Imagine being an alpha single child to an omega parent, and one day they adopt another alpha child. Your parent tells you to treat them like a blood sibling, to welcome them into the family, but you soon catch your new sibling fucking your omega parent and your parent clearly enjoying it.
When your omega parent gets pregnant, they tell you it's from a one night stand, but you know better. But that night, your parent is sneaking into your room, telling you that it's your turn now and how desperately they've wanted this, but they had to be pregnant first, of course! Because it's not wrong if you don't make babies, right?
Better yet, you or your adopted sibling have a pussy too and your omega parent encouraging you to mate with each other, to make your little family 'closer'.
Virgin little sibling who barely knows how to get themselves off properly x Whore older brother who can’t keep listening to their frustrated whines every night = Match made in heaven.
Now this but make it alpha older brother who can't help but knot the air when he listens to his omega sibling being unsatisfied, instincts yelling at him to go and help, pheromones seeping into the other room which only makes the younger brother leak more slick, crying out because he need his brother's knot inside of him to fill that empty, burning void inside, eventually giving in and crawling to his older brother who immediately pins him to the flor and forces his swollen knot inside the poor thing's leaky cunt, both finally sighing in relief, fitting perfectly together, their scents mingling in pure pleasure and satisfaction
i wonder if alphas would have a baculum as well as a knot? the baculum is a bone present in many mammals and is there to maintain a stiffer erection for a longer period of time.
oftentimes there are multiple males going after a female in heat, so there’s not much time to wait for a erection as the males have competition. i think it would be the same with alphas and omegas, with a singular omega being in demand of several alphas. whoever can penetrate and knot first “wins”, basically.
I need an omega to make me fuck a too-tight fleshlight. Cooing at me and going "I thought you said you like it tight," when I cry that it's too small. Saying "yes it will," when I whine that it won't fit. Making me force my knot inside the silicone and then scolding me for wasting my cum. What kind of alpha would knot a piece of plastic when his omega is right there? Watching me moan and whimper and try to pull the fleshlight off again but failing, and eventually just accepting my fate. It's squeezing me so hard that my knot won't go down, and if it won't go down, it will keep squeezing. So all I can do is be good for my omega and use my hands and tongue to make him cum for me. Since my dick is all useless now.
Being an omega younger sibling and your older alpha brother has a hot omega friend who's always so nice and wants to teach you how to be a proper omega. He's always so willing to help you out, take you shopping, help you look cute, teach you how to handle a heat. Him and your brother want to teach you how to satisfy an alpha together - with hands on teaching methods. Getting eased into taking your first knot with the gentle hands of the older omega.
Better yet if that friend was corrupting your brother as well, helping him see his cute omega little sibling as an object of desire and not innocently family. Having your brother fuck him, forcing your brother to wear a blindfold and moan your name as he slammed into his friend's hole. Sucking your brother off whenever you called and he answered. Brushing his hand against your brother's cock when you came into the room.
Thinking about alpha!Ghost whose rut comes earlier than expected, so he comes to you for help 🤭
Tags: SMUTTY SMUT SMUT, I know some omegaverse fics are actually really insightful and provide a lot of interesting worldbuilding but this is SO not that lmao, MDNI, Alpha Ghost, reader’s designation is left up to interpretation, AFAB GN reader, Ghost is a switch, unprotected p in v (always wrap it before you tap it IRL!!)
the POV is kind of all over the place in this one but wtv
Ghost can feel the telltale signs of a rut approaching, his skin growing hot and flushed and his cock becoming extra sensitive. The first part is easy enough to hide, he spends more time in that mask than he does out of it, after all, and his gear covers damn near every inch of skin on his body. The other thing, though…that’s the real problem. Throughout the day it only gets worse. At one point, he had to squeeze past someone in the hallway, and they brushed against his crotch by complete accident. Next thing he knows he’s gritting his teeth and clenching his fists so tightly that his knuckles turn white.
For a minute or two, Ghost seriously entertains the idea of tugging one out in the bathroom as fast as he possibly can and then getting back to work, but in the end he decides against it. He’s been through worse. He’s a soldier, dammit! He’s been stabbed, beaten, shot…he knows he can power through the rest of his day.
And he does get through the day, but damn, this has never happened to him before. His ruts were pretty regular, and he was diligent about taking his suppressants when that time eventually did come around. After all, the last thing he wanted was for anything to negatively affect the quality of his work, especially when that work involved saving and ending lives. Unfortunately for him though, he couldn’t pick up any more suppressants for at least a week. He didn’t even think he’d ever gone through a rut without them before. Something would have to be done about this before he went nuts.
————————
You, of course, noticed that your lieutenant had been acting…off. He was snippy, bouncing his leg whenever he sat down and tapping his foot whenever he stood. Whenever anyone talked to him, they would receive one-word responses at best, and vague threats at worst. You knew him pretty well- he cared for you, though he was loathe to admit it- so you picked up on his behavior right away. At first you thought something had just caused him to wake up on the wrong side of the bed that morning, but you discovered what was really wrong when everyone went to bed that night.
