piratesfromspace

[piratesfromspace]

Valiants PLEASEEE I must know your thoughts behind those back scars you just gave Price

@bayeis my love, I would much prefer YOUR thoughts on the matter... me I just vaguely remembered hearing somewhere (maybe in the 09 game) that Price had been tortured and shot before, and figured it would show...

[piratesfromspace]

Make it dangerous to be a Nazi. Organise a group in your local community. Stalk them. Make them aware they're in danger. Show them that being a Nazi won't pass. Write Nazi on their house, lawn, door, mail. Tell everyone they're a Nazi. Make sure people know they're a Nazi. Make them feel unsafe without ever laying a finger on them.

[piratesfromspace]

[piratesfromspace]

Hey horny writer lil heads up for you guys, the “ai” google is forcing into docs to “scan for grammar errors” has been proved to also be scanning for spicy content and multiple ppl have already got notifs saying like “we’re sorry, there was a system error and some of your work was lost” and it was only the horny stuff so uh

Pleeeeease back up your files !!!! Don’t lose your horny to a robot, that’s Doc’s job, not Docs’…

[piratesfromspace]

Werewolf!Soap who’s tried so hard to keep his dog on a leash for you.

Not that he isn’t still nasty. He is. He’s still burying his nose in your pits every time you come back from hiking. You know what he is— but he’s never let you see him turn. He’s terrified of hurting you, or worse, without even knowing— he isn’t himself when he turns, he can never remember the things he does, so it’s best for everyone if he just stays away.

Until one night after a long deployment. Six months he’d been away— six months since he’d seen you, smelled you, touched you. The pair of used panties he’d taken with him had practically been worn to shreds with how often he fisted his cock with them and felt for them in his pocket. He’s so damned excited to see you, his leg thumping the entire ride home, practically sprinting away once Price dismisses him.

He’s too heavy with anticipation and need. He doesn’t keep track of the date. Of his cycle.

He wakes up at dawn with that sore, tingly feeling that follows his transformations. Once it settles in his brain, he shoots straight up. Your side of the bed is empty, save for some stray specks and one larger pool of blood staining the sheets.

Johnny immediately buries his face in his hands, bearing only to look at the evidence through the gaps in his fingers. He sobs. His worst fear in the entire world has been realized, the monster inside him that’d always hungered for you had finally got what it wanted. His stomach lurched and rolled with the possibilities— what might have ultimately become of you. Where the body was— if there was one. Maybe, if he was lucky, you crawled off and lived and would never want to see him again. But he knows his instincts would have never left escape an option— especially not when it came to you. The ring box that’s been sitting in his coat pocket is proof of that.

His entire body shakes with the torment and grief of it all, teeth clenching, his eyes shut as the tears just keep escaping. Love is over, because he killed it.

He’s so caught up in his despair that he doesn’t hear the footfalls on the floor. He doesn’t hear the clink of a glass set onto the nightstand. He doesn’t feel the dip of another weight on the bed.

Soap almost thinks it’s a trick from his deranged mind, a symptom of lupine madness, when he feels the warmth of a hand comfortingly rubbing up and down his back, another hand at his shoulder in a half-embrace.

“Baby, what’s the matter? Was it a nightmare?”

He had them, on occasion. Nature of the job, you knew that when you got involved. But he’d never seen this bad. It takes a minute or two before Johnny can bring himself to pull his trembling hands from his face, eyes puffy and wet with tears.

“B-Bonnie…? Yer… Yer okay?”

Soap was beginning to care less and less if this was a delusion. He would live in whatever reality kept you with him.

“I should be asking you that… Oh, Johnny—“ you sighed before wrapping him in a tight hug, even though his face and neck were wet and a little snotty from all of his crying.

“But, the blood—“

“Oh my god. Please, I’m so embarrassed… my period started while I was sleeping. I was so excited about you coming home that I totally lost track of the days…”

“So ye were gone because—“

“I left to clean myself up and get water… I wanted to change the sheets, but I didn’t want to wake you…” you start connecting the dots, even more embarrassed from all the worry you caused. “Did you think something happened to me?”

“Thought I fockin’ killed ye!” He says with a new wave of tears rushing to him, this time in relief. He pulls you in about as close as he can.

