._.

In my 20s, F, I write about hot fictional men. I update sporadically. Do NOT feed any of my works into AI, I do not use or condone it in any capacity.

[jb-writes]

Masterlist

(All of my work is subjected to the possibility of having NSFW content in it, even without tags. Read at your own discretion.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

COD Fics

Bakery 141 (Have your Cake and Eat It Too)

Price's Bootcamp

Acres and Acres

Oneshots, Thoughts, etc.

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One Piece Fics

Zoro - Sanji (Other Characters may be added)

A Cure For Your Boredom

[cs-glitch]

price thinks his cute neighbor would be perfect for his boys...

18+ (suggestive, start of smut)

cw: fem!reader, fauxcest undertones, dubcon, poly!141, icky!price, icky!141 actually, age gaps (reader is at least 21, 141 ages aren't specified), some light manipulation, abrupt ending, i think that covers it ?, word count: 951

The bottle of wine feels heavy in your hand as you nervously shift in front of his door.  You were so sure that your neighbor, John, didn’t feel the same way about you– despite your best efforts. 

It’s been months of lingering touches as you brush past him in the halls, yet nothing. Once, you picked out a purposefully short skirt just to give him a peek at the lace underneath it– the most that got out of him was a concerned warning about staying out too late. 

His invitation has to mean something, right?

“Love, you made it!” The wide grin he gives you makes your pulse quicken as you step into his flat. “I told you not to bring anything,” he scolds. 

His fingers tenderly brush against yours as he grabs the bottle out of your hands before ushering you into the kitchen. “I couldn’t show up empty-handed,” you insist. 

“I should’ve known. Well, have a seat, poppet.”

You didn’t expect him to be a good cook, but the food was actually delicious. Your surprise must show on your face because he’s smiling at you when you glance up. 

“Didn’t know I was a chef, yeah?” 

You take a sip of your wine to hide the fond laugh that spills from your lips. “I had full faith in you, John, promise,” you lie, watching his shoulders shake with laughter. 

As he opens his mouth to tease you, his phone buzzing against the table interrupts the moment. His brows furrow as he hastily types out a reply before glancing up at you. 

“Everything okay?” you whisper, nervously trailing your finger along the rim of your glass. 

He smiles, eyes flickering to the door as he places the device face down on the table. “Forgot to warn you I invited my boys around; don’t worry, they’ll love you.”

The boys, his team, his soldiers. John talks about them any chance he has, a boastful, fatherly tone taking over his voice when they get brought up.

It’s sweet, really, but any hope that this night meant more disappears as his front door creaks open– the three men not even bothering to knock, loud and rambunctious as they walk into his flat. 

“This the wee lass?” Johnny grins– you recognize him from the photo John had once shown you.  

Lips tight, you give them the best smile you can manage, offering your name as you stand up to greet them. 

You squeak when he wraps his arms around you, nose pressed into your neck as he takes a deep inhale before pulling away. 

You glance over at John for help, just to find him smiling fondly at the lot of you. Thankfully, Kyle comes to your rescue, tugging Johnny away by the back of his jacket. 

“Leave the poor bird alone, Soap; you’ll scare her off,” he chastises, sending you an apologetic smile. 

“I wasn’t scared.” You lie– something Simon must catch, given he raises an eyebrow at you. “I was just surprised, that’s all,” you mumble, following them as they lounge in the living room. 

You end up squished between Simon and Kyle on the small sofa, John and Johnny both staking a claim on the two armchairs. 

“Y’ like footie?” Simon asks reluctantly, fiddling with the remote as he turns on the game.

It feels like there’s a correct answer, the whole evening being some kind of test. “Yeah, I mean, I don’t watch it all the time, but I like it well enough.”

He gives an approving nod before leaning back, melting into the couch as his arm wraps around your shoulder. You stiffen slightly, but a proud smile from John stops you from pushing him away.

Kyle must take it as an open invitation because his hand is suddenly resting on your knee. “Did you know Cap’s been talkin’ you up for weeks now, love?”

Heat creeps up the back of your neck, your heart fluttering at the thought of him gushing about you to them.

John just waves it off, taking a sip from his drink as he tries to hide the soft smile on his face. “You’re a smart kid, and I know you’ve got it rough out here on your own.”

“I can buy my own pints; I’d hardly call that a kid.” The words come out a little too sharp to be casual– your tone tinged with defensiveness. 

At your words, the men all shift in their seats, staring at you like a predator that caught a hint of a metallic scent in the air.

“Not all he said, y’know?” Despite the warning look John gives him, Simon continues. “Said you were a real looker– ‘e was right.”

You don’t realize Kyle’s hand has crept up your leg until he’s squeezing your inner thigh– fingers dangerously close to your warm cunt. Simon’s lips ghost your neck, and your body burns under Johnny’s hungry stare.

A hand– you’re not sure whose– stops you from squirming away as you look over at John, who's watching you intensely.

“Dinnae be so blate. Cap’s taken ye under his wing, aye? Means we’re family, hen.” Johnny coos, hand palming at himself through his jeans.

You swallow hard, heart racing as part of you knows you should push the men off, be disgusted with them– with yourself– but John’s finally looking at you like you’re something worth devouring.