————————
He had tried to take care of things himself, he really had. Fucking his hand a few times before bed was usually enough to tide him over if he couldn’t find a one night stand during his rut, but that was when he was on suppressants. Right now, his cock was red and leaking, almost painfully hard as he tried desperately to get off and be done with it already. But try as he might, he just couldn’t seem to cum. He needed to be buried inside something- someone- soft and warm and wet, needed to feel them squirm beneath him as he guided his aching cock into their hole-
That’s how he ended up at your door. He still had his mask on, but he was wearing a t-shirt and boxers rather than his usual full body coverage. You couldn’t help but rake your gaze up and down the exposed skin of his arms and legs, a new (but very welcome) sight for you.
“You busy?” He ground out, his muscles taut as he tried not to pounce on you right then and there.
Your pupils dilated as the unmistakable scent of alpha filled the air, Ghost’s usual musk smelling even stronger than it usually did, and containing an unusual sweetness that indicated his arousal. You couldn’t help but take a few deep breaths, your muscles relaxing on instinct. When you met his eyes, he could tell right away that you knew what was up. He clenched his teeth, asked himself if he was really about to do this.
“Tell me to leave.” His voice was quiet, but still gruff as he spoke.
“…What?”
“You’re not stupid, you know what’s goin’ on with me. If you tell me to leave right now, i’ll do it. You can close the door, go back to bed, and i’ll deal with things myself. M’ not gonna be able to go slow with you, i’ll do my damn best, but m’ not gonna be able to treat you like you deserve. Not right now, anyway. So…tell me to leave.”
You don't. Instead, you open the door wider, step to the side so that Simon can enter. You barely have time to lock it behind you before he's on you, his hands gripping your hips almost painfully as he noses at your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
"You always smell so bloody good...drove me crazy today, y'know that? Crazier than normal, anyway." He’s panting, as if he just ran a marathon. He removes one hand from your waist for just a moment in order to roll his mask up just past his nose, then licks a stripe along the length of your neck, causing you to gasp involuntarily.
Ghost growls and begins to walk forward, causing you to stumble even as he steadies you with his hands. he manages to keep you upright for just long enough to steer you to the bed, and you fall onto the mattress unceremoniously, leaning against the headboard as he crawls into the bed too.
"Wanna taste you, darlin'. Can I? Please, lemme taste you.”
You don't have to be asked twice. You breathe out a 'yes,' and he groans in relief before yanking your pants and underwear down. You hear fabric ripping, and he grunts something about 'buying you new ones.'
There are no sensual kisses trailed down your body, no teasing swipes of his fingers. Just two big, warm hands gripping the meat of your thighs, spreading your legs as wide as they’ll go before Simon buries his face between your legs and begins to lick.
He’s sloppy, and the noises he’s making are absolutely obscene as he goes down on you. This isn’t about making you cum, this is about easing the hunger he’s felt for you ever since his rut started. And a while before that, if he was being honest with himself. It’s like he’s in a trance, his eyes rolling back in his head as he laps at you, satisfied rumbles coming from deep in his chest as he murmurs about how good you taste, how wet your perfect little cunt is getting just for him.
When he has his fill and comes back to his senses, he’s humping your mattress. He came in his boxers at some point, but he’s already rock hard again. He looks up, and you’re flushed and panting, your thighs twitching. He realizes that he’s been eating you out for who knows how long, and you haven’t even gotten to cum yet. He growls at the thought, his instincts screaming at him.
Take care of mate. Make mate feel good. Fill them up, plug their hole with your knot so that they stay full. Be such a good alpha for them that they’ll never want to leave this room again, keep them wet and satisfied and close to you and-
“S-Simon…”
Fuck. Those eyes of yours, wide and watery as you stare at him. He can practically hear your thoughts. ‘He cant help his instincts. This isn’t about you, not right now. He needs this, needs to satisfy the burning desire eating away at his insides.’
Bullshit. If his mate isn’t satisfied, then neither is he. He focuses, manages to dispel some of the lustful fog clouding his mind, and huffs out a breath. He licks his lips, savoring your taste before one of his hands cups your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone in a featherlight caress.
“Fuck. Sorry, darlin’. Y’ just taste so good. Lemme make it up t’you, yeah? How d’you want me?”
“Simon, you don’t have to. I know you’re-“
“How. Do you. Want me.” He interrupts, leaving no room for argument. Your resolve quickly crumbles, and your gaze settles on the hand that’s still gripping your thigh.
“F-Fingers. Want your fingers, Simon, then your knot…”
“I think I can manage that, sweetheart. Gotta make my lil’ mate happy, yeah? Stretch this sweet fuckin’ cunt out, get it all ready to be filled…”
As Simon speaks, he cups your sensitive pussy, callused fingers parting your folds and finding your clit. He rubs circles on it with his thumb, then wastes no time thrusting two fingers into you. He pumps them in and out, his pace slow at first before picking up speed.
“Fuck, look at tha’. My fingers are slidin’ right in, sweetheart. You want me that bad?”
“S-Says the guy who- oh, fuck, right there- showed up at m-my door at midnight…” You respond in between moans, unable to help yourself from bantering with him even as he’s curling those two fingers inside of you while thumbing at your clit, working you up to an orgasm in record time.
“Lucky I want ya so bad right now, or else i’d put that smart mouth t’ good use.” He grits out, flicking his wrist just right. Your thighs clamp shut around his hand, hips bucking as the heel of his palm grinds against your sensitive clit. Your pussy flutters around his fingers, and then you cum with a cry of his name.
