sometimes, sleeping over at inexperienced!simon's place means waking up in the middle of the night with sticky upper thighs and a shiny cock head slicking itself between your legs. tiny grunts sound out in the dark behind where you lie, naked and half-awake, while simon's thrusts are wet with noisy squelches that resonate with his spontaneous, dead-of-night need.
you croak out a sleepy groan, unknowingly squirming your legs in a way that squeezes the thick of him just right. the man whines a pitiful sound, hips grinding until he's pushing up against your ass. an arm wraps around your front to yank you even closer.
ās-saw this on a video once,ā he tells you. ādidnāt think it would feel good asāis.ā
"mm, si... whaā"
simon's only responses are quiet whines, balls sagging against his own thigh as he keeps fucking himself closer to his edge between yours.
you're much too warm for him to last much longer, and he doesn'tāseeping out the first ropes of a thick load, only to use the mess to keep fucking himself brainless until he can't anymore.
there aren't any complaints from you when he rolls you over nice and soft, still pulsing as he kisses down your back, past your ass. gentle licks of a tongue along your inner thighs and big hands palming your ass lull your eyes back shut. simon, only after lapping you as clean as he can, dozes off with his face pressed into your right ass cheek.
Ghost is ugly, it's a fact he's learned to live with. It'd never truly been an insecurity...until now.
You find ghost stood in the bathroom of your apartment, the one that you practically share at this point, staring at the mirror. He's got that subtle scrunch to his nose that would be a pinched expression on anyone else.
"Si, what're you doing, baby?" You ask, wrapping your arm around his side, leaning into his space. Your eyes drift down to his hand, holding various pamphlets. "What's this?"
Simon holds the pamphlets up for you, and a quick glance has you frowning. Reconstructive surgery. Worn at the edges, as if stored in a bag for a long time, something he got years ago. Still, he asks "would you...would you prefer if I got my face...fixed?"
"Simon..." you whisper, shocked. Ghost trails a hand over his face, fingertips dipping into the grooves of scars and catching over bits that never healed right. They pause over the gash that tore a hole straight through his cheek.
"I can't eat right, and I see the way people...People look at us." He whispers to you. You should have seen this coming after last night.
Your anniversary dinner, two whole years. It was a fancy restaurant, and you wanted to strangle the waiter for how he looked at your simon just trying to enjoy the meal. A cloth placed under his mouth, hunched over the plate to avoid making a mess. He's always been messy, unable to eat cleanly with all the injuries to his face.
The other patrons stared, and you ended up calling the night short in pure rage. Now, simon thinks it's his fault.
"I would never forgive you if you did," you finally whisper, grab his jaw and pull his face away from the mirror. Simon looks shocked by your answer, so you thumb over the divot in his lip, smiling "you are as beautiful as the day i met you. I love how you look, and I'm sorry that I made you doubt it."
"I don't look normal..." ghost tries to counter, but he melts into the palm of your hand like a stray dog finally feeling kindness.
"I don't want normal, I want you, si. I always want you," finally, you pull him into a kiss. Slow, deep, reverent. There in the same bathroom you cut his hair in, the same one he helped you shower in. The grout surely still has flecks of his blood in them from bad nights, but you don't fear the rot.
You toss the pamphlets out, wish you could burn them where they sat.
Instead, you pull ghost into bed and promise to show him you feel no amount of disgust or shame for any part of him.
No thoughts just ghost who struggles to sleep at night, right?
He tosses and turns even in your arms, even with you safe beside him. Tormented by the things he's done, the things that have been done to him. You love your boyfriend more than you should, and it hurts you to see the battlefield follow him home.
Some nights, ghost shifts out of bed when he thinks you're sleeping. Moving silently around the house, trying to stay sane.
Other nights, when the thunderstorm outside has cold creeping in and your own will to sleep dwindling, you shake his shoulder "si. Si, wake up, c'mon."
Everytime, ghost grumbles like he was actually asleep, rumbling while he grabs some pants "wha? What is it, love?"
"C'mon, lets go drive." You tug at him, grabbing the blanket from the closet.
That's exactly what you do, ghost in the passenger seat snuggled up in a blanket. You drive for hours around in the rain, stop to get greasy junk food and fill up on it until the food coma creeps up on simon and he's snoring like and engine beside you.
Scarred cheek mushed into the seat belt, shoes in the back seat and socked feet tucked under the blanket.
Once, he told you that his mom drove him around and bought him ice cream the day after his father...well. he told you it was the nicest thing she'd ever done. Now, tucked into the seat of your car with rain pelting in the rooftop in some empty parking lot, all the scars even out under the dim light. The injury and trauma melts away and he looks young again.
Summary: Toji asks you to join one of his streams so he can show his fangirls how he really fucks
Warnings: established relationship, smut, 0 plot, mean!dom!Toji, sub!reader, older toji (reader is like 22 and hes like 27..?), p in v, unprotected, on film, rough sex, dirty talk, oral (m!receiving & f!receiving), facefucking, messy pussy eating, fingering, kinda daddy kink like not really (he calls himself it like twice), squirting, spitting, biting, choking, spanking, scratching, creampies, manhandling, overstim, dacryphilia, degradation, praise,
Wc: ~3.7k
a/n: i literally have so many abandoned drafts but i keep writing new ideas instead of finishing them </3
This is pretty proofread but again im posting at almost 4 am so if theres typos its cause im about to fall asleep
It had been 3 days since your boyfriend had asked if youd be willing to join in on one of his videos. You had been in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you scrolled on your phone, waiting patiently for him to finish filming. When Toji finally emerged from your shared bedroom, skin flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat he immediately slumped against you, pressing you further into the counter.
āYknow what i was thinkinā babe?ā
āHmā you hummed back, not looking up from your phone.
āYou should join a video of mine, sure my fangirls would love to see itā he smirked, kissing along the column of your neck as you finally paused your mindless scrolling.
It had taken a bit of convincing, understanding how his privacy and subscription was set up and how it wouldnt be a public thing, only accessible to those paying the highest tier for bonus content. He also went on about viewership and such, grinning widely when he talked about how everyone will love to see how good you are for him.
āāŗāā ā¾ āāŗāā āļø
3 days later and you sat on the bed in your room, watching him as he set up a few cameras ā one facing the bed, one towards the side and another strapped to his chest which he called the ādom camā.
āCmon baby jusā relax, gonna be like how we normally do itā his deep voice fills the space between you, reaching a hand up to cup your cheek. You offer him a soft smile when you nod, fixing your position on the edge of the bed.
āAtta girl, always so good for meā he praises, gently slapping your cheek a few times before returning to fiddling with the camera.
āSo we just likeā¦ pretend theyre not there?ā You ask, tilting your head as he stepped behind the camera, positioning it properly on you.
āMhmmmā he drags out, his eyes flicking from the small screen on the camera to you. āJusā gonna fuck you like i normally do. Already look so hot when im inside anywaysā he smirks at you as your cheeks flush, his sharp canines peaking out from the corners of his lips. He reached out and pressing a button on the cameras, the glowing red light immediately popping up. You chew your lip as you focus on the one strapped to his naked chest, eyeing the camera before focusing on his face.