“Well, uhm… you basically did with like the dozen orgasms you gave me when you turned. I didn’t… I didn’t know your cock would do that thing, uhm, where it swelled up and… god, it was so hot,” you murmur, face feeling a bit warm just recalling it. A shiver runs through Johnny’s spine— your confession would have him thumping his tail if he still had it.

“Marry me.”

[piratesfromspace]

you'd do anything to fuck your boss. (18+, ghost x f!secretary)

well, he's not technically your boss. you report to captain price, but he never fails to remind his boys that there's a pretty thing that sits outside of his office that can file their paperwork and take notes for them. he's always volunteering your services to them, and all you can do is cross your legs behind your desk and smile. even if you didn't want to do it, you would never tell your captain no.

except for him—not for your favorite.

lieutenant riley is exactly the sort of thing you would ruin your career for. closed-off. angry. matter-of-fact. he dealt with no bullshit, and he said whatever he wanted to; he did not care for how anyone perceived his opinions.

there is something comforting about someone that does not wear a false face. ghost is not creepy nor is he mean (not unless you're asking for it). he tells it to you as it is, and he doesn't reserve room for comfort nor ease. he doesn't care, and that's what makes him feel safe to you. there is nothing to discover. he has no secret to hide from you. there's something transparent that he keeps close to himself, and in that way, you can't keep your eyes off of him.

oh, well—he's also built like a fucking tank.

you think often about what you might have to do to get him to look at you. he's so massive; you find yourself in meetings, watching the way he takes up whatever side of the room he's in. the chair creaking as he sits down, straining to take his weight. the top of the doorway nearly skimming his head. the way he pins you to where you are just with a fixed glare.

fuck. he's hot. when his reports come across your desk, you even feel yourself squeezing your legs together at the way he writes—eloquently, with expansive vocabulary, a keen eye for detail and a penmanship that isn't written in fucking blue crayon (you'll never forgive johnny for that shit).

capable, confident, killing machine—holy fucking shit, will you just forget you're in my bed for one night? please, please, please, please—

for fuck's sake, how hard could it be? he's just a man; and men are all the same.

it's late when you knock on his door. he likes this little corner of the base; a room with four walls and one measly window, tucked in with just enough yellow light to keep him settled. when he opens the door, you can smell the cigarette he must've been smoking. he's dressed down because of the hour; just in the shirt under his jacket and dark jeans, mask just under his nose as he blows the remaining breath of smoke he was holding to the side.

"'s late," he mutters. you're supposed to be off-base by now. at home, back in civilian life, back with people of the real world and not amongst the ones that hide from it. he talks like he doesn't care you're even there; like he didn't even notice your wet eyes.

"i-i know," you whisper. "i-i need some help. no one else is...up."

you hold up your hand, which is shaking now. the side of your hand has been sliced open—an office accident, a paper cutter in the wrong position. there's blood dripping down the skin of your arm, soaking through the thin napkin you're trying to use as a makeshift bandage. ghost tilts his head, looking down at it, and he shakes his head when he sees it.

"clumsy girl."

you sit on his desk as he flips open a first aid kit. it's quiet here, no music, no men, just the sound of the outside and the rustle of plastic as ghost fishes out a clean bandage. he already helped you clean up the cut over the sink; nothing but soap and water, big hand scrubbing at the cut until he was satisfied it was clean.

he uses his teeth to tear open a new package, and you keep your eyes on his as he smooths it over your hand. he's not looking at you; he's focused on your hands, keeping you still, and when he finishes, he finally looks at you.

"thank you," you whisper. ghost doesn't move away. he doesn't want to; if he did, he would already be out of your space. you don't flinch when he reaches a hand up, a gloved hand wiping under your eye. when your lashes flutter, ghost's nostrils flare, tongue coming out to trace along his teeth. you smile, so demure, so soft.

you look sweet; and a man has to eat.

you squeak when he takes a blade out of his boot. you meet his eyes, mouth dropping open in a pant as he licks across the metal before using the tip of it to cut the button of your blouse. you look down, a whine leaving you as he pops each button off of your blouse with a flick of his blade. the buttons scatter across the floor, clattering, and then he's closer, stretching your thighs apart, pencil skirt riding up as he slides those gloved hands up your legs until it scrunches around your wide hips.