“Shh, shh…tha’s it, doin’ so good f’me. Told you i’d give this pussy what it needs, didn’t I? Bet you’ll take my cock just as nice, won’t you, sweetheart?”
“Yes, please…” You nod.
“Please who.”
“Please, alpha!”
Simon’s pupils are blown so wide that his eyes almost look black. He snarls, and then he’s surging forward to claim your mouth in a filthy kiss. It’s all tongues and teeth; he nips at your bottom lip as he shoves his boxers down past his thighs, freeing his leaking cock. He gives a few slow rolls of his hips, dragging his length along your slit and coating it in wetness to make it all the more easy when he finally enters you.
There’s no warning, just a rough snap of his hips and a brief twinge of pain before you’re stretching to accommodate him, your arms wrapping around his neck on instinct.
“S-Simon, I- fuck, so big-!” You cry you as he bullies his cock into you and sets a brutal pace. He buries his face in your neck once again and inhales deeply, the intoxicating scent of your sweat and arousal causing his knot to swell.
He doesn’t know how long he spends thrusting into you, how many orgasms he wrings out of your perfect body until you’re spent and boneless beneath him, how many times you’ve moaned his name. All that matters is that with a final roll of his hips, he’s burying himself inside your cunt and panting against your neck as he floods your pussy with cum.
“Yes, yes- fuckin’ take it. Take my cum…ngh!”
His knot plugs you up as rope after rope of his release shoots into your cunt, making you feel completely stuffed and sated. When you and Simon come down from your respective highs, he flops down onto his side and gathers you into his arms, your sweat slicked bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. He’s still inside you- his knot will take a while to deflate- but he does his best to make you as comfortable as possible, pressing kisses to your cheeks and forehead with a tenderness that belies his earlier fervor.
“So good…did so good f’ me, darlin’. Get some rest now, yeah? I’m not done with you yet.”
The werewolf fbi agent assigned to you catches you fucking yourself one night.
Actually, he wasn’t supposed to be monitoring you through your phone at night but he was bored and lonely and he got curious about your night routine so he used his credentials and got access to your phone’s camera and mic, right on time to watch you cum. He wasn’t expecting that, and knew he should’ve felt guilty and turned it off, but just that little glimpse made him so fucking hard he had to stroke his dick and keep watching in hopes you’d keep going. And of course you did, cumming multiple times and falling asleep with your phone still in front of your face. And he came so hard he had to change his sheets immediately. And now he’s obsessed.
When the sun’s out he tells himself he wouldn’t do it that day. That it was wrong and he could get in trouble if someone ever finds out. But as soon as he gets home he loses the battle and tunes in for the show, semi hard cock already in hand. He gets aroused even when you're doing mundane things, like following a recipe or watching tv while browsing on tumblr. That’s like foreplay to him until you’re ready to go to bed and start touching yourself.
At first he was fine with what little of you could be seen through your phone; it was enough for him to see your adorable flushed face and hear your moans. But as days pass his obsession grows. He needs to see your body from all the angles he can get so he hacks your security system. He even gets into your house one day when you’re out and installs his personal cameras and a few hidden mics here and there. He sends subliminal messages with his own voice through your alexa when you’re asleep to break your mind and get you fucking yourself for hours on end. You’ve never been into monsters but suddenly you’re interested in buying a knotted dildo after getting tons of ads of this specific model that supposedly emulates the real thing, and is even modeled after a real werewolf dick!
It’s all a fantasy to him, and it's not harming you so what’s the problem? It’s not like he’s going to make a move on you, right?
Request: Can we just continue with portal series? It's perfect
A/N: You can understand the story better if you read part 1 and part 2. Enjoy!
Depraved approach (part 3)
Werewolf x chubby fem!reader || sex toy, sex portal, free use (kinda), knotting, feral sex/rut, squirting, (very light) dirty talk
You are in the middle of a grocery run, almost done and ready to go home. You are tired after all the prepping you do for this month’s full moon. The effects of it started to show on your boyfriend last night, and he insisted on eating you out for three hours before you asked for mercy.
And today, you are expecting some more of that. Hopefully, the full moon effect doesn’t get too bad yet. There’s still a couple of days until it’s due...
But you must have miscalculated the pull of the moon.
Because the second you feel something at the entrance of your pussy, you’re in the middle of a parking lot.
He drives in with one hard thrust, his dick hitting as deep as possible, and going so fast you know it’s not coincidence. That he’s not just teasing you. There’s an edge of need in each thrust, which means the full moon effect must be here earlier than anticipated. Fuck.
You barely make it back to your car, closing the doors behind you and dialing him with trembling fingers as you feel him fuck into you over and over. Fuck, you are about to come and he barely started.
You try to reduce your moaning to a minimum, scared that someone could hear you. The parking lot is pretty deserted, but you never know. “Come on, come on, pick up the phone,” you chant as you feel the telltale sign of him changing angles to hit your G-spot without mercy.
He picks up the phone the moment you let out a whine so lame you’d be embarrassed if not for the way your pussy is clenching. “What?” He barks as you try to re-focus your eyes enough to see in front of you. His voice is strained and you can feel exactly why.
“The full moon-” You start, but your voice breaks when he nails your G-spot again.
“Is here early,” he finishes. You can hear the wet sounds of his dick driving into the portal toy. “Fuck. Yes. I need you so bad.” There’s a hint of feral in his tone, and you are almost drooling already. You love him a bit feral.
