

He grips the base, holding his cock up, tapping your tongue with the head. You almost whine, before he grips your head firmer and holds you still so he can slide the entire length of that monster right to the back of your throat.

Your nose hits his pubic bone, buried in the coarse hairs there, overwhelmed, hands balling into fists.

“That’s right,” he grunts, “hold it right there, sweetheart, show me you’ve got what it takes.”

God, he’s all the way in, a perfect fit. You try to stay still, anchoring yourself to him, to his palm, to the possibility of hearing good girl.

You gag a little, coughing around him, tears burning at your eyes as drool plip plops onto your chest.

Finally, he pulls out, stroking your hair, “good girl, such a good girl. Ready?”

“Yes,” you garble around the heady of his cock, clit swollen and needy, hands pressing hard into your thighs, “please fuck my face, daddy.”

He does, his pistoning, fucking your mouth like it’s a cunt. His hand cradles the back of your head, pushing you, hips moving, grunting when he’s not taking the occasional puff of his cigar.

You throb in your panties, body scorching hot, gagging every so often around the thick meat of John’s cock. Drool falls in viscous strings, tears following, the world dropping away. 

Nothing else but the slide of his cock in and out of your mouth exists, matters.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he pants raggedly.

You have no idea how long he lasts, only that when he’s finished you're an absolute mess. Wet faced and panting.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, wiping the tears from your cheeks with his rough thumbs. You look up at him through your clumped lashes, mouth open, “did so well for me, hm?”

“Thank you, daddy,” your voice is a little gravelly, but not painful.

John pulls you up with a hand at your bicep, walking you down a hallway off his living room and towards an open door. 

It’s his bedroom– and it’s decorated exactly as you’d imagined it.

The bed is huge, kingsized with a radio inlay and a thick, padded headboard that extends all around the mattress in a kind of cradle. His sheets are silk, dark, and dark orange.

“Nice digs,” you laugh, “you sure you aren’t a pornstar?”

He laughs behind you, setting his lit cigar into the ashtray on the bedside table. He slowly strips out of his clothes, getting totally naked. Then he slides in, and leans back.

“Give me a show, sweetheart.”

You hum, swaying again. You aren’t a pro at this kind of stuff, but it’s fun regardless to pull your shirt up and over your head like you’re a dirty dancer.

“Like this, daddy?”

John hums.

You slowly slide your pants down, turning so he can watch your ass move, kicking them away. You hear the slick sounds of him jerking his cock as you do.

“Should I take my panties off?” you ask, thumbs slipping into the elastic.

“Yes, take them off,” he grunts, “turn around.”

You do, then slowly slip your panties off. He licks his bottom lip again, quick.

“Come here.”

You slide onto the bed, on your knees, then crawl forward until you’re beside him, where he pushes you to lay on your side.

His heavy palm finds the naked skin of your hip, squeezing, “still want to show me your star power, sweetheart?”

“Yes, daddy,” you’re back in it, eyes half lidded. Your pussy is making a wet spot on your thighs, “I wanna show you.”

He pushes you to your back, slaps your thighs until you open your legs and hold them out. Then he pauses, hand at the junction of your thigh and hip, thumb inching towards your pussy.

“Look how wet you are, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You clench, tilting your hips up. Your clit throbs.

“Ah ah, get back down,” he tuts.

Your ass touches the bed again, hips forced down by sheer willpower. His thumb finally reaches you, pulling aside your pussylip to gaze at your wetness.

It gushes out of you, and you’re sure he can see the way your hole clenches.

“Desperate little cunt, aye?” he uses his other hand, two two fingers coming to pull the hood of your clit up and just watch as it jumps needily, “awe, poor thing.”

“Please, daddy,” you could cry, “please, touch me.”

“Touch where, love? Touch this needy little clit?”

“Yes, please!”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he abandons holding you open to bring his thumb to your exposed clit, rubbing in circles. You shout, a tremor immediately beginning. It’s too much and not enough at once, electric and icy-hot.

Then he slips those fingers inside you, slow and testing at first, but when he realizes just how wet and soft you are he curls them inside you deeply and oh, fuck, your eyes roll back into your head.

“That’s the spot, that’s it,” he grunts, shaking you, taking you apart.

John only fingers you long enough to let your wetness spill out of you, wetting your thighs, soaking his fingers– until you’re ready for his cock.

“You’re ready,” he lays the length of it against your pussy for a moment, letting your swollen lips hug his length, before he shifts back and nudges the head at your hole, “yeah, you’re ready for it.”

He stuffs you fucking full. You’ve never been so stuffed in your life, thankful for his diligent attention earlier or you might be really feeling the weight of him.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, back arching, nipples rubbing against his chest hair. It sparks pleasure from your tits right down your cunt, body aflame, hands scratching through the hair at his back.

It’s like fucking a bear, or a werewolf. He’s relentless, too, without mercy. Plows into you hard and long, thrusts measured, never faltering.

John fucks like a pornstar, there’s no doubt about it. He takes up so much space on top of you that without his arms holding him up you worry about being crushed– you crave it, too.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarls, lip curling, mustache going with it, “want to be on camera, do ya? Let me hear you.”

You let loose, mouth open in one long drawn out sound, interposed only by the gasps you let out each time he hits you deep.

You tilt your head back, bearing your throat, taking each heavy thrust and crying out with them, squeezing around him.

“I’m gonna give it all to you, sweetheart, fuck,” he snaps his hips faster now, “and you’re gonna take it all like a star.”

You nod desperately, feeling his pubes each time he thrusts to the hilt, wet with your juices. You’re so fucking close, one breath to your clit and you’d lose your mind.

He straightens, hands going to your hips, tightening, as he snaps one, two, three times and tenses–

His head snaps back, neck bulging with veins as he comes, teeth bared in a growl as he curses, “fuck, good girl, that’s right– good fucking pussy–”

Hot come shoots inside, heating you up further, making you whine with frustration and satisfaction both.

When the taut line of his body relaxes and he pulls out, a flood of come following him, he slides to his stomach and spreads you open with his thumbs.

“Let daddy make it up to you, sweetheart,” he murmurs to your pussy, “he’s not usually so selfish.”

John looks down first. Your pussy is swollen, well-fucked, and you can feel a slight gape.

“Poor little pussy,” he murmurs, then seals his mouth over your clit until you fall apart.

“You sure you aren’t a pornstar?” your cheek is pressed to his chest, basking in the furriness, arm and leg thrown over his body.

He laughs, “I’m sure, sweetheart. But I will say–” he pauses to lean down and kiss the corner of your mouth, mustache still damp, “you’ve definitely got star quality.”

When you blow johnny and just keep gagging and choking he'll most likely laugh at you. But because you don't just let things slide–that man needs to be put in his place anyway–you pull out one of your dildos, and tell him to suck it. He laughs incredulously at first, though not totally opposedto the idea. But once he saw the expression on your face he knows you're serious. And he was never one to turn down a challenge.

Safe to say he's gagging like a bitch. Can barely take half the thing without tears stinging at his eyes. And if you're mean you tell him, "well, that's pathetic, baby." In a mocking tone. (lt makes his cock twitch dw) and if you're even meaner you decide to 'help out'. Forcing the toy down his throat with your hand. Do it over and over. Like he does when fucking your throat without consideration. He's a mess by the end, sweaty, eyes red with tears flowing from them, drooled all over the toy, down on himself like some mutt. But some time during it he came without even being touched.

He doesn't make fun of you again.

KYLE ‘GAZ’ GARRICK call of duty: modern warfare ii — atomgrad raid 2

I just know its a pain to get that face paint off…🥲💀

be proud