A wide grin is spread on his lips, canines flashing as he leans down to cup your jaw, kissing along the opposite side of your neck. When you let out a small whine he pulls back, grin still wide as his hands fall to your waist to tug you closer to the edge of the bed. He stands in front of you, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. You looked up at him properly and your face was met with the bulge in his sweats, breath hitching as you took in how good he looked like this ā hair a little messy, a wide smirk on his face, broad shoulders, a muscular chest that towered over you, and a straining cock hidden just out of sight.
His hand fell into your hair, brushing it away from your face gently before giving it a harsh tug back, making you wince. His other hand moves to your face again, thumb trailing over your bottom lip. You take it into your mouth, tongue swirling around it before sucking on it gently. His grin grew wider, gesturing with his head down at his crotch.
āBe a good girl and help me out a lil yeah? Like you usually doā
You stare up at him, eyes flicking from the camera to his face as you reach out to run your fingers along his thick thighs. Your fingers trailed further up, digging into the band of his sweatpants, fingers rubbing gently at his skin. When he pulls his thumb from your mouth you bite your lip as your eyes focus on his green ones, tugging down his sweats.
His cock springs free at the sharp tug of his sweatpants, thick and hard and leaking as it slaps against his abs. Veins travel up the length of it as pre decorates his tip, like little small pearls of desire signalling a demand for attention. He tugs your face closer to it and nods, urging you to continue as you wet your lips.
You lean in closer, licking a long stripe up the length of it, hand reaching out to firmly hold the base as your tongue works. Your eyes cant help but focus on the little flashing red light of the camera, tongue swirling over his reddened tip as he lets out a deep groan.
āThatsss itā¦ doinā so good, look so prettyā he tugs your hair hard and your lips part slightly; small sparks of pain tingling across your scalp. He grins as he takes the opportunity to shove himself into your mouth, stretching your lips wide around his girth.
You choke slightly at the shove in, eyes widening as they flick up to his face. You smack his thigh lightly in protest but he just laughs, pulling his hips back before ramming them back in. You gag around him again, gripping onto his thighs as he holds the back of your head, using it as leverage to thrust harder into your mouth.
You stare up at him, small trails of drool sliding down from the corners of your lips. Hes grunting above you, deep sounds that fill the space between you as his head falls to the side, eyes fluttering as he shoves in particularly deep. You gag loudly against him, more drool sliding from your lips and tears stinging your eyes. Hes so big compared to you, shoved so deep in your throat you can barely breathe around him.
āLook so pretty when you cry like thatā he grunts out, a hand moving to slap against your cheek. You whine at the slap, a few wet tears sliding down your flush cheeks. He pulls out suddenly and you pant hard, air immediately filling your lungs after having his cock shoved down your throat. He slaps his length against your face a few times, fucking his cock slowly across the side of your nose. You pout up at him, saliva and precum spreading across your skin. He grips your jaw harder, squeezing your cheeks together. When your lips part he leans down slightly, spitting directly onto them before dragging his cock back and forth through them. You let the spit rest on your lips, allowing his cock to drag over them before he pulls away.
His hands reach down and tugs your shirt off, buttons popping and rolling along the floor of your room; your eyes on his as you lean back slightly for him. He pushes you all the way back on the mattress, grabbing your shorts and tugging them off along with your underwear. You shiver as the cool air hits you, already soaked for him as you lean your head up to watch him. He sinks to the ground between your spread thighs, pointing the camera at your slick cunt.
āShes so wet for me alreadyā he purrs, moving closer to ghost his thumb over your clit. āSuch a slutty thing for me arent ya?ā He asks, blowing cold air over your folds.
You shiver at the feeling, looking at him with a pout āTojiiiā you whine out, trying to squirm your hips away from both his and the camera attention.
āAwww donāt be shy, baby. She looks like she tastes fuckin delicious, bet the viewers think so tooā he flashes you a grin, all sharp teeth on display before sinking them into the plush skin of your thigh. His bite makes you cry out, hips bucking away from his mouth as he sucks on the spot, leaving a dark mark when he finally pulls away.
His arm reaches up, hand grabbing at your tit. He squeezes over the skin, fingers circling and tugging at your nipple. He leans down, spitting a glob of saliva onto your clit before using his ring and middle fingers to spread it around. He circles your clit slow, eyes flicking up to watch your face as you pant out, eyes locked on his. His other hand slides down from your chest, grabbing your thigh to open it further as his fingers trail down from your clit and run along your folds. They trail back up slowly before he slaps your clit hard, letting out a mocking laugh as you jerk your hips away.
āAh-!ā you call out at the slap, hand flying down to push at his head in retaliation, pouting when he looks up at you.
āStop teasing Tojiā
āFine, fineā he mumbled, kissing along your thigh until his mouth was connecting with your cunt, tongue slurping at your skin as he drinks you in. Saliva mixes with your slick as he drags his tongue all along your folds and shoves into them. Messy noises fill the room as he shifts the camera over so it would pick up everything. Coats of slick cover your pussy, mixes of saliva and your own juices glistening in the faint lighting of the room as he rams his tongue back inside you, licking into every crevice.
āF-fuck Toji!ā You moan out at the feeling, back pressing further into the sheets as your hands grab at his hair. He pulls out of your hole with a grin, tongue dragging higher to suck and nip at your clit, swirling his tongue around it. He hums around the sensitive bud before flattening his tongue on it and moving his head back and forth. He pulls away to spit on it again, fingers moving up to spread your wetness around. His tongue fucks back into you, his fingers rubbing along your clit.
You were a moaning mess above him ā hips bucking down along his face, fingers tugging at his hair so hard it almost ripped out, your mouth falling open and your eyes on the verge of rolling back in your head. Your slick stuck to your thighs and his chin, messily spreading all over you and dripping onto the sheets below your hips.
The room was so warm from what you both were doing, the cameras pointed at you making every sense twice as strong. Something deep in your gut churned, a need to be louder and hotter, a slight possessive nature to make sure your boyfriendās fangirls knew he only fucked you.
You tugged his head closer to your pussy, his nose nudging into your clit along with his fingers. His tongue still thrusts into you, mouth drooling saliva in and around you, your thighs drenched. Your insides warm, the messiness of it all turning you on so much. His free hand moved to slap across your thighs, the feeling burning across your skin. You yelp out at the feeling, tugging again at his hair.
āāM clo- ah fuck - close -nghh- Tojiā you moan out louder than normal, hips bucking against his face. One of his eyebrows raise at your moan but you never noticed, too focussed on the feeling of his mouth on you.
He doesnt pull away to speak, does let out any mocking sounds or laughs like he usually does. He just focusses on you, briefly mumbling something incoherent into your cunt before going back to work. The heat builds steadily under your skin, a slow ascend that threatens to boil over at any moment as Toji maintains his pace, continuing to messily slobber over your cunt, tongue digging around in your hole as his fingers press harder on your clit, rubbing with a passion to make you cum.