But you need to make it home first. “I could be there in ten minutes. I just need… I can’t drive with you fucking me,” you finish after another gush of juices around his dick when he ruts over your G-spot like a professional in pussyology. He knows how to fuck you to have your pussy melting so rapidly...
“I- I need- I need to come first. Please. Please,” he sounds desperate and you can’t deny him when he’s like that.
“Okay. Okay. Fuck.” You moan, his pacing becoming frantic. “Hard and fast, hon. Let me feel you come deep into my pussy. Fuck me hard, knot me so I can get to you and you can have the real thing,” you mumble to the phone, trying to help him away. Not that he needs it. Not with the way he’s fucking into you like a piston.
You can picture him perfectly in your head: his furry body arched as he holds the flashlight between his claws, fucking into it and wishing it was you on top of him, but too desperate to wait. His neck tense as he moans and howls, his wolfy ears twitching above his head when his orgasm approaches...
He’s fucking you relentlessly, and you can’t do anything to endure it and squirm in the car seat, your pussy being filled so well you can’t keep your eyes open. You are biting down on your hand not to scream, when you feel the first telltale sign of a knot expanding at the entrance of your pussy.
You let out a broken moan and he reciprocates with a howl. Your pussy squeezes around the knot inside of you and more juices come gushing out of you. Just like all the other times, you hear a roar over the phone and another orgasm rips through your body.
But this time something is different.
There’s a pleasure inside of you building, something big about to happen. It takes you three more shots of his come and the rut of his knot against your G-spot to realize. But it’s too late. You let out a scream that probably alerts everyone in three blocks of what’s happening. You grab the steering wheel and your hips start to move uncontrollably as you squirt.
You come back into your senses to feel utterly embarrassed and incredibly uncomfortable. Your pants are completely drenched, and you are one second away from mortification. You can still feel his knot inside of you rubbing against your G-spot and sending aftershocks through your body. His come dripping down your pussy and adding to the mess in your ruined panties as you try to catch your breath.
But your werewolf boyfriend, being the asshole he is… “Did you just squirt in public?” He asks with such amusement in his voice you are about to be set on embarrassing flames.
“Shut it,” you tell him, trying to sound harsh but coming out as a broken moan that only makes him laugh harder. “I’ll be there in ten,” you finally say. “And you are cleaning the car,” you add, feeling the way the seat is damp under you already. Disgusting.
His laughter warms your heart even if you pretend it doesn’t. “I’ll clean the car once you squirt over my knot again,” he tells you.
His voice sounds like a promise, and if you hit the gas a bit more than intended… Nobody will know.
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
you can build off this if you want i jus have this fantasy and i feel like im edging myself not knowing whats gonna happen next. just imagining being in close quarters with werewolf best friend while wearing tights…for some reason limited space requires you to sit on his lap. You’re nervous and he subtly massages down your thighs, relaxing you. As the minutes pass on he coaxes your legs further and further apart and has you seated tight with your back against his chest. He keeps your clothed pussy flush against his huge hard cock in his jeans. Your friends don’t notice as your ass and hips begin to quiver and shift, causing him to press you down further. He shoves his meaty fingers down your throat to keep you quiet as he expertly shifts his own hips and uses his free hand to orient you how he needs. I just wonder how long he’d have you like that. How wet you’d be and how hard and painful his cock would be jutting into your slow, rocking pussy. I wonder how he’d address it in private, and how he’d take you once the tension finally blew again. Would he show it off to your other friends? would he make a mission of stretching and spreading every part of you like he did your thighs? Are you in a car? Watching a movie? Bonfire? So much to think about I just think the massive surface area of his huge cock and hard, muscular thighs would feel so good to just grind and wither against. Maybe you make so much of a scene your other friends decide you’re theirs for the taking.
Tight Quarters PART 1 (werewolf best friend x fem reader)
Kate: Hey moonlust crewwww and dear anon! This one was a WILD ask in the best way. It got so out of hand that I had to split it into 2 parts!!!
Note: while writing this, the werewolf (I named him Marcus) turned into a very touchy, very feral werewolf. Before I knew it, I was hard into the possessive werewolf best friend trope! Marcus has been secretly obsessed with reader forever, so there’s NO way he’s staying normal with her squirming on his lap in tights for that long or even sharing her.
Anyway, I kept the vibe focused mostly on him and reader AND I ran wild with the tension and the 'finally snapping after holding back too long' energy!!!
Hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it and stay tuned for part 2 with more smut 😭 Hugs!!!
Summary: A mountain cabin. A sudden storm. Your werewolf best friend's lap is the only seat left. What could go wrong? Everything.
TW: NSFW, submitted compliance, public semi-public, size difference, grinding, dry-humping with clothes on, mouth fingering, super pro max possessive behavior, primal, sexual tension.
GO TO PART 2
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The cabin had seemed like a good idea three days ago.
A cozy retreat. Wood-paneled walls. A stone fireplace. Friends gathered together.
Perfect weekend.
Then the sky split open.
The rain started before sunset. By midnight, the roads were flooding and the power kept flickering hard enough to make everyone nervous. Leaving was impossible. Trees had fallen somewhere down the main road.
Thunder cracked.
Then the power flickered.
Once. Twice.
Then nothing.
Darkness swallowed the living room.