You force your body to relax, lips pressing against Kyle’s as he pulls you into a messy kiss. It’s depraved, the way hands are grabbing at your body from both sides– two sets of eyes watching you from across the room.

Faintly, your mind registers John’s voice. “Knew you’d be perfect for my boys, poppet.”

[jb-writes]

Nothing, just thinking about Roommate!Johnny who walks in on reader, watching their show wearing one of his shirts.

Like the pervert he is, he immediately hardens in his pants at the sight, getting harder when you start apologizing, rambling about how the washing machine wasn't working, and how you had no clean clothes.

He has you make it up to him by letting him pound you into his mattress.

[jb-writes]

(Original Bakery 141) (Main Masterlist)

Have Your Cake and Eat It Too

Poly!141 x Reader: Bakery 141 Remastered

Part 2: Circumstances (Part 1)

Days passed by and the flirting didn't cease to exist, if anything, it increased because Johnny could tell how much more it flustered you.

He called you nicknames, bought you small presents, and slowly wormed his way into your life until he lived in your subconscious.

You knew what pastries he liked, so every time you made some, you would a piece of it aside just in case he came in late, you didn't have to see his face drop in sadness at the news of it being sold out.

You sent him pictures of your plates after you made them, and he sent his back. The two of you joked back and forth about sharing and doing a food swap. It was fun to you.

Which made it all the more heartbreaking when it stopped.

A day or two passed and he hadn't responded to any of your texts, and you didn't see him in the bakery. You tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but you felt ghosted. It made you question what the two of you even were, and why you were so excited to interact with him in the first place.

The next days went back to normal. Customers came in and out, you greeted them, and that was it. There were no riveting conversations or full belly laughs from interactions with others. You watched as his favorite pie sold out, and there was no piece saved in the fridge.

At night, you stared at the two of your messages, fingers hovering over the keyboard like you wanted to send a message, but your brain couldn't churn out what to type.

The day his masked best friend walked into the bakery, you didn't notice. You were sweeping a corner, back turned to the door. The bell ringing barely registered in your head.

"Hey." His gruff voice called out, and you stiffened up. You hadn't heard his voice in about the same amount of time as Johnny's.

You turned around and smoothed out your apron, holding the broom inches from the shop floor. "Hi." You tried to hide the inclination of hope for answers as to why you'd been ghosted.

"Johnny's on a work trip. Told me ta keep you company while he's gone. Said he'd take you out proper when he gets back."

You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding for the past week, relief and too many other emotions to name coursing through your veins.

"Okay." Was the only thing you could muster to say. So, the two of you sat down at a table and had your first real conversation.

You learned his name is Simon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AN: Rereading this, I realized it sounds like Johnny is dead lol, he's NOT, we ignore canon over here 🥲

Psst.. Commenting on my works helps me stay motivated and update! Please show some love in my comments!

[cs-glitch]

something something nikolai asking the team to dogsit for him...

18+ mdni !!! (extremely suggestive & brief smut)

cw: fem!reader, exhibitionism, heavy petplay, boot humping, poly!141, uhh i think that's it ?, word count: 828

“You have a dog?” Kyle questions, lips parted in disbelief. 

Simon snorts, mask lifted just enough to allow him to take a sip of his pint. “Got ‘imself a shop dog.”

Nikolai scoffs, leaning back against the booth of the dingy pub. “Not a dog,” he emphasizes the word with borderline disgust before continuing. “I have a puppy; she is a cute and eager little thing.”

Johnny can’t help but laugh. “Didnae think ye were the pet type of lad, Nik?”

“I like to have something to dote on,” he shrugs, sending a smirk John’s way. “My shchenochek is so well behaved– always happy to sit and watch me work.”

“If yer pup’s trained, why nae just take the lass with ye?” Johnny asks, brows furrowed. 

Simon nods, hand grasping his sergeant’s shoulder. “Dead righ’ there, Soap. And why does it take four people t’ watch yer mutt, Nik?”

He sighs, head thrown back as he finishes what is left in his glass. “She has too much energy, hates to sit still– could not trust her to stay in the heli.” 

Based on the way the men nod and glance at each other, they seem to all agree that’s a fair point. 

“Fine, we’ll watch your pet,” John caves, giving his friend a knowing look. 

“Cap…” Kyle whispers, eyes wide as he stares at the light pink kennel that’s covered in various blankets, pillows, and plushies– and sitting in the center of it is you. 

The collar around your neck is a thick leather material– a small tag hangs from it reading shchenochek in a dainty font. A pair of rather expensive-looking ears is pressed snugly against your head. 

He nearly moans when he notices the matching tail peeking through the carefully placed hole in the back of your thin underwear. 

Simon shifts, a poor attempt to hide his hard cock as he also glances over your barely covered body. “Wha’ the fuck, Nik?” he mutters, unable to look away from the sparkly leash that’s anchoring you to the nearest table leg. 

“She wanders. I  do not want her to get hurt,” he says simply– as if the leash is what any of the men are caught up on right now. 

John just sighs, shaking his head before turning to Nikolai. “I take it this is your puppy then?” 