Your high peaks, right at the cusp of falling over but still needing one last push. As if on cue his hand flies down against your thigh, hips jerking up violently into his mouth. You cum as the spank sends you tumbling from your high, heat spreading along your skin as every nerve feels like its been zapped by lightning. You gush into his face, screaming out at the pleasure. His tongue messily lapping it up as his face drenches in more juices, chin and nose coated in your essence.
He doesnt stop, doesnt even slow down at you squirt on him. His efforts double, nose pressing into your clit as his tongue fucks into you. You cry out harder, fresh tears spilling from the overstimulation. You try to jerk your hips back to escape but he just shakes his head against you, hands digging hard into your plush thighs until they bruise. His tongue drags out of you, sucking at your clit before spitting on it and sucking again.
āT-toji - fuck- s-stop - ohmygod - gonna cum againā you squeal out, eyes shutting from pleasure as your second orgasm crashes into you like a freight train, limbs locking up and head spinning from the sheer pleasure in your veins. Tears spill harder from your cheeks as he still doesnt let up, hips thrashing against him but he just holds you firmly down against the mattress.
āOne more, gimme one more babyā he hums against your pussy, not pulling away for long before his fingers are thrusting into you and his tongue is spelling his name against your clit. Your thighs slam closed around his head, burying him closer to you and he laughs out. His fingers curl inside you, fucking messily into your cunt as loud squelches fill the room.
You felt the familiar sensation deep in your gut, so easily ready to fall over the edge again as he continues his ministrations, his fingers rubbing each time against your sweet spot. You shatter around him again, squirting against his face and hands as you cry out. Your legs squirm around him, hips bucking into his face as you try to shimmy up the mattress and away from him. He lifts his face slowly from between your trembling thighs, his chin and nose drenched in you. His dark greedy eyes rake down from your flushed face to your heaving chest and then back to your quivering cunt. He licks his lips, savouring the taste of you before slapping your clit. Your hips jerk away again and you whimper, a few more tears rolling down your cheeks. His eyes lock on them as he moves up your trembling body, licking them off your skin.
āLook so pretty when you cry like a slut for meā You whine out as his dick pokes at your swollen clit, spreading your slick around. He leans closer to your face, kissing along your jaw to your ear.
āWas gonna make you ride me but my baby looks too tired for that, yeah?ā He mocks, biting at your ear before moving down your neck. You nod quickly, hands grabbing at his shoulders as your thighs still twitch around his hips, another small whine leaving you at the ache forming in them.
You look over at the two other cameras in the room, watching them as he kisses down the valley of your breasts. His hand moves up to roughly turn your jaw from looking at the camera to looking at him, his teeth sinking into the skin of your breast. You let out a soft moan, thighs pressing further around his hips. He trails kisses between both your nipples ā kissing and sucking and biting at the skin ā drinking in the sounds of your whines and moans.
His tongue swirls around one of your nipples, sucking it into your mouth harshly. His hand moves to grope at the other, slapping and squeezing at it. He grins into your skin at the sound of your little gasps and whines, your fingers digging into his hair.
He pulls away and trails kisses back up your neck, biting into the skin and sucking. He points the camera at you, deep marks littered across your flushed skin. Your eyes meet his and you let out a small whine, the camera moving from your neck down your breast and navel and stopping at your pussy. He spreads your legs apart wider, one hand holding the camera as the other runs through your swollen folds, still sensitive from your 3 orgasms.
āGonna fuck this pretty thing so goodā he laughs out, setting the camera back against his chest as he runs his tip through your folds, pushing your legs wider. āTell me how bad you want it, babyā
You whine out, grinding your hips against him despite how overstimulated you feel. āPlease Toji, need you to fuck meā
He grins widely, slamming his hips into yours. You cry out, falling back against the pillows as his hips repeatedly slam into yours, pace already brutal as he fucks you. Your hands reach out, nails dragging down his arms until small droplets of blood form on his skin. He grunts out loudly, grabbing at your thighs to hold them open.
āFuck you feel so good, such a dirty girl for meā he groans out, his deep voice dripping with pleasure as he plows into you. The camera strapped to his chest picks up everything ā your tits bouncing widely with each violent thrust in, the squelching sounds filling the room from your soaked pussy, and the delicious bulge in your lower stomach from how deep he is in you.
He reaches down, pressing his palm into the bump and speeding up slightly, fucking widely into your pussy. You cry out again, whole body moving up the mattress from the force of his thrusts. The headboard repeatedly smacks into the wall, the noise filling the room loudly. Your moans and his grunts add to the noise, conjoint sounds of pleasure that prove how good hes fucking you.
His hand slides down, thumb rubbing into your sensitive clit and you jerk away from him again. His free hand tugs you back in place, thrusting himself so deep inside you feel like youll choke on it.
Drool drips from your chin, mind hazy and empty, only the thought of how good his cock feels remaining. Every harsh thrust in drags against your gummy walls, slamming into your cervix and that sweet spot. You feel so full, already so close to spiralling off the edge as he picks up speed.
āT-toji āts t-too muchhhā you choke out with a whine, trying to sink your nails deeper into his skin.
āAwww is Daddys cock too much for you?ā He teases with a choked laugh, giving a particularly harsh thrust that has your eyes squeezing shut.
āN-never said t-thatā you moan, hips bucking against his as he pinches your clit, the heat in your gut suddenly snapping.
You let out a choked sob, tumbling over the edge as your orgasm washes over you. It was harsh and sudden, lighting your nerves up like fireworks as your hips buck uncontrollably against his. Your mind swirls, getting dizzy from the pleasure as your eyes roll into the back of your head. When you finally come down his hips are still fucking into you, thick cock dragging against your sensitive walls as he chases his own high.
You cry out his name as tears spill from your eyes again, trying to get away from the relentless thrusting of his hips. He leans forwards on top of you, hand grabbing at your throat and squeezing, a lewd moan escaping you.
āAlmost there baby, jusā be a good girl for Daddy for a bit longer. You can do itā he mumbles against your skin before slotting his lips over yours and kissing. His mouth dominates the kiss, biting at your lips before sliding his tongue against yours. You moan into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair as your thighs wrap around his waist more firmly, pulling him closer to you.
The heat in your stomach builds again and you feel like youre going to lose your mind, body ringed out of every last drop of pleasure inside you. His hips lose their rhythm for a moment and he swears into your lips, forehead dropping to rest against your chin as his fingers tighten by a fraction around your neck. Hes fucking into you like an animal, desperate to reach his release after watching you get yours so many times. His fingers continue their work on your clit, not letting up as he gets closer to his peak, needing you there too.
He lets out a sudden broken sound, biting into your skin as he cums inside you. Warmth spreads inside you as you squeeze around him, reaching your peak as he slams into you roughly, releasing thick ropes of white into you. You grab at his shoulders, shaking against his strong chest as you sob out, cumming hard again. His hips rock gently into you, pushing his sticky release further into you before hes crumpling on top of your body.