"Shit." Marcus's voice rumbled from somewhere behind you, that deep growl that did things to you. "That's it. Power's out for real this time."
Your other friends groaned from their spots scattered around the living room; Sarah curled on the loveseat, Derek sprawled on the rug, Jenna and Tom sharing the armchair by the dimmed fireplace.
But you? You'd been the last one through the door when the storm hit, which meant the only spot left was the corner of the small couch. The corner already occupied by Marcus's massive frame.
Your best friend since freshman year. The person who knew every embarrassing thing about you (well... almost everything). The werewolf who'd grown from lanky, awkward teenager into a muscled beast with dark fur and emerald eyes that made your mouth dry.
He'd patted the cushion next to him when you'd hesitated. "Come on. Promise I don't bite."
You'd perched there nervously at first, your weight barely grazing his denim-clad leg, body angled awkwardly so you wouldn't have to touch him. You wore tights, black tights because Jenna said casual night, but they fucking squeaked against the worn couch fabric as you shifted.
"Settle," Marcus whispered so the others wouldn't hear. His hand found your hip, fingers spreading across. "You're gonna fall off like that."
"I'm fine."
"You're trembling."
Were you? You couldn't tell anymore. His body heat rolled off him in waves, that particular warmth and musk he gave off, and every small adjustment you made brought some new part of you into contact with some new part of him.
Lightning cracked.
Sarah squealed.
Derek snorted.
And Marcus's hand slid from your hip to your thigh. Resting there. His palm cupped the outer curve of your leg through those stupid, stupid tights. His thumb stroked absent circles against the fabric. The motion hypnotic. Unthinking.
He doesn't know what he's doing, you told yourself. It's just Marcus. He's always been tactile. He's always touched you without thinking.
But his thumb traced higher. Then lower. And your muscles started unknotting without your permission. Your spine softened. Your pelvis tilted backward. Your body curved toward him like a flower seeking sunlight.
"You're wound tight," he observed, still pitched for your ears only. "When's the last time someone took care of you?"
"Marcus—"
"Shh. Just breathe."
Another crack of thunder.
You jumped. Your shoulder blades met his chest. And his arm came around you.
Oh.
Oh no.
His cock was already half-hard against your lower back. A thick bar of heat that nudged against you when he shifted, pulling you deeper into the cradle of his body. Your breath caught in your throat and stuck there.
"There you go," he purred. "That's better."
While you hyperventilated, his hand continued moving.
Up your thigh. Down. Wider each time, coaxing your legs apart millimeter by millimeter. Until you realized you were practically sitting back on him, your knees spread open, your tights-clad pussy pressing against the ridge of his zipper.
"Marcus." Your whisper barely existed. "People can see—"
"They can't see shit. Lights out. Phones are dying. Phones are dead, actually. Look around, sweetheart."
You did.
The cabin existed in shades of gray.
No one was looking at you.
No one could see Marcus's hand on your thigh.
"See?" His thumb traced the inside of your knee. "Nobody's paying attention. So stop being afraid."
"I'm not afraid of—"
"No? Oh... I see..."
"What?"
"You smell sweet." His nose brushed your temple, inhaling. "Really sweet."
Heat flooded your face. "I—I don't know what you mean."
"Mhm." Another inhale. Longer this time. His chest expanded at your back. "You do."
His thumb pressed lightly into the inside of your thigh and you bit back a moan. "Wait..."
"There it is," he said, voice rough. "You’re not scared of the storm. So tell me what’s got you this worked up while sitting in my lap, sweetheart."
"Nothing."
He chuckled. "Liar. I can smell it. That sweet, wet pussy scent. And I know you didn't piss yourself." His thumb traced higher. "This is arousal, sweetheart. Your cunt's dripping. Leaking all over my jeans. I can feel it through the denim."
Oh god.
Your face incinerated both at his words. Your core clenched. Fuck, he was right. More slick bloomed between your thighs, soaking through the thin gusset of your panties, darkening the tights above your seam.
"Why?" he murmured. "You can tell me. I'm your best friend."
That's the problem.
Your throat closed around the words. You'd been hiding this for years. You liked him. Had always liked him. Because of him, your dreams had turned into something you couldn't admit to yourself, let alone to him. The way you'd touch yourself at night, imagining his hands, his mouth, his—
"I... I don't know..."
"Bullshit."
"Wh—no, I didn’t—" you stammered.
"Shhh, easy now," he soothed. "I need to check. Make sure you're okay. Spread those legs for me."
You hesitated, biting your lip, but instinct and hunger made you obey. Shyly, you parted your thighs more. He tutted and his hands hooked under your knees, prying your legs wider apart and outside his.
"Like that. Good girl."
Behind you, his muscular hips shifted.
The hard column of his cock, (and god the sheer size of the thing) nudged the cradle of your ass. You felt it jump against you as he settled deeper into the couch. His free hand came up to your waist, fingers splaying across your stomach, and he pulled you flush against his chest.
"Feel that?"
He rolled his hips. Just a small, testing movement.
His cock dragged against your pussy through all those layers. Denim. Tights. Panties. Still, you felt the inhuman thickness pressing against your clothed slit like it wanted to split you open right then and there.
"Fuck... mmhp!"
He covered your mouth before another sound escaped. Shoved two thick digits past your lips and pressed down on your tongue.