Smiling, the man nods, beaming with pride as he walks over to you, his fingers trailing down your body before finally untying your tether. 

He walks ahead of you, tenderly tugging at your leash to follow him, until he’s got you in front of the team– presenting you to them. “Puppy, greet.”

You smile widely at them, voice chipper as you introduce yourself. 

The way you eagerly listen to the command before glancing over at Nikolai for approval, John can’t help but be reminded of his own pups soldiers. Heat rushes straight to his gut– the thought causes his cock to twitch in his jeans in a way he can’t deny. 

For once in his life, Johnny’s speechless,  mouth dry as he gawks at the sheer lace that’s barely covering your chest.

“Sit,” as soon as the word leaves Nik’s mouth, you’re on the ground, hands wrapped around his leg as you nuzzle your face into his pants.

It's hard to focus on the list of rules Nikolai is giving them when they can all see how desperate you are. Soft whines leave your lips as you start to grind your dripping cunt against his boot– the shoe glistening with your slick. 

He glances down at you, softly chuckling at you. His fingers wrap around the leather to tug your collar flush against your throat, watching your eyes roll back as you gasp for air. 

“You see why I can not leave my shchenochek alone now, da? Such a needy little puppy,” he coos, making no move to stop you from humping at his foot. 

He glances back up at the men, ignoring the way your teeth nip at his jeans, drool dampening the denim material. 

Even if their eyes never leave your body, John and Simon have some form of self-restraint– or at least they pretend to. From the way John’s hand grips the lieutenant’s shoulder, Nikolai can tell it’s taking everything in him not to bend the large man over right there.  

Less subtly, Kyle keeps shifting where he stands. He hopes the small moans falling from his lips are quiet enough to pass off as shaky exhales– they aren’t. 

Johnny, however, isn’t even bothering to pretend to care. He’s already palming himself through his jeans, pressing down harder each time you whine and whimper when his shoe brushes against your swollen clit. 

“There are rules– she has a routine. She is not allowed to–” He cuts himself off, quickly realizing the men are too busy staring at his shchenochek to pay attention to what he’s saying.

No matter– he will simply leave them a written list.

[cs-glitch]

thinking about gaz, who has conflicting thoughts and feelings about your relationship with his captain... 18+ mdni !!! (pure, depraved, smut) cw: sub!fem!reader, sub!gaz, dom!price,‼️HEAVY FAUXCEST ‼️, cumplay, exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, gazprice (is that even a warning ?), reader is an instigator, implied control issues!gaz, brief jealousy, i think that's it ?, word count: 2.3k

Kyle’s never quite been able to place exactly when his feelings for his captain shifted beyond loyalty and admiration. He’s unsure where the heavy feeling of want that’s long settled in his stomach came from.

Maybe it was somewhere in the middle of all the late-night paperwork.  The two working in silence at Price’s desk– the very desk he’d pictured himself bent over and stuffed full of his Captain’s cock.

It could have been one of the after-work celebrations at the pub.  Their booth filled with whiskey-fueled laughter as they watched their teammates run off to the bathroom for a not-so-subtle quickie.  

Deep down, he knows that it was always there. From the very moment he met John Price in London, he recognized that the man’s presence would change his life– change him.

His feelings for you, however, have been very clear from the get-go.

He’d just gotten back from a solo mission that lasted over a month. He finds himself stumbling into his captain’s office under the usual guise of paperwork– when he’s really just desperate to see him.

“Cap, you got a minute? I need your help with–” he pauses mid-sentence. Slowly blinking as he stares at you, sitting in his usual seat at John’s desk.

You smile so sweetly at him that he can’t even bring himself to be properly pissed at you– for what? He’s not sure.

Your voice is timid when you introduce yourself, and your hand reaches out to shake his own. “It’s nice to meet you, Sergeant Garrick. Captain Price speaks highly of you.”

From the moment you first touched him, he could tell that you weren’t a new member of the team– not in the way they are. Your skin’s soft, gentle, not made to hold the same violence and blood that makes his palms itch at night. 

“Call me Kyle, love,” his voice comes out rough, mouth suddenly dry. He just hopes you don’t notice his reluctance when he drops your hand– or how he's half-hard just from the brief contact. 

Price’s hand on his shoulder only makes the aching feeling of want worse.  “Got an assistant while you were gone, she helps us with paperwork, scheduling, things of that sort– does a damn fine job.” 

You open your mouth as if to argue– diminish your work– only for John to cut you off. “What’d we talk about, Kid?”

You huff, playfully rolling your eyes. “Yes, Sir.”

The second he finally makes it back to his barracks, the first thing he does is palm at himself.  It isn’t the thought of John inside him or licking at your sweet cunt that makes him cum in his jeans– no, that’d be too simple. 

Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and pictures you bent over Price’s desk, lips parted, crying out ‘Sir, please!’ as John thrusts in and out of your dripping pussy.

He feels sick with guilt when you walk in the next morning, passing out some papers before taking a seat at the table. Price sets a protein bar in front of you, eyes crinkling as he smiles down at you. “Eat, kid– know you must’ve skipped brekky, yeah?”

Soap snorts, “Would’ve made a damn good father, eh, Cap?