āN-no moreā you beg with a small whine, grabbing at his hair as he slumps further ontop of you, panting out as he tries to catch his breath. Your skin is sticky as you fit together, making him grunt out when he finally peels himself away and rolls over. Toji stays like that for a few moments, hands sliding down his sweaty face as he curses under his breath and lets out a laugh.
āFuck that was good baby, holy shitā he turns to you with a wide grin, kissing along your shoulder before moving to turn off the cameras positioned around the bed. He uses the one that was on him to film between your legs, capturing how his cum leaks from you and drips down your thighs onto the mattress. He runs his fingers through it a couple of times before you jerk away, grumbling something as you turn away.
āAlright baby we done, dont worry. Did so good for me, you were so prettyā he praises as he kisses your thigh, turning the camera off and tossing it to the side. He reaches down and picks you up in his strong arms, pressing you to his chest as he walks you both to the bathroom. āLets get you all washed up and then we can cuddle, hows that sound?ā
i hope this isnāt too personal but whatās your favorite kink to write about
TW: nsfw, yandere, dubcon/noncon, forced breeding
fem reader
yandere ! FORCED BREEDING
Yandere saying "I'mma knock you up so you can't ever leave me" or "Do as I say or I'll cum inside you" before proceeding to cum inside you anyway either because he's a liar or because he just can't help it.
Yandere fucking his cum back into you as it leaks out post-orgasm.
Yandere whispering obsessively about how many times he's dreamt about cumming inside your cute cunt.
Yandere saying things like "Take it all" and "Don't waste a single drop" or "This is all for you" and "There you go".
Yandere boyfriends punching holes in condoms and hiding your birth control.
Yandere stroking your stomach while completely enchanted by the thought of there growing a little product of your love inside you.
Yandere always dumping his load into the deepest parts of your pussy his cock can reach, making sure he's completely balls-deep while holding your legs to your stomach in the tightest mating-press.
Yandere desperately thanking you while blissfully crying as he spills rope after rope of hot cum inside your womb.
Yandere clamping a hand over your mouth when you start begging him not to cum inside. Shushing you while he concentrates on blowing his load.
Yandere promising to buy you a pill later, but then never getting around to do it, or lies and gives you another pill.
Yandere keeping lists of baby names he's thought of. Especially if they're creepy mutations of his and your name.
Yandere always feeding you things that supposedly increase chances of pregnancy and not allowing you certain poisons like caffein, smoke and alcohol.
Using yandere boyfriends phone to play a game only to find that he has a million windows open, all searches of ways to quicker make you pregnant.
Yandere putting a pillow beneath your back while fucking you missionary style.
Yandere making you lay with your thighs to your chest and your legs up after sex to better insure that his cum runs into your womb.
Yandere cuddling you tight afterwards, musing dreamily about how perfect your family will be while shushing you as you cry about not wanting to be pregnant.
Yandere asking you things like "You want my cum?" and "You want me to finish inside you?" before forcing you to say things like "I want your cum" and "Please cum inside me" and "Thank you for giving me your cum".
Yandere propping you with a plug so that none of his cum leaks out of you.
Yandere charting your cycle and fucking you almost relentlessly in those windows where you're most fertile.
Yandere in soft moments fucking you lovingly, slowly and passionately with a million kisses to your forehead and cheek as he strokes over you pearl with one hand and rubs your nipples with the other. Wanting the sex when you conceive to be the most perfectly romantic sex ever despite your hands being tied above your head and your legs parted by a spreader-bar.
Had you asked anyone else, you're sure the answer would be a resounding 'no.' Or even a mocking laugh.
But you didn't ask anyone else. You asked ghost, under the dimly lit awning of the pub, "can i fuck you, si?"
"You already do, love," ghost points out with a mumble around his cigarette. He lights it and takes a drag, exhales slowly "an' not here."
"I don't mean like that, si." You huff, knock your ankle against his bad one pointedly "I mean can I fuck you. As in with a cock. I bought a strap and...well."
Ghost takes a moment to raise both brows at you, deadpan. He takes great pleasure in silently judging you before shrugging "alright. But I want my tea."
Which is how ghost ends up sprawled naked on your bed that you really should size up, nearly taking up the whole mattress.
"Christ, simon..." you whisper, kneeling between spread thighs. Ghost is big in the way important things are big. More than just size, his entire presence takes up space. Meaty thighs covered in scars lazily drop open to reveal an already prepped hole, and you drag your eyes up a round stomach and fat tits to see ghosts smirk "don't trust me to do it myself?"
Ghost hikes a leg higher, loops his ankle behind your hip and rubs the leather of the strap into skin "wanted to make it easy for your first time, sweetie."
God, you love him.
You smile, notch the head of the strap against his rim. The minute twitch if his abdomen makes your cunt ache, "ready, si?"
With a firm, slow, thrust you push in. Torn between watching the silicone slide into ghost or watching the sudden pinch of his brow or the way he tosses his head back with a pleased groan "fuck, okay. Keep goingā"
You do, a bit awkwardly at first. You're using muscles you previously didn't need to, trying to adjust and finding yourself wholly frustrated that you can't get the angle you want while ghost is too busy whining under you to really help.
"Fuckā okay, hold stillā" you grunt, having enough and all together shoved ghosts thigh up and hooking his calf over your shoulder so you can thrust down to the base andā
"Waitā wait fuckā!" Ghost seizes, stomach tightening and back arching and his orgasm hits sharp and sudden. Thick ropes shoot across his chest while ghost moans and huffs through his teeth like he's trying to fight himself from grinding further onto the strap.
"Woah." You mumble once he's finally down. You wear there's a puddle under you at this point by how wet you are.
Ghost groans, breathes. He cracks one eye open and motions you to crawl up his chest. "I'm not getting up again, lovie. C'mere, you need a reward."
Once you're both cleaned up and snuggling, you'll notice ghost didn't even touch the twenty pound tea that he wanted. Asshole.
PART ONE only avaliable on AO3 due to Tumblr restrictions
fem reader
You went cold and forgot how to breathe.
When you got to the kindergarten, they told you hisĀ fatherĀ had already come and collected him early. All looking at you as though you were crazy, assaulting the daycare workers with your hands in a bruising grip, shaking her by her shouldersādemanding she tell you where he took him.Ā
She spilled the name of some family restaurant down the road and said heād wanted you to join them there. The poor thing was on the verge of tears when you let go.
Rushing out, you all but ran down the streets before pushing yourself through the doorsācold-sweating and swivel-eyedāin a panic, scanning faces with his name coming out weak under your breath.Ā
With your vision spinning, you felt faint before you heard it.
āMommy! Mommy! Youāre here! Look! Iām King of the castle!ā he shouted, and your peeled eyes snapped to see him up high in a bright red plastic tower.
But before your shoes could hit the soft foam of the playground, you were intercepted by something larger.