"Don't want them hearing how desperate you are, do you?"
In the dim glow of someone's dying phone—Sarah's, probably, because she'd been conserving battery, you could see the room. Sarah scrolling, oblivious. Derek still watching the rain. Jenna and Tom tangled together in the armchair.
No one was looking.
No one saw Marcus's hand slide down your belly, over the mound of your pubic bone, until two thick fingers pressed directly against the soaked fabric covering your clit. You whimpered mutely and wiggled on his lap.
"Be good," he murmured, his finger pulling away from your clit. "Why are you trying to run from me?"
"’m not—" you mumbled through the fingers in your mouth.
"You are."
His nose skimmed behind your ear, breathing you in again.
"You know the funny thing?" he said softly. "You started soaking through those little tights the second you sat beside me."
"No-mphhh!"
"You did." His fingers pumped in your mouth, ruining your ability to think. "Been feeling you squirm this whole time. Every time you shifted, your cunt leaked a little more. By the time the lights went out, you'd already soaked through."
"St-op... mphh... teasing..."
"But it's cute." His fingers danced over your tongue. "You were perfectly fine around everybody else tonight. Laughing. Eating popcorn. Playing board games like a normal person." His hips rolled again, grinding his length against your seam. "Then you sit on my lap and suddenly you're a mess."
You whined low, hit by the absolute truth of his words.
He smiled against your skin. "You wanna know what that tells me, sweetheart?"
You couldn’t answer. Your teeth had sunk into his fingers, your hips moving without your permission.
"It tells me this isn’t the storm making you wet.” His mouth brushed your temple. "It’s me."
You couldn't answer. You gyrated slightly, rocking against him. Your ass grinding against his lap, your tights-slick pussy dragging across his trapped cock, seeking friction, anything to ease the awful, wonderful ache building between your thighs.
Marcus's fingers returned, teasing your clit through the tights. "That's it. Use me. Take what you need."
His hips answered your rhythm. Thrusting up against you in counterpoint. And god, he got even harder; you could feel the shape of his cock clearly. The broad flare of the head. The heavy shaft. The weight of his balls.
He was huge. Bigger than any human of course, and somehow your body craved that stretch, even though you knew it would break you open.
Your thighs quivered. Your stomach clenched.
The pressure in your core built and your rocking turned frantic, while you suckled at his fingers, grateful for something to keep you quiet. He kissed your cheek. Curled his digits, caressing the soft palate of your throat.
"That's right," he rasped. "Choke on my fingers while I use this pretty cunt through your panties. You're so fucking wet I can feel it creaming."
He wasn't wrong. Your arousal had soaked through everything. The ridges of his jeans caught on your clit through the tights, sending sparks up your spine, and your eyes rolled back as he altered his angle.
"You want to cum. You want to soak through your tights and make a mess all over my cock, right here, with everyone in this room."
You shook your head frantically around his fingers.
"It's going to happen, sweetheart." He laughed darkly. "I can feel you fluttering. Your cunt's trying to milk something that isn't even inside it." His hips circled, grinding his length against your seam, and you felt the heat of him even through the denim. "You're gonna cum. But when you do, you're gonna do it quietly."
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—
Your orgasm overwhelmed you.
A silent, powerful thing that ripped through your spine and had your thighs trembling against his legs. Your pussy pulsed against his trapped cock, your hips rocking in staccato jerks as you rode out the pleasure on his lap.
Your mouth opened wide around his fingers but no sound came out except a muted "guhhhhh—"
Saliva spilled down his knuckles. Behind you, Marcus's entire body went rigid, his cock throbbing against your twitching pussy through the denim, and he let out a breath that was almost a whine.
"That's my good girl," he whispered, pulling his slick fingers from your mouth. Strings of spit connected his knuckles to your lower lip. "So pretty when you fall apart for me."
You slumped against his chest, panting, vision blurring at the edges. Your walls still pulsed in little aftershocks that made you clench around nothing. You could feel the wet spot you'd left on his jeans.
Suddenly, the power flickered back on.
The lights blinded you.
"Well," Sarah said, glancing up from her phone, "that was dramatic. You two okay back there?"
"I'm fine," you mumbled, hazy and embarrassed.
Thankfully, Marcus had acted before anyone could notice a thing. He'd shifted you fully into his side, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other pulled your legs across his lap. You were tucked against his chest, curled into the warmth of his chest.
His jeans were ruined.
So were you.
But nobody could see it.
"She's scared of thunder," Marcus said smoothly.
Derek snorted. "Didn't take you for the type to do cuddling, Marc."
"Everyone needs something." Marcus's voice dropped, pitched for your ears alone. "And some of us are about to get everything."
------------------------------------
GO TO PART 2!!!
Meanwhile, show some love if you enjoyed :) Hugs and kisses :)
A pained yelp escaped my throat and my tail flagged in a desperate push as you pulled the second squirming puppy out from between my trembling legs, quickly getting to work on drying the newborn and setting it aside in a basket with its previously born sibling. This was the second litter I've ever birthed for you, and like last time, you were intent on having me whelp as quickly as possible so you could get me knocked up again with next season's show prospects.
I writhed in my pile of blankets, shifting onto my side and whining painfully as you probed my large belly for the positioning of the next pup. An ultrasound had showed six mid to large size fetuses crowding my womb, so with two delivered, there was four left to go. I panted as your hand palmed my swollen breasts, massaging and pinching each nipple along my abdomen. Doing so encouraged my contractions to return, and I whined loudly, gritting my teeth as the urge to push again rose.