"i know wot y'r doin'," ghost mutters. his forehead presses to yours, and you lift your knees, trapping him between your legs as you lock your ankles behind him. "think i haven't seen ya?"

"mmm..."

"oooohhh, now y'wanna play stupid, tha' 'ow it's gonna be, yeah?"

you'll play dumb and dumber until the day you die if he fucks you like this every time. the items on his desk scatter as he lays you over it, arms knocking pens and papers over as his mouth fits against yours and your little (compared to his own) hands fumble with the zipper of his jeans to get him just naked enough. he's eating you, stealing your breath, tongue laving over your teeth and around your mouth until there's spit gathering under your chin. he'd be a good kisser if he wasn't so fucking nasty about it, but it means you taste the ash that clings to him, and somehow it's good—so fucking good, take it out, take it out, take it out—

"knew you'd be big," you babble, soft hand cupping under his cock. he cradles the back of your head, tip catching between your folds, and you can do nothing but arch your back as he puts two thumbs against your pussy and fits himself inside.

he is big, in a nasty, terrible way. he's big in the way that must've turned other girls off. he's big in the way that must've made them gag, made them hurt, made them decide it was all too much and left before they could get his cock properly wet, and for that, you're taking this as a challenge.

when he presses a gloved hand over your belly and feels for the tip of his cock, you know you have him.

locked and fucking loaded.

he lets your fingers under the mask. your nails scratch over his buzzed hair under the fabric, and you hum into his mouth as he grips the outside of your thigh and pulls you even closer to him.

it'll never be the same again. you'll never be normal, not with this thing hiding you under their shadow. you'll never want another man, you'll never look at him the same way, you'll never feel as full as you at this very moment underneath him with his cock rearranging your insides and forcing your toes to curl in the heels you're still wearing.

your eyes water just as much as your pussy. you're leaking from everywhere—tears on your cheeks, slick along his cock, sweat at the base of your spine, drool in his mouth. you take it like the clumsy girl you really must be. your legs are dangling around his hips, body following his lead because you don't know what to do with yourself with how good he makes you feel.

you bare your throat as he grinds his hips. as your head tips back, his teeth catch your jaw, and when his cock punches somewhere soft, you push your hips up against his to meet him halfway. your body react on autopilot, but ghost forces you where he wants you with a stiff hand and a condescending huff.

"tha' good, innit?"

yes. yes, it's that fucking good, yes, it's the best you'll ever have, yes, you're going to make an excuse every single night so you can end up right here, underneath him, anchored against him for nothing but your pleasure. you'll do anything to come back.

you come just before him. your legs are shaking, hanging off his arms, and he buries his face into your neck when you feel his cum hot inside of you.

he pulls out slowly, chin against his thick chest as he watches the knickers he never took off of you soaked through now. he pinches the fabric between his gloved hands, sliding them off of you. he's a nasty man, and you expect him to pocket them, but what you didn't expect was his tongue to fall out, and you definitely didn't expect to see him wad up the fabric and stick it right into his mouth.

he grins, maniacal, as he sucks with a fervor before spitting it back out into his waiting hand. when your legs start to close, your thighs rubbing together for stimulation, ghost grits his teeth and shakes his head.

"oi," he pushes your legs apart, stepping between them again. "not done with you."

no, maybe ghost isn't like other men.

he's hungrier. it'll take much more than that to feed him right.

[piratesfromspace]

ghost as that one tom selleck photo right

[piratesfromspace]

New Frank pic in a leather coat

[piratesfromspace]

Simon Riley with an erectile dysfunction, who cannot get it up for you on a particularly bad day, thanks to his trauma.

And you never blame him for it (of course not), only ever reassure him that you understand, that you'll give him space or whatever he needs, though he always insists on making it up to you however he can.

Whether it's fingerfucking you until you squirt on his calloused palm or having you sit on his face while he eats your gorgeous cunt until you're overstimulated, whining and squirming to try and get away from his relentless tongue (it never works).

Or if he's in the rare mood to watch you get taken care of properly, he calls one of his most trusted brothers in arms and shares you with his team to have them fuck you into oblivion in their unique styles—knowing fully well they all fancy you one way or another.