āHeās fine,ā he said under his breath, catching and stopping you in your beeline, holding you by the waist. āI need to talk to you.ā
Something old and instinctive didnāt bother paying him heedāas if forgetting how to speak, you just ignored him in favor of pushing past him, eyes glued to the sight of your son blissfully unaware, playing with other kids with an oblivious smile on his face. But his grip was stronger than your instincts, firm enough to keep you still but not enough to hurt you, even when you tried twisting yourself free.
āCome on,ā he urged.
You were about to sneer something, finally looking at his faceāthat face you hatedābut the bark of curse words got held back.
āLook around you. Letās not cause a scene.ā The wild animal within went silent while your eyes flickered around at the surrounding picnic tables where families were having their dinner. āWe can talk outside. My assistant will look after him.ā
You didnāt feel much inclined to listen, but still, even though it made you hate to fold on his behestāreluctantly, you accepted the sense of what he was saying. Looking back at your son still laughing up in his tower with cinched brows. You didnāt want to scare him when he didnāt know what was going on, even though you felt the need to scream at the very top of your lungs.
You allowed him to lead you outside, but as soon as the fresh air welcomed your rigid state, you were at once whipping around and pushing him away. āWhat the fuck do you think youāre doing?!ā snarling at him. āHow fucking dare you?!ā
āCalm down. He might still see us,ā he hushed, hands raised in halfhearted surrender, casting a nod to the glass walls separating you from the frivolity inside. āLetās just talk rationally.ā
āRationally?!ā you scoffed in a shout, eyes still manic. āYou fucking kidnapped my son, you psycho-ā
āYou wouldnāt answer my texts or calls,ā he snubbed. āHeās my son too-ā
āFuck you,ā you interrupted to return the favor. āIf you fuck with me on this, I swear Iāll ruin you.ā You had a finger raised at him, breathing furiouslyālooking down-right madāsweaty and disheveled from your run with your face twisted with such a state of frenzy. āIāll tell everyone how I got him in the first place!ā
Despite the threat, he didnāt seem all that fazed.Ā
āThink about itā¦ā he said calmly, much in contrast to you. āWho do you think people will believe? A teenage mom abusing her son for a paycheck or his estranged father wanting to provide for him?ā
You blanched, and before anything else made it outāwhether it be more rage or something else, he was already further silencing you.
āNot to mentionā¦ the trial would be gruesome, and Junior would have to grow up with it always hanging over his headāis that really what you want?ā
You look at him, and you still can't believe it. How could it have turned out like this? Youād been perfect only a month ago before heād shown up at your apartment.
You thought youād sent him on his way for good that day, but only now did you realize he had no plans to leave you alone.
āCome, letās talk in the car. Itās cold, and youāre not dressed,ā he ushered, taking your arm again where you stood, stunned and still, trying to wrap your head around his threats. Letting yourself be led into the black vehicle standing perfectly parked in its neat white rectangle.
You both got in the back with enough room to battle your homey sofa nook at home.
āI donāt want this to get ugly,ā he started anewāhis voice still so irritatingly calm,Ā unfairly so. āI just want to see my son-ā
āHeās not yours,ā you croaked, feeling the situation slip from your fingersābattling a drumming heart, shifty breaths, and the mean sting of tears welling up in your eyes.
āIf you try and keep him from me, Iāll sue for full custody. And given Iām the only one out of us who isnāt a pro-bono caseĀ andĀ the only one with any future that isnāt managing a register, Iād say I have a pretty fair shot at winning.ā
You canāt keep from bursting out crying then, overwhelmed by the fear of losing the only thing that mattered and the pure disgust of the man whoād given it to you. It felt like everything was tearingāyour whole lifeācrumbling before your eyes.
āDonāt cry,ā he soothed, his hand coming to drape your hunched shoulders where you held your tears. āI donāt want to take him away from youā¦ā His attempt did little to comfort you, but the next words had your heart grasping for what little hope they offered. āAnd Iām not going to either.ā
You looked at him through the hurt of swollen eyes, tears still falling while he wiped them away with the course pad of his thumbārubbing your cheek affectionately. In any other circumstance, youād surely slap him, but right now, all you could do was listen.
āIām buying a house,ā he revealed, still holding your cheek and gaze. āFit for a family. Safe neighborhood, good school district, giant backyard.ā The list went over your headāit was all too surreal to register. You couldnāt even fathom what he was getting at until, āI want the two of you to come live there with me.ā
Stunned, you remained completely silent until the tears dried, and he let go of your face.Ā
āYou donāt have to say anything right now.ā He reaches across you and fetches the seatbelt before coming back over you to click it in place. āIāll go get Junior and drive you home. Just stay here.ā
You do as suggested and stay seated as he pops his door open and leavesāfeeling all but cemented in place as your thoughts go tumbling around and around as if caught in a rip curl. When Junior jumps in beside you, a farfetched smile is all you can offer. Thankfully, heās so enamored by a toy heād gotten to notice much of your state.
When your door opens again, youāre led out and onto your neighborhood street. The fresh air does little to clear your mind. Feeling all but feverish as you hold Junior's small hand in yours while the man of your nightmares smiles all too fondly at the two of you.
āIāll come pick you up after your shift on Monday.,ā he says decidedlyācheerfully as he ruffles Juniorās hair enough to make him giggle. āBring the rascal with you, and he can pick his room first.ā
You werenāt planning on staying. You were never planning on stayingācertain you would leave the second the opportunity to skip town aroseāyou just need to scramble the money together first.Ā
But the house was hugeā¦ nothing you could ever dream of, and while it made you desperate with grief, you couldnāt deny it eitherā¦Ā Junior really loved having a dad.
It nearly brought sick to your throat to call him that. It was a shot through the heart every time you heard Juniorās boyish call, squealing with giggles, saying āDaddy, daddy, daddy-ā
None of it seemed right to you. Seeing his bright smile, now at the age where a new tooth fell out every other weekālooking so goofy as he proudly shows the two of you the new one heād just knocked out playing soccer at school. āMommy,Ā Daddy, look!ā
Whatās worse is that you can't even deny how good the man you hate is at it allāspoiling him with gifts and making him laughāgiving piggyback ride after air-plane flight after tickle-fight and a game of tag and hideānāseek.Ā
And itās not just the easy stuff. Heās good at the shit that used to make you go crazyāputting him to bed, getting him dressed, making him eat the right stuff, and not just scuffle down candy. Itās as if the two of them have developed a secret language youāre not a part of. If Junior werenāt a toddler, youād even suspect heād been bribed and told to do his best to make you lose your mind. But no, itās just reality.
The man you live with drives and picks your son up from school as if heād done it since he was born, goes with you to meet the teacher if and when he gets into trouble and helps the two of you pick out the right shoesāshoes that you can now afford,Ā thanks to him.
āI thought I might sleep in the master bedroom tonight.ā He says, leaning against the frame in the doorway.
Youād been living there a month now. Heād been generous enough to sleep in the guest room up until now.
You donāt know how to deny him. It feels as if anything you might say would just be ignored or threatened until you eventually took it back. You didnāt want him in your bedāyou didnāt want him in the same houseāin fact, preferably, youād want him to be six feet deep in the dirt.