You forced my leg open and inserted your fingers inside of me, commanding me to "Push, push, push, goooood dog." And I obeyed, crying out as I bore down, tail arching, raised leg trembling. You were able to feel the pup, and grab hold of its front legs in my birth canal. You massaged my belly and applied counter pressure as I pushed again, trying in vain to squirm away from your touch. I wanted so badly just to give birth quietly in a corner instead of being rushed through the process, but you don't get that luxury when you make your owner the most money only while pushing out puppies.
Another strong, painful push with your assistance brought the pup to a crown, and I panted as the large head slowly bulged and stretched my cunt. You tugged on the puppy's front legs again and I pushed on reflex, birthing the head in a rush of fluid. Another insistent tug and I bore down once more, the rest of the puppy being delivered with a desperate shove. All I could do was sit there and try to catch my breath as you cleaned the third pup and united it with its siblings.
I whined and shifted uncomfortably onto my back, letting my legs flop open to the sides as I labored for a few more moments. You soon returned, massaging my womb once more and inserting your fingers into my cunt to feel for the next pup. "Give me a push, dog." You ordered, and I strained hard as a contraction ripped through me. "Good mutt, push again." You spoke firmly, and I obeyed, howling in pain as you found the pup and tugged on it, trying to force me to whelp quicker. I pushed desperately, my belly visibly contracting and legs shaking as I fought to birth your litter, following each command to bear down. The fourth pup's head bulged behind my sore lips and you tugged again. I cried out as the head was born into your hands. "Last push, come on dog." You snapped. I didnt get a chance to process it before you were forcing me to push, pulling the pup's writhing body free from my puppy cunt. Just two more to go, and I'll be promptly knocked up again to repeat the process.
baby's up restless, tossing and turning in bed, reluctant to ask mama or papa for help. after a few long seconds, baby gets out of bed with a pillow pressed to their chest as they quietly walk to the primary bedroom, greeted by the act they so very needed.
mama was caressing papa's back, sweet moans from her lips while papa grinded his hips down against her. she was singing soft, sleepy praises for papa's warmth and how she loves the way he feels. all baby could think of was wanting to feel that warmth too.
the little one held their pillow to their face, bashfully watching while they felt a tingly feeling in their tummy. they watched papa grow more eager to help mama, pinning her down on the bed and growling declarations of love as the scent of sex grew thick around them. it was exciting for baby to smell their love in the air.
soft little steps approached and at seeing how focused mama and papa was, they felt it only right to settle down at the bedside- setting their pillow on the floor before sitting above it, resting their head against the mattress. their body felt warm and their pajamas felt a bit sticky by their thighs, but as baby heard the moans of relief they had to cover their mouth to hide their whine for attention.
they were so needy to be lulled to sleep that they didn't even realizing that their hips were moving against their pillow, and that papa was looking down at them with a knowing smile. papa always knew what baby wanted, beckoning them to get in bed to keep warm too. baby grabbed their pillow and hopped on the mattress, looking at papa with flushed cheeks.
"please papa..? can you help me sleep like mama? can't sleep, 'm sorry.." yet baby knew papa wouldn't be mad, he never was. papa always told them to come ask papa to help them sleep; that's what led to baby and mama cuddling together, papa's fingers gently working to ease baby's active thoughts to mush, and giving mama firm, steady thrusts with guilty pleasure for loving the sight of both of them coming undone by him.
on top of that, mama held baby's head close to her chest, wanting baby to nurse from her chest because why wouldn't she want to help her precious little one? baby happily complied to suckle on her nipple, the sensation pulling them to sleep in the best way possible, surrounded by the warmth and love their parents gave them and being treated like their little baby<3
i disappear for like a week and then you all have to deal with me typing out all my thoughts as i edge myself for hours. forcing myself to keep my fingers busy so i can't even touch myself. only allowing myself to touch my nipples as a relief. my panties are soaked, sometimes i get to the point i'm so desperate my hips will lift, my thighs will twitch, like my body is so desperate to find anything to rut against. and when i get to that point i can orgasm from just nipple play. it feels so good for a brief moment, but then i'm soaked through to my shorts. my cunt aches. i need to be fucked. i used to give in then and fuck myself until i saw stars. but lately i've been forcing myself to continue edging. to pinch my sensitive nipples and ignore my dripping cunt and to keep typing
remember when i said i was trying to quit smoking…
…yeahhh
anyway ghost has a cigarette settled between his chapped lips all while staring up at you. you’re riding him, although your movements are sloppy.
one massive hand sits atop your thigh, relaxed but every so often he gives it an encouraging squeeze cause “you’re doing such a good job for me, darlin’”
you’re sensitive. barely able to sit up straight as your pubic bone grinds against the patch of hair at the base of his cock. he’s buried so deep you don’t know where you end and he begins.
he has a hand resting behind his head, his biceps and the fat of his arms bulging each time he tenses. your inner walls drag along a vein that makes his eyes almost roll back into his skull.
“tha’s it…tha’s my girl. use me. i know that pussy’s missed me. let’s make sure she gets her fill.”