You glance over at Kyle, looking him dead in the eyes, before turning back towards the Captain. “He already is, aren’t you, Da’?”

It’s enough to make Soap coo at the pair of you and cause Price to flush, shaking his head before insisting everyone focus on the paperwork.

The rest of the meeting, he observes your interactions– taking mental notes of every subtle glance, all the gentle touches, and soft reminders. 

The more he watches the two of you, it becomes obvious that Price sees you as a kid– as his kid. 

Images of his fantasies from the night before flash through his mind– the shame threatens to crawl up and out of his throat at the realization. 

He doesn’t mean to barge into the Captain’s office without knocking; it’s just a habit. 

“Takin’ me so well, sweet girl,” John coos, hands gripping your hips as he bounces you up and down on his cock. His eyes trail down, staring where the two of your bodies meet, licking his lips at the mixture of slick and cum glistening against your skin.

He should cover his eyes and apologize, or better yet, turn around and leave, but when he finally looks up and meets his Captain’s gaze, his body freezes. 

He’s helpless, standing still as John’s eyes trail down to his painfully hard cock. His thrusts don’t falter, his hips only picking up speed as broken cries fall from your mouth. “Please, Daddy, gonna cum,” you sob, fingers digging into his shoulders. 

His length twitches in his boxers; the feeling of the thin, sticky fabric clinging to his tip only makes it worse. 

John’s eyes don’t leave his as he presses a kiss to your exposed shoulder. That’s all it takes for you to cry out, body shivering as you cum all over his captain’s cock.

“It’s okay, kid, let go,” he mumbles, fucking you through your orgasm.

To this day, Kyle still doesn’t know who he was really talking to. 

It's horrible; he has wet dreams that border on being nightmares for weeks after the encounter. 

Every time he closes his eyes, his mind betrays him– vivid images of you in between the two of them with your eyes rolled back, both holes filled while you whisper ‘Thank you, Daddy’. 

Sometimes the picture shifts– he thinks about taking your place– can practically feel John’s hand on his cock and your lips on his neck. Can hear a low, gravelly voice mumbling ‘Be good for Daddy.’

He tells himself it's fine. That he's not fucked in the head, that you're not gross, and he doesn't think anything of the nicknames– plenty of people call their partner that in bed. 

He jerks himself off until he can't even touch his cock without hissing in pain.

The way he starts to avoid you is undeniable– it’s obvious to everyone, even his teammates. 

Ghost’s eyes always trail to him when you walk into a room. Soap teases him about having a crush– he’s not that far off. Price is the worst of them, though, eyes crinkling as he just keeps giving him this look that screams: ‘I know what you’ve done’. 

It’s maddening. Yet, it doesn’t stop him from fisting his hard cock to thoughts of the two of you every single chance he gets

He hoped meeting the team at the pub would be a safe space– one where he didn’t have to constantly avoid staring at Price’s hand on your lower back. He should have known better. 

He’s been unknowingly betrayed by his mates. The two fucking off to give each other a wristy in the bathroom stall– like usual. 

You and John sit across from him, one of his arms wrapped around your shoulder. He knows that if he glances under the table, he’ll see John’s hand cupping your covered pussy. 

The air surrounding the booth is thick– the kind of tension that builds and builds until it’s suffocatingly heavy.  

“Da’, can you go get me some water?” The nickname spills from your lips too casually– he can instantly tell it’s something normal between the two of you. 

He can’t look away as you capture Price’s lips in a messy kiss. You pull away first– lips swollen– giggling as he shakes his head. 

He swallows hard when his Captain stares at him, eyes crinkling as he smiles. “You need anythin’, kid?”

He sucks in a breath and shakes his head. Tells himself the nauseous feeling is from disgust at the sudden nickname– that it has nothing to do with how painfully erect he is. 

John’s hand grabs his shoulder, and he just laughs when he flinches. “Let me know if you change your mind, son,” he mumbles, before heading off to the bar. 

You stare straight at him, one look into your eyes, and he can just see that you know.

“It’s not what you think it is, Kyle.” He can’t help but shift in his seat when your honeyed voice says his name. “It’s not… entirely perverted. A lot of it’s about letting go.” 

There’s that ugly phrase again– he can hear Price’s words ring in the back of his head. 

Your hand reaches across the table, fingers interlocking with his, before you softly speak. “Have you ever been properly taken care of? Had someone who can make all your choices for you– tell you what rules you have to follow? Let your mind just… rest?”

Your questions make his chest burn with envy. You talk about it like it’s just that simple, that easy. “No, but that sounds… nice,” he whispers, skin on fire as you trace shapes onto the back of his hand. 

You smile at him like you’re about to share a secret, leaning in so close to him that he can feel your breath on his ear. 

“You know, I’ve always wanted a brother.”

You’re both stripped of your clothes, and his knees are sunken into the pillow John placed below him– you’re kneeling next to him with one of your own. 

His captain– your captain– sits on the edge of the bed in front of the two of you, thighs spread wide open. His hard cock slaps against his stomach when he frees it. The sticky pre-cum smears against his happy trail. 