You end up not answering. But heās used to that by now.Ā
āI get itā¦ā he says, taking steps into the room youād wrongfully thought was your safe space. āYou donāt trust me.ā He sits down at the edge of the bed and reaches out across the sheets. Youāre too late to pull your feet to yourself before he has one in his hand. He doesnāt do much but stroke it. āBut you can.ā
The sincerity in his eyes makes you want to gouge them out. Itās all been some cruel joke ever since you moved ināall the pleasantries and presents, as if trying to distract you from the past. Your wardrobe is chockfull of it, and so is Juniorās roomāfilled to the brim with lies.
āIām never gonā hurt you.ā Another lie. āI did you wrong once, and Iāll spend the rest of my life makinā up for it.āĀ
You want to shake your head, laugh in his faceāanything to reject it. But youāre terrified of what he might do if you didnāt play along. The threat of losing Junior is enough to make you cooperative.
āI know Iāve not been fairāpushinā you into all of this so fast.ā He gets down on his knees on the floor as if praying, right down beside you. āI took advantage of a vulnerable situation ācause Iām an impatient assholeābut I promise youāā He takes your hand in both of his. āIf you give me the chance, Iām gonā make our lives together like somethinā outaā a fuckinā fairytaleāall that happily ever after shit and more, just like you always wanted.ā
The kiss he presses upon your knuckles beckons goosebumps to rise all across you. All his words feel like a bad script read by an even worse actorāin fact, this whole thing feels like a prank. And still, it doesnāt surprise youāheās been laughing at you ever since you were children.
And now, laughing still, only with a fuckingĀ ringboxĀ in his hand.
āI want Junior to see us as a united front. I donāt want him askinā question why we aināt sleepinā in the same bed, why we fight behind locked doors, why you cry in the bathroom.āĀ
He pops the black velvet lid and reveals something so outrages it almost looks tacky lying there in a plush bed of red silk.
āI want us to be happy.ā He picks the little thing out and holds it up between his thumb and index, still holding your hand in the other. āI want us to be real.ā You can almost see your life flash before your eyes as it threatens your ring finger. āLetās make us real.ā
You donāt say anything as he eases the tiny hoop on, sliding it all the way back until it sits snugly right at your knuckleādazzling in the dark. A tiny tear slips down your cheekāequally dazzling.
He played some with the digitāa smile on his face.Ā
āLooks good on you, Mrs.ā As he calls you by his last name you almost shake the ring off as if it burned to wear, but it all gets lost when he rushes forward and locks his lips with yours.
You yelp against his mouth, kept from turning away by the large hand holding your jaw, threatening to seize your throat and squeeze. You remember how it had felt. You donāt want more of a reminder, so you intercept his tongue with yours before he forced it down your throat.
He groans at the warm welcome, and your entire body shudders in memory.
You hadnāt let anyone touch you since that time five years ago. It had left a poor taste in your mouth, and the hunger for it had never come back.
'you begged for this...quite literally....' he reminds you cautiously.
you're standing before him with those big watery eyes, your hands full of different varieties of ice cream and beef jerky. he's never been more in love than he is right now, even though you're very moody and follow him around the house to glare at him resentfully for what he's done to your body. deep down, though, you don't mean harm. you're just overwhelmed. it feels like there's no room in your body for you anymore. your lungs are squished, you're always hungry, you can't sleep for longer than five minutes, and you feel so needy for him you can't bear to be apart for longer than one second.
you're looking down at your pregnant belly peeking out from one of your cute pre-pregnancy tops. 'm'gonna pop!'
he's smiling, his big hands caressing your belly. 'they're gonna be here so soon, puppy,' he beams sweetly. you're like velcro, and it makes him so happy because he doesn't know personal space either.
you're sighing, taking a bite of jerky as he's on his knees before you, pressing kisses to your little babies and talking to them, nuzzling his cheek against you. you try to pet his head, but drip ice cream onto his hair instead. you gasp. 'oh no...' your eyes widen a little as you reach down to lick it out.
His cock is hard inside you, twitching within your snug walls without him moving. He just keeps it there ā might nudge it back in every once in a while when an inch accidentally manages to slide out.Ā
Other than that, his fingers messily handle your clit, never leaving it ā making you clench and drench him, stirring that knot in the pit of your stomach, making it coil and snap and flush, leaving you to quake on his shaft ā throttling him so tight he has to bite into the fat of your tit ā which is where he rests his head.Ā Like a baby, he suckles your nipple as though he expects milk to come out, despite it only resulting in making you sore.
When you move, he goes so far as to fuckingĀ whine. Brows curled and lips pouty with strong hands needly squeezing you until you fall still again.
Heās kneading against your womb, keeping you propped full ā cock-warming him so sweetly heās leaking beads of pre just from the grip ā like heaven for his dick ā makes him feel so fluffy.Ā He just wants to stay like it forever.
No thoughts just post-TBI!soap who's hair is a grown out mess when you met him, right?
It's difficult to take care of his hair when his body doesn't want to listen to him most days. Limbs jerking at odd angles, cramping up, or running on a delay.
"I could cut it for you," you offer one night, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. It's one of those days where soap wants to be anyone but the person he is. "I used to cut my friends hair all the time. Mohawk is easy."
"Y-you know it'll t-take forever, dove." Soap warns, refusing to get his hopes up "i can't s-sit still. Not like I used t-to."
"More time with eye candy? Oh nooooo...what will I do?" You roll your eyes, teasing.
Which is how soap ends up in the bathroom, shirt off because he knows he'll be hopping in the shower afterwards anyways. It feels weird having anyone so close, your hand in his hair "okay, johnny. I'm starting now, be good for me."
Turns out, soap has been missing this. Letting go while a lover cards through his hair. You easily adjust to the sudden jerks and twitches of his body, pulling the clippers away and resuming seamlessly with a "mh, so reactive, johnny."
It's been months since soap has felt in any way sexy. It's impossible for him to find pleasure in the body that hardly feels like his own.
But as you slowly shape out that familiar mohawk, it's like something snaps back into place. Your hands gently tugging soaps head into place has him blushing, half-hard from the absent touches alone.
"Oh? Really, johnny?" Then your hand really cards through his fresh mohawk, grips his roots tight and pulls him back to look at your pleased expression "enjoying it? Hm?"
The other hand slips down to palm at his jeans, and for the first time in months soap is arching his back with a moan. He clumsily humps your palms, eager.
"Go clean up and then we can play, okay?" You coo, offering his bulge one last stroke.
Soap sets a record for his fastest shower post-injury that night.
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
ā pairing: Task Force 141 Ć fem!141!Reader
ā 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 š 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 Captaināall 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 faƧade 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 directionādifferent-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 thatāwhatever 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 closerātwo strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, Johnā" 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 lowā¦ 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 limbsālike they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too longāand 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.
"Fuckinā 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 deeplyāmusk 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, butā¦ uh, wellāabout 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 menā"
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 uncomfortableāGhost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like thatāa bioweaponāon soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Waitāwhat? 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 amusedāthe 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 tinglingāfrom 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 andāto your horrorāthey 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 teamāGhost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassuranceāare 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.