Also, shoutout to @wooceanic becuase she requested, and i got inspired ;P
The first time you realized Simon was actually making love to you was after your first big fight, when you had given him the silent treatment for almost two days.
You didn't live with him then, so you tried to ingore his texts and calls, simply choosing to rot at work until the dead of night just to keep your brain from obsessing over him.
Oh, but how naive you were to think you could escape him, or that he could last a day without seeing you.
He still had a key to your place just in case, a fact you totally forgot about until you walked in and found him waiting on your couch like a lovesick puppy, with an order from your favorite Chinese restaurant.
You really had him completely wrapped around your finger, you realized, smiling to yourself.
By the time he actually started begging for forgiveness, you were too far gone to remember why you were even pissed.
He had you down bad, too. So dumb of you to think otherwise.
Your bodies moved in sync and with the way his hips rolled with every drive, sinking deeper with every movement he gave you, you simply forgot your own name.
He had your legs spread wide, bent almost to your shoulders, creating that sharp, sweet tingle in your belly every time he slammed into your sweet spot. And oh god, that fucker knew exactly how to hit it perfectly.
Every. Damn. Time.
He did that thing where he would curve his hips up and hold there for a moment, whispering into your ear, "It's right there, huh? I found it again." His head was buried in your neck, and the pathetic, desperate whimpers he let out after he felt how wet and warm you were, filled with his cum, made you clench your pussy around him even more, turning him into an animal obsessed with dragging every last orgasm out of you.
Then it hit you. That this time was different.
Usually, sex with him was hard and rushed. It wasn't bad, but this? Yeah, it was something else.
He never whimpered like that. He was taking his time, watching every twitch of your body, caressing you slowly until you fell apart again and again, and it was so fucking hot seeing him like that.
He practically begged for your forgiveness by fucking you slow and deep into the mattress.
"Si, look at me," you managed to gasp between moans, yanking at his messy blonde hair until his eyes met yours.
"You feel so good, love," he whimpered while looking into your half opened, glazed eyes, his pace growing slower. His hand was on your breast, squeezing and rubbing your nipple between his fingers. "Will you forgive me, and let me cum inside again?"
"If you keep fucking me like this I might."
His hips stilled, but his cock remained buried deep inside while he started grinding slowly, so you could feel every inch, every vein, and that delicious curve of his cock pulsing inside you. Almost as if he wanted to prove how good he was for you.
"Please, love, forgive me." He hooked your thigh around his shoulder, fingers digging into your skin and already leaving red marks.
"Fuck, let me just fill you up, pretty girl," he groaned into your ear while gently nibbling your lobe.
You gasped, eyes rolling back, but you could not care less because you felt so incredible. You dug your nails into his bare back, tracing lines along his muscles and scars. They moved along with him, and you smiled, feeling the goosebumps erupt on his skin.
"God, you're going to make me cum if you don't stop, Si." You bit into his swollen from kissing lips drawing a little bit of blood, the pleasure forced its way down your body. You tugged harder seeing how he wanted to hide in your neck already, his eyes were completely lost, and it made you clench around him. Usually, you were the one who struggled with eye contact.
"Yeah? - thrust - You're gonna cum again? - another thrust, this time he reached for your puffy clit. You felt his thumb rubbing delicate circles, not to overstimulate you - You can cum - thrust that pulled the filthiest and loudest moan out of you - as much as you need, baby. I've got you."
"Oh god, Simon, I'm..."
"I know. Fuck yeah, cum on my cock, sweet thing. Please, cum on me, I'm begging you." He whimpered.
Since then, everything changed. He would make love to you on every occasion, simply because being that close and intimate with you became addictive in a way. Fuck it, he just loved it. After all, he felt like your relationship was turning into something serious, so it was only fair to care for your needs in every possible way. God, he loved giving it to you. Just looking at you in the bathroom brushing your teeth wearing nothing but his shirt made his cock go rock hard, and hearing your pretty moans and sighs was a different story entirely.
Yeah, he was obsessed with making love with you.
Well, and shame on you it took such a small effort for him to bribe you...
sitting in daddy's lap in front of a mirror as he shows you how to touch yourself. "see? you just rub your little clit like this." you can't help but shiver. "does that feel nice, baby?" you nod. he moves your hand over to your clit. "now you try."
your rub your clit furiously until you start to feel warm and tingly. "daddy, i feel weird."
"it's okay kiddo, that's supposed to happen. Just keep going."
"i can't," you cry. "it's too much. feels like i'm gonna explode."
"i'll help you, baby." he places his hand over yours and rubs you faster and faster until you're dripping all over the floor and letting out high-pitched squeals. that warm and tingly feelings rushes over your whole body and suddenly you're squirting everywhere.
" good job, baby. my little girl did so good for me."
Of course it hurts. You're too tiny down there sweetheart. That's why we're going to stretch it out. We're going to stretch out your dolly hole then it won't hurt so bad. See? I know baby. Cry in your pillow. It's ok I love you. Shh shh, that's a girl, just let me do it. Let me make my thing feel good inside your tum tum. You're doing so well for me. I'm so proud of you. Show me you love me, spread your skinny legs out wider. Don't be a dumb baby. You a big girl now. Say it! "I'm a big girl now. 🥺"
That's right! Yes you are! UGH! Yes, you are! Ugh! God yes. So tight, and so tiny. We'll fix that right up, with my thick hard cock!!