“The two of you gonna play nice?” He asks, staring down at the pair of you. It’s a command– not a question–, but you both rush to reply anyway. 

You nod up at John, hands folded neatly in your lap. “Promise,” you whisper, glancing over at him. 

“Yes, sir.” His voice comes out shaky. A mixture of anticipation and nervousness takes over his body. 

Price’s fingers trail along his cheeks, a shiver running down his spine at the touch. “That’s not what you call me, kid– not in here.”

“Yes, Daddy,” He whispers. The words send heat straight to his stomach– yours as well, judging by the way your thighs twitch. 

You’re the first to move, gripping the base of John’s cock before grabbing his arm and pulling him in closer. His breath hitches at the sight, pre-cum coating your palm as your hand slowly moves up and down. 

“C’mon, Kyle, be a good brother and help me.”

He’s never moved so fast in his life, his hand resting over yours, forcing you to speed up. John throws his head back, mouth open as he lets out a deep moan. 

Your other hand grabs his jaw, pulling him into a sloppy kiss. Your mouths crash together, swallowing his groan as your tongue slips past his lips. 

“Good boy, Kyle, getting along so well with your sister,” Price mumbles, eyes staring straight at the two of you. 

You pull away with swollen lips, looking at him as you giggle– it sounds like trouble and makes his cock twitch. 

“Fuck,” he cries, hips bucking when you suddenly brush your finger along his tip. Your free hand wraps around his cock as your lips close around John’s tip– the two of you continuing to jerk him off together. 

“You like that, sweet boy?” John coos at him, thumb dragging along his lower lip. “Your sister’s making you feel so good, yeah?” 

You let out a muffled whine, grinding your hips against the pillow, leaving a wet patch where your cunt drags along the fabric.

Price chuckles, reaching down to pull your mouth off of him. “Why don’t you share with your brother, poppet?” You don’t fuss, lips shiny with spit and slick as you eagerly nod at him.  

He doesn’t hesitate, placing both hands on his thighs, eagerly sucking at the head of his cock.  His eyes stare straight ahead, watching as you continue to stroke the base of it lazily.

Your hips start to move faster, letting out a pathetic moan each time your swollen clit gets brushed against the fabric. It’s too much for him; the wet noises and needy moans filling the air, your hand around his cock, the salty taste on his tongue– it’s better than he ever dreamt about.

He groans around John’s cock, his cum spurting all over your hand that's now right in front of your face. Your tongue darts out, licking some of it off your skin before reaching down to grab at John’s balls– smearing the rest of the sticky, white seed all over them.

“Daddy, please, please, wanna see you cum in Kyle’s mouth,” you beg, eyes wide as you glance over at him.

That’s all it takes to push him over the edge– a salty taste settles on Kyle’s tongue.  He doesn’t wait for John’s cock to soften before he pulls away, cum sitting in his mouth as he kisses you. You gently grab his jaw, prying open his mouth as you wrap your tongue around his– licking and sucking the cum out of his mouth before pulling away.

“Da’, let me, let me help her…” The words fall from his mouth before he even registers the thought.

He should feel filthy, but as John looks down at him with a smile, he can’t bring himself to be ashamed. “Look at you, being so sweet to your sister– so proud of you, kid.”

He doesn’t hesitate, ignoring your whines when his hands on your hips force you to stop humping your pillow. You bury your head in his neck, licking and sucking at his skin as his finger circles your clit. It doesn’t take much for you to fall apart, teary-eyed and whimpering as you clench around nothing.

It’s silent, the room smelling like sex, musk, and sweat. You sniffle, wiping away your tears before crawling into the bed, dragging him with you as you force him to lie between you and John.

“See, Da’, I told you he’d be a perfect brother.”

[jb-writes]

Have Your Cake and Eat It Too

This series is a remastered version of Bakery!141.

Part 1: Curiosities

Part 2: Circumstances

Part 3: ???

[jb-writes]

(Original Bakery 141) (Main Masterlist)

Have Your Cake and Eat It Too

Poly!141 x Reader: Bakery 141 Remastered

Part 1: Curiosities

Your bakery was small enough that you knew the names of almost everyone who came in and out. Except one. His routine was simple. He ordered a coffee and a slice of cheesecake, then sat down in a corner booth alone, his back facing the door.

The odd thing was that he didn’t eat what he ordered. He waited for Johnny. You knew Johnny well, his bubbly personality and bright demeanor being impossible to miss.

You remembered the first day they came in, Johnny introduced himself with a dramatic flourish and ordered while mystery mask man just gave a grunt of acknowledgment. You didn’t know your face had confusion written all over it until Johnny laughed.

“That means he likes ya.” Then he winked at you. You were befuddled, to say the least.

They appeared every so often and intrigued you every time. The two of them bounced right off of each other, funny quips and jokes rolling off of them. You could tell they’d been friends forever.

Maybe you pried a little into people’s lives, but that’s the art of being nosy. But it seemed like this man was a brick wall. You try to strike up conversations, and it never works. He responds in nods, head shakes, and grunts. You couldn’t decipher if he was just genuinely socially inept or if Johnny lied to you.

You wanted to shrug it off, but the need to find out something out about this man plagued you. You weren’t gonna force him to socialize with you, obviously, but you at least wanted to know his name.