"KateāKate," 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'sāit'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 stillā" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "ābad."
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 himāit's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might helpā¦ 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, "ānot 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 crotchāby accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagineāand 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 foodāwhether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his placeāyou 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 andā"
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, pleaseā"
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 ifā"
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 sheā¦ 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.
"ShitāBabygirl, no, d-don'tā" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shouldersāand hates himself for how reluctant he is at itāand he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyleā¦ Let meā" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "ItāIt fuckinā hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, yeāre fuckinā 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, takeā" 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 andā¦ 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 sirā"
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 doāthey trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlockedājust in case you faint and he needs helpāand 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 stepāthe 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.
"Kyleā¦ Kyle, I needā"
"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 underwearāplain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexyāand 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. Triggerā
"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 finallyāfinallyālets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yesāyesāyesā" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuckāfuckāfuckāfuck.
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 againāclear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your cornersāanything 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'dā
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 placeāsomething 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 doesnāt want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurtingārepeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yoursāthe young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"KyleāKyle, I need more, I need you toāpleaseāFuck, 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."
"Pleaseā"
"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 onceāyour hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your bodyāand 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 thisāyou're not choosing himāand 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 needā" 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 openā
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 drenchedāhis 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 onā" 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 needsā" 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 nodāthe 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. "Ahāve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverentāone hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shouldersāand 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, heād 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 MacTavishāhe 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.
"Fuckātha'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 awayāoverstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same timeāhe 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 lipsāJohnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnnyāhe 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 underneathāthe toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slickāand 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.
"Godāfuckālass, ye taste so fuckin' goodā"
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. Heās 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.
"Pleaseāplease, Johnny, I needāI can'tā"
"I know, hen, I knowā" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "ājus' 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 meanāhe 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 isnāt. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simonā¦"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first nameānone of them doāand 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 wantā"
"Wasn't bloody askinā."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistakeāthe critical, tactical, unforgivable mistakeāis 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 lustānot the way you looked at Gaz and Soapābut 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 headājust his palm, just enough to support your neckāand 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 longāhis thumb brushing once against the nape of your neckābefore 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'tāDon't go."
"'M not goinā 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 slightlyāa fraction more weight, a fraction more warmthāand 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 saidāwhat Price saidāand 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 keepsā" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying sheās 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 turnāGaz, then Soapāand 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 mouthāprobably to say something spectacularly unhelpfulāand 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 recognitionāCaptainābefore 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 stillā"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and itās 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 nightstandāGaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthoughtāand 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 expressionārecognition, maybe awareness, youāand finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, yātell 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 hatesāChrist, he hatesāhow 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 nameānot his rank, not Captain, but Johnāand 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. "JohnāJohnāoh godā"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulderānot 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 wayāGaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of commandāthis 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 gentleācan'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, harderābut 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 itāfuck, yer soāfuckā"
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 faceāthe quiet oh, shitāwould 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 itās 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.
"Shitāshit, I'm sorry, Iāfuckā"
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 medicinalāthe toxin, working its way out of your pores at lastāand 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 whiskyāthree fingers this timeāand 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 needāall 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 upāvehicles, 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.
Sometimes heāll settle on his knees between your thighs, laying kisses and kitten licks on your pussy through your panties. And when it becomes too much for him, heāll get up only to be satisfied with simply rubbing his cock against the wet fabric ā cumming on your belly without barely having done anything.
You think he enjoys edging himself so much that he gets lost in it ā to the point itās not really edging anymore.
Sometimes, heāll have you on his lap and wonāt even take his pants off before making a mess. Youāll wear his shirt, and heāll pout at the sight of how it swallows you up ā needing to bite his lip, looking at your cute titties pointy against the chest. Heāll dry-hump into that sweet soft space between your thighs with a tented boner and suddenly just squish you tight ā his chin sloppy against your shoulder, drooling with a purr, eyes glossy and elated.
Having a Vampire best friend that is a porn star. The only thing is he runs his own show so he does whatever he wants. It sounds easy but he's extremely picky about who he films with and what he does. So he does the obvious...ask his best friend for help.
I don't get it, you don't get a lot of things. Hey! It's true! And? Don't need to be so mean about it... He sighs, what don't you understand of this? Maybe how we both ended up naked, in your room, and getting recorded! Okay, let's start again. You agreed to this, he points at me. Yes but I didn't think I'd be in the video! So you're out? No! So you're in? Yes, then why question me? Because you needed to be even more blunt! What wasn't blunt when I asked you to help me with a video? I thought you meant behind the camera...
He sighs again and runs his hand over his face. Humans can be so dumb at times... Hey! Don't start it again! You're my model for this video, do monsters even wanna see a human like me? I cover my body a little with my arms. His eyes widen, a human like you? What is that supposed to mean? Your fucking luxury! It's just.... call it stereotypical but most humans well...have preference to people who don't look like me... My voice gets lower as I look away from him. Suddenly I feel his hand grab my chin and make me look at him again. Monsters would kill to have their claws on a pretty human like you. He makes me look into his red eyes. I'm the lucky vampire that gets to do it first. This camera has been recording all of this... Watch the feedback it will get when I post it. They will be begging me to have you again in my bed.
He leans in even more with every couple of words until his directly in my face. And I'm the only vampire that will ever get his hands on you again. His tone is stern and confident as he looks me in the eyes. It's silent as I nod and he closes the distance between us. Stealing a kiss as he guides me backwards to lay on his bed. I will feed on you as I fuck you. He pants as he kisses down my neck before stopping at a pulse point just for a second before laying a soft kiss there. Will treat you so good and the second you get light headed you tell me.
He pulls away to look at me then glances at the camera. Smile for the camera my pretty human... I don't plan on leaving you coherent enough to say bye later. He smirks before looking back at me and going in for another kiss. Spreading my legs as he does and settling in between them. He doesn't stop the kiss as he pushes into me. I whine against his lips and he chuckles. Too much for my precious human? He mumbles against my lips as he slowly starts to fuck me. It's okay, he kisses down my neck until he gets back to that pulsing point. I've got you, right where I want you. He growls before sinking his teeth.
I gasp and dig my nails into him at the weird feeling. He lets out a muffled grunt against me as I tighten around him. Why does that feel good? I whimper as the pleasure over takes me. The stories everyone says a vampire sucking your blood is terrifying. That's a lie...this isn't fear, it's pleasure. His expensive and old bed creaks with each thrust. They get quicker by the minute as he slowly keeps sucking at my neck.