He especially like to witness how you get to explore different kinks you're into with them; stuff Simon himself simply cannot indulge with you for various reasons.

However, in the end���it's always you and him.

[piratesfromspace]

Sparring session ⚔️⚔️⚔️

[piratesfromspace]

hello im here to ruin your day w a pornstar au konig thot. honestly this was bc im still impatiently waiting for your konig pornstar thing and now i feel like im encroaching on your turf but also idc let this be the spark that lights the fire under your ass. (his hair is a sweet berry red (violet when damp and clinging to his forehead. any complaints my discord is closed, i'm out for lunch.)

Konig's content is rare, but viral. Every drop gets millions of views, and clips flood timelines within minutes. Reaction gifs. Looped soundbites. Edits set to filthy basslines and always, always the same fevered praise: his hands. His fucking hands.

He doesn't talk much (maybe it's the nerves, or maybe he's just too focused on the body beneath him to bother). But when he does, they're just soft 'Gute Mädchen's' breathed against the curve of a shoulder and the occasional overwhelmed groan that shakes the mic.

(He keeps the mask on, always. Never shows his whole face and honestly, he doesn't need to.)

Because it's his hands the audience comes for.

They swallow his co-star's waist when he pulls them back onto his cock. His hand— broad and sure— wraps around her throat like they're claiming territory. They bracket her ribs, holding her down while he fucks her in a pace so slow (not gentle, not soft) it makes your fingertips tingle.

And when it seems like she can't take it, when she arches, squirms, begs, he just holds down tighter. His grip is merciless, anchoring her to him, to take every inch of himself.

It's brutal. It's beautiful. And you know that tomorrow, it'll be you beneath those same hands. You brace yourself the only way you can— by watching from behind the screen of your phone, waiting for your turn.

Consider my ass on fire, pants aflame. Also I’m judging you for the red haired König agenda laced within this ask. What if I give him a buzz cut?! Then what! Huh?!

Real talk love ya and thank you for motivating me to start this.

“Price wants to see you, darlin’!”

Kyle’s hand squeezes your arm as he brushes past you on his way to set, casting a devastating smile back over his shoulder.

Easily the most powerful screen presence in the studio, you remember when Kyle was fresh in the scene, nervously bouncing on his heels before takes. Now he’s a bona fide professional, pulling in thousands of views per day; that gorgeous face and talent for putting people at ease have paid off.

It’s nice to see him bloom. But it reminds you slightly of how your own season is withering.

You’ve been doing this for a long time—too long, in fact, to see anything without the jaded outlook of someone who should have given it up after the first ache of weariness in their bones.

A sour taste is left in your mouth after one too many rounds with a co-star that jackhammers into you, obsessed with their own masculinity, a vacuous need to make sure all that work in the gym has paid off in shots of their bodies.

Your own following remains high, a guaranteed success for each new video with your name tagged to it. But your love of the industry is fading faster than a dying star.

The new talent, by and large, is boring, hyper-masculine, and conceited to the extent you’ve added several names to your filming blacklist. You’ve been meaning to ask Price if you can move into directing; perhaps today will be the opportunity you need to make that happen.

Price has managed you for years, ever since you both starred in your first hit together. When he opened his own studio, naturally you followed, the intensity of your on-screen dynamic melding into an entirely natural friendship with age.

You trust each other, your relationship built on a firm foundation of mutual respect. However, that doesn’t mean Price can’t attempt to take the piss at times.

“Jesus Christ, John! Again? Really? I told you I wasn’t dealing with any more rookies!”

John leans back in his chair, a thin plume of cigar smoke casting a haze over those steady, cerulean eyes. He raises both of his hands in a conciliatory gesture, like a blackjack dealer showing his hand is over.

“Sweetheart, I know, but you’ll like him! He’s got a lot of promise, just needs a bit of a guiding hand, tha’s all! Nice fella! Ya know I wouldn’t put you with no one I didn’t think was decent.”

“I’m not a fucking babysitter, John!” You snap furiously. “I’m not the safe pair of hands you wheel out when you’ve got a nervous colt to break!”

“Of course you’re not.” John soothes, in a voice he knows full well doesn’t match the steely look in his face. “But the bloke’s pulling in serious statistics on his amateur stuff, even! It would be a bloody good opportunity for the studio, an’ we’d all make bank. Think of the bigger picture—including your shareholding.”