On a particularly slow day, he came in and made it through his normal routine. Nobody else had come in the bakery, and you just made a fresh pie, so you bought a slice over and sat across from him.

“I just made it. New recipe, you’d be the first to try it.” You said as you pushed it to his side along with a fork. He grunted in appreciation before taking a piece and pulling his mask down ever so slightly to taste it.

You caught a glimpse of most of his face and noticed how pretty he was. Dirty blonde hair and pale eyes. He had scars, but hey, they just make a person hotter to you. It made you wonder why he covered it.

“Aye, don’t go fallin’ in love wit’out me!” You turned to see Johnny walking in, hastily walking over to the two of you. He sat beside you like it was nothing, cornering you in.

The proximity had your nostrils picking up the scent of his cologne, something subtly masculine.

It made the hairs on your neck stand at attention for him.

"Trying to steal ma' girl?" He 'joked' with his friend, making you chuckle. Johnny was always flirty, all he did was strive to see you flustered.

Now that you think about it, the two of you were sort of close. He gave you his Insta a few times after coming into the store, and the two of you talk often. Granted, it's usually about his failure at cooking, but you still do talk.

A thought popped into your head... "Has he been trying to date me this whole time?!"

You started to go over every interaction the two of you had over the past few months, and the dread started to set in.

Thankfully, before the two of them could talk about the look on your face, a customer came in.

That didn't stop you from thinking about it the rest of the times they showed up.

(Part 2)

Psst.. Commenting on my works helps me stay motivated and update! Please show some love in my comments!

[rawme-price]

"Rommy why do I see you in everyone's comments??"

The average authors experience on Tumblr:

[cod-indulgences]

Please understand that demanding part 2 of a post with no other engagement, comments, or reblogs just feels entitled.

If you liked something so much you want more of it- share why! Tell us what you enjoyed! Give a little what if scenario, an idea for a sequel, hell even a "I loved (character) in this I hope you write more like it" is infinitely more appreciative than a "pt 2 when" demand.

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Creation is for community, not content.

[jb-writes]

Staring (Main Masterlist)

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Cw: SH, Heavy Topics, Trauma Comparing?

Sometimes, you catch yourself staring at his scars. Remnants of struggles, battles, and an everlasting fight with his own life.

You can't help but feel inferior. Your hand was dealt better than the subpar hand he suffered with. He had no wins, no plays. Even if he didn't tell you, there was always an underlying knowledge that he was trapped.

You saw him wake up in the middle of the night with terrors, closed off. He would shut down, and you knew it was just the scars being exposed to the air around him.

You've seen the product of his trauma, a fear that everything he touched could wither away, and an equally terrifying adjacent that if the wrong thing got too close to him, he could fall.

The sum of these two meant he led a closed off life, nobody came in, and if one person left, everybody was out. He hid behind a mask that concealed his life's struggles. This reality of his was horrible in your eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes, he catches himself staring at your scars. They're a reminder that even if he chose a normal path, things would follow him. Yours were more uniform, but he knew that it was all the same.

He's been on battlefields, stranded in the middle of nowhere, and stuck in open fire, but in his mind, it couldn't compare to what you go through. A mental turmoil can't be escaped. He's seen you fall, get back up, and life knocks you right back down with no remorse.

He knew that once he was finished with a mission, he could come back home, and he had you. His past was long gone, and the shame from it left him heavy at times, but his problems were buried in the ground.

Yours attached onto you, making sure every step was heavy. The gun he carried on him got rid of most of his problems. The horrors he's seen were also a target for his bullets. He was okay with himself for that. He'd come to terms with it. He couldn't imagine waking up and the only monstrosity he could stand off against was himself in the mirror.

Just two people staring at each other's scars, wondering how all that weight has been carried alone for so long.

[07x1x4x1]

antidote

You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.

— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader

— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+

author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.

"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.

He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.

Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.

You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.

You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.

You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.

Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.

Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.

"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."

Bioweapon.

Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.

"Nothing concrete yet?" Price snaps incredulously. "Goddammit, Kate!"

"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.

"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."

Apparently?!

You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.

"That is correct, sir. She won't die."

Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.

"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."

A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.

"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.

"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.

When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.

It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.

And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.

What the hell is happening?

Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.

Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.

"What kind of bloody toxin?"

"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."

The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.

"The reports say it turns men—"

Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Turns them what, doc?"

It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."

The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.

"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."

Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.

Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.

"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.

"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"

Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.

Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.

"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"

A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.

"I feel weird."

You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.

Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.

Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.

"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.

Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.

The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.

You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.

And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.

Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.

"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.

In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.

Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.

"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.

Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.

"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.

"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."

Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.

It's his.

"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.

"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.

Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.

"Cap'n! What do we do?!"

You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.

Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.

Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.

All that matters is someone touching you.

Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.

"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."

"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.

"I'll call the senior consultant."

Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.

Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.

Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.

"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.

Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.

"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"

Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."

Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.

"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"

Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.

Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.

"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.

"She can't consent!"

It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.

"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"

John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.

"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."

His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.

"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.

He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.

"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."

Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."

"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.

"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.

"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."

The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.

Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.