Oh but thereās just something about simon who has been MIA for a good few months, maybe even a couple of years until he finally appears on your doorstep again one random day
but heās not the simon you remembered. heās not the same man who used to put socks on your feet whilst you slept so your toes wouldnāt get cold. or the man who would cook a completely seperate meal to his own if you didnāt like what he was having.
his eyes are empty. his touch is rough. callous even. sometimes you wake up in the night and heās just sat in the corner of the room, staring at you through the darkness as you slept
your friends have stopped inviting you places out of fear that youāll bring him along. his cagey erratic behaviour is not fun for them. the way his eyes flick around the room, landing on any potential threat. fingers flexing at his side, ready to grab his boot knife if needed
he scares you, but he still fucks you so good and makes sure youāre fed and warm
You're the one who taught Simon how to be soft in the first place, and once in a while you see that version of him creep through the wall that was built by whatever trauma he survived while he was missing. You never say anything when it happens, you know he's on a hair trigger these days. The times he doesn't realize he's being soft are great. Words can't explain how much you missed the little things, like the way his thumb would mindlessly trace shapes on the side of your knee while you were sat on the couch with your legs across his lap. Never in a million years did you think something so small could mean so much. When he does realize, though, he reacts almost violently. Stands up so abruptly you almost go toppling off the couch. He'd feel bad about that if he wasn't in full fight or flight mode. If he was the man he used to be. If the version of Simon you helped create hadn't been left in some dark hole in some foreign country.
If you're lucky he's just going to lock himself in one of the bathrooms for the rest of the night. Pacing until the the sun cracks the horizon the next morning. Sitting in the bath tub, staring at the wall as he comes down from the panic. You'll manage to get into the bathroom the next morning and find him there. Eyes bloodshot as he dissociates, seeing god knows what against that tiled wall. You'll be able to coax him out and into bed eventually. He apologizes just once, a single tear rolling down his cheek. That's all he's capable of anymore.
The nights that aren't lucky, he grabs his keys and disappears. You don't sleep these nights. You're the one left pacing until dawn. Some of these nights, you'll get a call from one of his teammates. He's on base. He's running the track, he's on the shooting range, he's running drills, something, ANYTHING, that helps him realize that he's still got the skills to keep himself safe.
Some of these nights you reach out to anyone and everyone you can think of. Nobodys seen him. Nobody knows where he ends up on these nights and you struggle with the thought that maybe he'll end up doing something he really can't come back from this time. The first few times this happened you spend the entire night panicking. Screaming, crying, throwing up, damn near ending up in the hospital because you can't bear the thought of losing him AGAIN. After a while you become somewhat numb to it. Settling for pacing the living room all night, checking out the window for his truck or his bike. Sometimes he stays gone for days at a time. You don't sleep. You don't eat. You just wait. And wait. And wait. He always comes home eventually, both of you now worse for wear. He pulls you into a crushing hug and both of you end up sleeping like the dead for several days afterward. The way he fucks you after that, it's like he's fighting his demons back into whatever cage he keeps them in inside his head. It's rough, it's messy, it's so good you forget how much you suffered while he was gone. You end up bruised and sore, but you're both put back together as well as you can be these days, and you know it'll be a while before he has an episode like that again. He never apologizes after these episodes. You know he's sorry anyway. It never gets brought up again. You go back to living life as normally as possible, which is to say, barely normal at all. He jumps at shadows, you pretend not to notice. Eventually the cycle will repeat.
sukuna tries to throw away the pot you beat him with <3
[ cw: crazy!reader, the title is self explanatory, not proofread, another love letter to @indiewritesxoxo if u guys like torturing sukuna pls check out her drabble series š ]
he hates that god damn thing.
and despite the fact that itās been an entire year since youāve hit him over the head with it, leaving a giant dent the shape of his skull, you still havenāt thrown that fucking pot away.
you use it for everythingātea, coffee, ramen, scrambled eggs, his fucking birthday dinnerānever failing to remind him of the day he ACCIDENTALLY called you a bitch.
heās apologized for it, heās changed, and is now an entirely different man than he was a year ago. why the hell do you still have it?
well, heās getting rid of it tonight, so thereās really no use in asking any further questions. it took him an entire week to come up with a plan, which was more than fair given your unhealthy attachment to the item.
so far, everythingās worked beautifully in his favor. he came home with take-out from your favorite restaurant, along with a bottle of your favorite wine. he got you tipsy, then later on made you cum so hard you literally passed out.
there was no way you were waking up after that, not for another eight hours at least. and if you were, you werenāt getting up. youād be too sore, too physically exhausted.
it was perfect.
after staying back for a few minutes, holding you and making sure you were dead asleep, he snuck out of bed and made his way into the kitchen to grab the literal bane of his existence. no noise was made while doing so, you hung the thing up like it was some medal you won at a competition.
the side door gently creaks as he opens it, then makes his way down the wooden steps. the trash cans are only a few feet away, and the excitement builds the closer he gets to them.
but just as he lifts the lid open, the giddiness he feels gets ripped away by something that made him startle.
āwhat are you doing?ā
he freezes and slowly turns his head to the side until heās met the sight of you wide awake, waiting at the top of the stairs, just standing there like a sleep paralysis demon. there are many questions that go through his mind, like, āhow is she awake right now?ā and āhow did i not fucking hear her?ā all of which die on his tongue because he is admittedly afraid at the moment.
ābring that pot back inside, now,ā you demand.
āiāll get you a new one,ā he says in a pathetic attempt to bargain with you.
āI donāt want a new one.ā
and with that, he doesnāt try to argue any further and walks back in defeat.
you yank the pot of his grip once he reaches the top of the steps. for a moment, he braces himself, thinking youāre about to add another dent to it. luckily, you just scold him. āi canāt believe the lengths youād go through to get rid of something that i love.ā
he scoffs, you say that as if he were trying to sabotage you or something. āi was getting rid of something that was barely functional.ā
you let out a little laugh. āright, right. barely functional yet iāve been able to do more than just cook with it.ā you nudge him forward with the pot. ānow get back in bed.ā
you freeze on top of tojiās broad hips, eyes dropping to where your hand had started on his chest for balance and somehow ended up resting against his throat.
āohāno, itās notāā your hand starts to pull away immediately, heat rushing to your face. āi didnāt mean to, i was justāā
his calloused hand covers yours before you can fully take it back, pressing your fingers firmly against his throat.
ādidnāt say you should stop.ā
his scarred lip curls, dark eyes fixed on you. he shifts under you, rolling his hips up so his thick cock pushes even deeper, the heavy stretch forcing a quiet sound out of both of you. you can feel every inch of himāhot, hard, and so fucking thick it makes your thighs tremble around his waist.
āgo on. squeeze. i can take it.ā
you hesitate only a second longer before giving in, closing your fingers a little tighter. his pulse jumps under your palm, and a low, almost surprised groan slips out of him as his free hand grips your hip hard, helping you move.
āyeahā¦ just like that.ā his head tips back against the pillow, throat working under your hand with every swallowed breath. āfuck. keep going. donāt get shy on me now.ā
his hips snap up harder, burying that heavy cock to the hilt again and again. you can feel the way it pulses inside you, the ridge of the head dragging against your walls on every pull-out before he forces it back in deep.
āharder. youāre already on my throat. might as well use it.ā he presses your hand firmer against his throat, eyes locked on yours. ācāmon. make me feel it when i fill you up.ā