A low blow for a bastard who knows you still have some mortgage to pay on your second home on the coast. You scowl at him, and he looks placidly right back, unconcerned by your temper tantrum as always.

“He needs a mentor, love. Someone to show him the ropes of workin’ in a studio like ours. One video? You can do tha’ for me, eh? Then we’ll get ya nose into some direction? Other side of camera for a change?!”

John sweet-talks you far too easily. You consider it, then sigh.

“Fine. One video. But I want options on what I direct.”

“It’s a deal.” John beams, stubbing out the cigar and leaving the smell of herbs to linger between you, while your eyes remain mutinously fixed on him. “Now, why don’t ya come and say hello? I’ll introduce the pair of you; he’s filming as we speak, can get a look at him.”

You follow him through the corridors, past make-up and down the stairs. People part to let John through, and he tucks your hand into the crook of his arm, squeezing your fingers in a pattern until you giggle.

It never gets old, your affection for him. How John reads you like a book. Several starlets wave shyly at you when you pass, sweet little things you’ve chatted to during breaks or sessions in the hairdressing chair. You’re slightly protective over them, and they know to come to you with any growing pains or worries.

Finally, you reach the smaller of the sets at the end of the building, and John opens the door quietly, tugging you inside.

It’s hot, humid. The blinding dazzle of lights illuminates a false bedroom before you. It takes your eyes a second to adjust, retinas burning in the haloed glow of it all.

Then you spot him, and any coherent thought becomes lost in the vision.

Godlike, he towers over the petite blonde squirming beneath him in silken sheets. Endlessly his hips piston, abs flexing with sweat-sheened vigour as he tucks her thigh neatly around his waist.

One huge hand lays flat across her stomach, taking up more flesh than should be allowed, a thumb relentlessly bullying her clit until she arches for him, bows as strings would to an accomplished musician.

He’s fucking her deep, guttural grunts echoing from his built chest. There’s no escape for her; cornered, you watch her begin to shatter around him, toes curling, her muscles flexing tight as a silent scream scrunches her brows shut. She cums, hard and without mercy. He doesn’t stop or slow, even while his partner shudders through it.

He isn’t rough. He doesn’t need to be. A natural rhythm and a body the camera will eat up. There’s a gravitas to him, something serious that translates well into each movement. Steady control, thought behind each action, hardly the excitable buck you were expecting.

A real orgasm is a rare thing at times. This rookie spins one out of her like sweet sugar, leaving his partner’s limbs lax and syrupy.

As soon as her body relaxes, he flips her easily, rolling her front ways so the audience gets a gorgeous view of her still fluttering cunt. The perfect shot cams over his shoulder, a long, thick cock plunging in and out, coated in creamy arousal while that huge handspan spreads her ass cheeks to allow for deeper penetration.

You watch his careful approach, his stare skimming the length of her back like he’s calculating something. Then he stoops, depositing a gleaming glob of spittle on her tight, puckered asshole, pressing a thumb in shortly after that makes his partner gush with arousal.

It coats his masculine thighs, though they don’t stop bouncing, stamina and strength concentrated on guiding her through another orgasm.

“Bloody hell.” You breathe softly. John nods in response, leaning towards you so the scent of peppermint and smoke grows heavy, his arm around your waist.

“Told ya. He’s good. Very good, in fact. In front of the camera he’s a fuckin’ natural.” John pauses, tucking his arm around your waist and dragging his own stare over the pair on the bed. “Should see the way he eats pussy—would give Soap a run for his money. Half-starved and twice as desperate.”

“Natural is right.” Transfixed, you watch his broad shoulders flex. He wouldn’t look out of place in a gladiatorial arena, muscles defined with ruthless power, intention laced in those heavy brows. You’d put money on him being as adept with a sword as he is with his cock.

The girl quakes, coming down from another genuine peak, getting to her knees shakily only to bury her face in the pillow as he bears down on her again.

Chest to back, a strong forearm supports her from below, allowing his partner to squirm deliciously on his cock. Her face is flushed, a high colour in her cheeks as she moans for him on repeat.

