Work Text:
Gaz always asks what you want your genitals to be referred as on the day, even if the response is “whatever you want”. Though he doesn’t particularly care what you’d like him to call it, he cares whether you’re comfortable and if he’s making you feel good not just physically, but mentally too. It’s common of him to peer up at you from between your thighs, lips pressed against them as he trails up them in kisses, mumbling a “what ‘m I workin’ with today, baby?”
Kyle loves going down on you – he spends most of his time there unwinding from deployment, weighed down by the thickness of your thighs and centred by the noises he’s pulling from you with every movement of his tongue.
“Y’want me to suck your cock?” He purrs, watching your hole flutter around nothing at the closeness of his mouth. Your thighs are as slick as between them, wet with his spit and darkened marks that dot constellations across them.
He lavishes your cock, running his tongue along the underside of your glistening clit, tracing the folds and chasing after you as your hips buck in oversensitivity.
“Please, please suck my cock, need it so bad,” he has you chanting, fingers threaded between the thick curls of his hair as you try to tug him closer. You’re worked masterfully to the edge by fingers that know their way around like it’s home, nestled inside your cunt as they rub meticulously against the soft, ribbed grooves of the most sensitive walls, the others working with his tongue to wind up that need in your stomach tighter and tighter.
“Whose pussy is this, huh baby?” He growls after a broad stripe against your heat, flicking his tongue teasingly against the overstimulated nerve. Your cries of his name are rewarded with a hot, wet mouth enveloping your cock, tracing circles at the base teasingly.
“Who gets to take care of this cock?”
The same answer is your respite; you know he just wants to hear the admission again. It’s rewarded with the smooth curls of his fingers as his mouth recaptures your clit, and he has you falling apart in his hands.
-------
Soap’s favourite term for your genitalia is “his hole” or “his toy”, depending on what part he’s giving attention - the man doesn’t care about anatomical reference, because he doesn’t use ‘em. You can call your genitals whatever the fuck you want, as long as it’s his mouth on them at the end of the day.
There’s not a single thing that’ll keep Johnny from between your legs. He’ll get through the front door, dropping everything just to shuffle up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as his teeth find their favourite spot to sink in your shoulder. “Missed m’toy, y’been good today? Taken care of ‘em for me?”
He’ll beg you to let him check his babies - he whines, petulant and needy, grinding the growing hardness against your ass to emphasise his point. “C’mon lass, lemme see m’hole - cannae keep me away from m’pet, dinnae y’were so cruel!”
When you finally give in, spreading your legs for him as he hurriedly tugs your underwear off, his response is almost embarrassing despite how long he’s been doing it. Johnny drops to his knees, cooing at the swollen nub that peaks out from your slick-shined folds, like the goddamn thing missed him – though with the way it throbs at his words, maybe he’s not entirely far off.
It isn’t long before his fingers are tracing along the wet skin, occasionally brought back to his mouth to lick up the mess he captures before returning to the same movements, petting the skin as he mumbles praises and appreciation. “Bonnie thing, all needy for me, aye?”
His check starts out as innocent as such a situation could – caresses that aren’t meant to stir the flame slowly burning between your loins, but to admire between your legs. Yet you can’t stop your body from reacting to the stimulation, and he can’t stop his body reacting to you. You both know where it’s going – a check is never a check, because Johnny can’t hold himself back. But every time, you end up bent over with him filling you up anyway.
-----
Ghost just uses whatever falls from his lips, delivered by his lust-addled brain. You don’t care, he doesn’t care – it’s perfect. His usage is based on what he’s doing to you; he’ll tell you how sweet your tight little pussy is around him as he pushes your head down into the pillow, or how good your cock feels against his as he grinds the tip up against your swollen, sensitive clit, engorged with growth from your testosterone.
“Gonna cum in this gorgeous fuckin’ twat”, he huffs against the crook of your neck, “gonna play with that prick ‘n make you cum too.”
His hands run over the scarring of your chest, running parallels with those decorating his skin, scars against scars that you hope will tangle your lives together until they decay. One of them drops lower, seeking out the pulsating need between your legs, his big fingers finding your cock and rubbing circles against the head.
“Such a good bloody pet, lettin’ me ruin you.” Ghost’s dick pries you open, bulging forcefully against your walls with each thrust, fucking you closer and closer to seeing stars. The desire within you reaches a crescendo of gasps and moans that Simon captures with his lips, muffling them amongst his own as he brings you to pieces.
His favourite way to cum is pulling out right on the edge, wrapping a calloused hand around his shaft to pump it roughly, to rub the tip against your own until it spurts thick, white cum. He spends the comedown telling you how good it looks covered in his cum, lapping it up until his cock has stiffened enough for another round.
-----
Price, in my mind, is absolutely filthy with the terms he uses. He’s suggesting things that make you wonder just what the fuck he does in his free time – “hey doll, have you heard bussy before?”
He sees your lack of preference and raises the opportunity to explore; why not fuck around and find out? It’s almost a game for him – two fingers deep in your cunt, muttering terms against the flushed heat of your thighs, feeling how you flutter in response to each one.
He particularly likes boycunt and girldick when he stumbles across them; the contrary combination of two terms designed to capture and enforce those binary confines is both exciting and satisfying to him. Some of them make him cringe – sorry, princess wand – but ultimately, he’s just trying to find something you like being called.
“Needed a good fuckin’ – ah, shit – shag this week.” His breath fans over the sweat-slicked skin of your shoulder, kissing the bitemarks one of the boys have left. “Sick o’ these fuckin’ muppets, jus’ need my good little lamb to make me feel better, huh?”
You’re tired, sore and sleepy from the orgasms he’s already pulled out of you, but the vocalisation of his need still ignites weak sparks of lust that have you fluttering around him as you mewl in compliance. You preen under his need and praise as he ruts into you, hands roaming across your body. “Gonna let me cum in you, love? Fill up this hole?”
The whines and whimpers of encouragement you emit are his fuel, growling as he builds up a slow pace again. “Such a nice, hot boypussy just to keep me wet, yeah? Made just for warming my cock.”
He mumbles filth between each needy thrust, hips flush with your ass each time he sinks back into you, and the repetitive contrast of full to almost empty as his head notches against your entrance is overwhelming. “Lemme rub that girldick, c’mon baby, let me make y’feel good.”
You’re so close that just a few touches have you crumbling, spasming around his length as he curses, forehead buried against your shoulder while he follows suit. John’s favourite part of sex is this bit – curled up, sweaty and panting, whispering praise against your skin until you’re ready to go again.