"But sir—"

Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.

"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."

Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.

The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.

Not asked, ordered to.

He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.

He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.

This doesn't feel like any of those things.

He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.

"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.

"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.

Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.

This is not how he'd imagined it.

He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.

He hadn't planned any of that.

Fucking liar.

You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.

"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"

"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."

He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.

You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.

He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.

Upper receiver. Charging handle. Bolt carrier group.

You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.

Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.

"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.

Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.

You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.

Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—

"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.

"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.

Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.

He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.

His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.

You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—

No. He's not going there.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."

He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.

His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.

You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.

"M-more, Kyle, please!"

Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.

Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.

He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.

"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."

He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.

Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.

"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."

You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.

Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.

He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.

When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.

"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"

He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.

"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."

"Please—"

"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."

He drops to his knees instead.

The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.

He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.

The sound you make is devastating.

Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.

Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.

He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.

But he doesn't stop.

Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.

"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."

Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.

But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.

He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.

"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."

You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—

And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.

"Soap!"

The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.

Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.

"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"

Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."

"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.

"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.

"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.

Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.

"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."

Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.

Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.

He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.

Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.

There is no need to.

Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.

He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.

By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.

It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.

"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."

And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.

That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.

Christ, you're beautiful.

He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.

He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.

He's thought about it a lot.

But not like this.

"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.

Close enough.

"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."

He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.

He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.

"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."

He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.

Let them hear.

His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.

"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."

He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.

He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.

His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.

But he doesn't stop.

He is physically incapable.

You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.

"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"

He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.

The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.

"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"

"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"

He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.

Inside his combat pants.

His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.

He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.

"MacTavish."

Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.

Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."

"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.

"Get yourself sorted. Now."

Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.

Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.

"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.

"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.

You don't notice the shift at first.

One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.

You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.

A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.

"Don't."

One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.

Ghost.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.

Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.

You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.

He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.

Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.

"Simon…"

His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.

"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.

"Don't want—"

"Wasn't bloody askin’."

He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.

Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.

Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.

Trust.

You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.

Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.

"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.

You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.

"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.

You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.

You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.

"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."

"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.

He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.

You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.

Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.

Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.

But.

His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.

Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.

You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.

"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.

"Yeah."

"It hurts."

He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.

He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.

Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.

Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.

Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.

It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.

So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.

You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.

He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.

Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.

Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.

In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.

"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."

Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.

"It's not enough, is it."

It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.

"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."

The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.

"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.

"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.

"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."

He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.

"And we tell Ghost."

Ghost doesn't agree.

He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.

And then: "No."

Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"

"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."

Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.

Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.

"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."

No one dares to argue.

Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.

The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.

You look small.

That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.

You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.

But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.

He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.

"Sergeant."

You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.

"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"

"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."

He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.

You'll keep hurting. Under his command.

He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.

"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."

His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.

This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.

He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.

This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.

He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.

"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."

He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.

Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.

You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.

It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.

Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.

He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.

Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.

He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.

"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.

"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."

You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.

He lowers you onto him slowly.

The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.

You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.

"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.

You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.

Almost.

He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.

And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.

He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.

Hates that he doesn't want to stop.

Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"

His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.

You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.

For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.

Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.

He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity

He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."

You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.

Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

"Garrick. You're up."

Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.

Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.

The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.

Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.

He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.

"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."

He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.

He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.

"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"

The condoms run out after Soap's first round.

Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.

"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."

Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.

"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."

It should be simple, and it’s anything but.

Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.

"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"

He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.

Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.

"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."

"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."

And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.

Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.

The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.

The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.

You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.

Ghost enters the room without being asked.

He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.

He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.

He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.

You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.

Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.

"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.

You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.

"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."

Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.

In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.

Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.

How is she?

He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.

Handled. Debrief in the morning.

He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.

Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.

The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.

The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.

The third thing is the balaclava.

You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.

Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.

You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.

The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.

And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.

Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.

The shower. The water. Voices.

John.

Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.

You lie very still.

The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.

You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.

Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.

Neither of you says a word.

His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.

Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.

"How do you feel?"

You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.

"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."

His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.

Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.

You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.

And down the hall, a kettle clicks on.

[hinakamiya]

holy fuck man that was amazing

[ski0k]

I hate when a man finds out that I like anime and asks me what anime I like because honey, you and I consume this specific piece of media very differently

you like it because of the action sequences and/or powerscaling

I'm either shipping your goats together or am spending my nights thinking about how I'm married to them with two kids

we are so not the same and it's better that you don't know that

[tojisteddy]

I think about Naive!Reader and Fresh Out of Prison!Simon on the subway.

cw: 18+ mdni, nsfw.

And how he’d make naive!reader sit in his lap when he notices and older woman standing in subway isle.

“Thank you, both of you.” The older woman giggles as she takes the empty seat.

“‘S no problem ma’am.” Simon nods, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. “She’s so cute isnt she love?”

You can’t even focus, his hardened erection pressing into your ass, in those jeans that Simon loves so much. Couldnt stop staring at the way your thighs spread as you sat down, every curve on you, that charm you have in your brown eyes. You wiggle in his lap but he only presses you down harder, he tsks in your ear, “Don’t move baby, or everyone ‘ere will see just what you do t’me.”