She’s so wet, each slap of his heavy balls on her pussy makes a slick sound of skin on skin. It sends a jolting shiver along your spine, his mastery of the situation, the firm authority he holds over her body, an instrument played to perfection in his hands.

A cock that size is a gift, but he doesn’t let it do all the work. The sight of its fleshy, pale pink tip turning redder with need makes your gut lurch. It seems to swell before your stare, the sheer physical presence of him indomitable.

“What do you reckon then?” John whispers, watching you glaze over. “Will ya give him a chance for me?”

He’s building up to a crescendo, the orchestra at his fingertips while you watch each move he makes. Pulling his partner flush to his body, he toys with her, cups her breasts and plants several mean nips against her collar bone.

The poor thing is exhausted but wearing a look of utter bliss etched into every feature. From here you can see his cock throbbing, balls tightening as he rolls into her, inevitable waves crashing over a shore.

At the last second, he pulls out, sending a spurt of thin, white semen over her lower back. Thoughtfully, he rubs it into her skin while the camera blinks overhead. Marking her. Claiming her in a spectacular display you know viewers will eat up.

“What’s his name?” You ask John vaguely, eyes still fixed on the Adonis before you.

“König.” He replies.

[piratesfromspace]

Got too many asks for more of this comic to endure..

[piratesfromspace]

Price has been with plenty of people before you, All different shapes and sizes. After a few years of fooling around he prides himself in his abilities to bring someone to the brink time and time again.

So of course, when he leads you to his bed he knows what will happen. Warm palms pressing over skin as he peels of your clothes, fingers dipping low to work you open. He can hardly contain his excitement, cock throbbing with anticipation to finally stuff you full of cum.

Except the second price slides in he groans, head thunking against you shoulder and hands gripping your hips to keep them still. "Fuck- give me a moment, baby-"

He breaths hard into your skin, trying desperately not to cum while you pulse around him. He feels like an inexperienced teenager again, cumming from just a warm touch. His grip tightens when you shift your hips "im serious. Fuckin' hold still-"

You whine impatiently. Days of teasing have left you just as desperate for him. Price bites at your neck in warning, but you keep squirming. All it takes is a well timed squeeze and "fuck! Shit- baby haaah-" price whines, warmth spilling into you with thick pulses. He breathes for a long moment then growls "I fuckin' told you not to. Thats alright, we've got all night to teach you some obedience, yeah?"

Youre about to make a joke about price not lasting all night when he reaches into the bottom drawer of the nightstand and pulls out a box filled with toys. Fuck. Maybe you really will learn your lesson, judging by the size of some of those.

[piratesfromspace]

providence & judgement thy name is night shift

[piratesfromspace]

Knight Ghost would most definitely get off seeing princess just licking their spoon whilst eating. Something so innocent yet so erotic

you lick your spoon like an untrained child, it's improper. your tongue drags over milk and tea on silver, pink swiping the lingering drops of liquid into your mouth before you suck on the metal. his eyes follow every movement. ghost knows well enough that the impropriety is for his benefit, a symptom indicative of the larger problem regarding your comfort with him, but that doesn't stop it from working. doesn't stop him from chastising you to watch the way you cast your eyes down and let the corners of your lip quirk up around the spoon clutched between your teeth.

worse than that is when you pick at fruit with your fingers, sucking the juice from your skin and ducking your head to catch any spare drops that might try finding their way down your arm. truly you can't know what you do to him; practicality wins you over before he can find a napkin to wipe your lips clean and you lick those as well, and ghost is seized by a violent urge to grip your cheeks and lick you clean himself.

god he must be starved. gone are the days he'd imagine you licking his cock like that, with tentative movements, your eyes watching him pleading silently to be assured what you're doing is right. now all he thinks of is dipping his own tongue into your mouth, of pressing his thumb down against the pink thing and making you suck, of holding your throat to spit on your outstretched tongue. is he really so far gone that something so innocent could make his blood boil and his cock hard? well, he supposes to a starved man even hard tack would look like a feast.

[piratesfromspace]

I don’t care if it’s “a trance” and “they’re only doing it to hypnotize me” I think the most romantic part of being attacked by a vampire is when they cup your face and stare deep into your eyes before tilting your head up and to the side so they can reach your neck better.