You feel him grow with every shake of the train against you, only smirking as he sees the way you can’t look anyone near you in the eye, heat rising under your skin with that slightly tense look on your face. You try your best to give a smile and wave to the old woman but Simons hands roll down your skin, down your your thighs that makes chills run down your spine, “Bloody hell, can’t wait t’ get off of ‘ere, fuck you right against the wall in the alley across the street from our stop, you’d like that wouldn’t you?”

Your lips purse out, breath hitching, “Simon!”

“ ‘F Course you would doll,” he draws out, calloused hands going to your hips, giving them a nice squeeze, humping up into you, “Or should I have you keep keep my cock warm right here, sliding it in your hole so eeeeveryone can see that pretty face you only make with me-“

You can’t help the little mewl you let out, his covered manhood pressing against your cunt, “Simon-“

“—I know, I know swee’art,” he coos, kissing your cheek, “Won’t do tha’ to ya.”

The subway rattles again and you bite the inside of your lips, nervous eyes flickering down into the mahogany brown eyes staring back at you. Glint shimmering in them.

“Not here, anyway.”

Simon lets his hand caress the apple of your cheeks from behind, squeeze them together that makes him chuckle, “Would you let me take you to the bathroom though? Hm love?”

You play with your fingers, checking the time on your phone, before muttering so quietly, “For j-just a little bit, I don’t wanna miss my show tonight.”

And the older man underneath you groans happily, eyes crinkling, rubbing his hand up and down your back, you’ve made the man go red in the face, “M just jokin baby, god, you’re so fuckin loveable.”

a/n: I hope you’re hungry— for nothing.

part one

[jb-writes]

Roronoa Zoro x Fem!Reader

A Cure For Your Boredom (Main Masterlist)

Cw: Smut that comes out of nowhere, Zoro may be OOC, Author isn't even in Alabasta yet but has an obsession with the swordsman, First One Piece fic

Being out on the sea for days at end was deathly boring, especially since you didn't have a job that kept you busy all the time. Days like these, you envied Sanji especially, his creative talent keeping him busy in the kitchen.

You wandered around the ship almost every day, looking for something to do. You offered to help where you could, but you were usually turned down. Everyone was so absorbed in their work that you didn't want to pry, so you just let it go.

You kept a log of the adventures and places your crew went, so the sea was not favorable to your position. You also created schedules for watch and other things.

This boredom usually ended up with you out on the deck, watching the bustle of your crew that you felt so disconnected from. Your eyes landed on Zoro around the same time each day, when he trained.

It was mesmerizing, his dedication and skill. You tried to convince yourself you were just staring because he was so hardworking. Not because he was shirtless, and you could see every bead of sweat flying off his tanned, toned body.

"Hey!" He called out, nudging a lighter weight your way with his foot. "Stop lounging around and make yourself useful." You got up from where you were sitting, face hot. You grabbed the weight and tried copying him, feeling the burn in your muscles.

"How do you do this every day?" You questioned, wondering how his body could take it.

He shrugged. His training seemed effortless to you, a clockwork subconscious reaction. You trained with him for around another hour, and by the time the two of you were done, you were sweaty and tired. You knew you were going to be sore the next day, and you never wanted to do that again.

The only thing that made it bearable was the "positive reinforcement" he gave you that just fueled your praise kink. A "just like that" or "you're doing so good" had your knees buckling, but you didn't show it.

The next day, you laid on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. Your extremities hurt, and you wanted to lay there forever.

Unfortunately, you weren't allowed that luxury. Zoro popped his head in the doorway, crossing his arms and staring down at you. "You give up that easily?"

He basically dragged you out to the deck to work out, pushing you to your limit. He didn't hear your complaints or whines when he tested your endurance or strength.

This became a routine for the two of you, building your body and the two of your relationship. You gravitate toward him when you felt out of place, and you knew he was opening up to you. You could do so much he wouldn't let anyone else do.

He let you hold his bandana to tie up your hair, inspect his wounds, even to eat off his plate. The two of you became besties in your opinion. You were making your way through his shell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Zoro woke up, a few days later, he could feel something was gonna be off. He occupied himself until it was time for the two of you to train.

He had come to like the time the two of you spent together, even if he wouldn't admit it to save his life. Before you came along, he kept to himself and stayed quiet most of the time. Being with you was a time to socialize without admitting it.

He even caught himself smiling at the thought of you, ready to see you each day. Today, he expected you to show up with that big smile on your face and the go-getter attitude he's started to instill in you. He waited, but he eventually went to look for you.

He checked your room, the crow's nest, everywhere. Then he checked the place he knew you had to be if you weren't anywhere else. He walked into the kitchen, and his nose turned up seeing you in cahoots with Sanji, eating pastries and giggling. It made him sick.

"You're late." He grumbled out, arms crossed, a scowl painted on his face. You turned around, surprised to see Zoro.

"I'm sorry, I must have lost track-" Sanji cut you off, standing between you and Zoro like he was a threat.

"No need to apologize, my love. You were just having fun instead of being worked to the bone by grass head here." He pointed at Zoro, who was fed up by Sanji already.

Zoro tapped his foot, wanting to get you far away from the lover boy. To his fortune, you got up on your own accord and patted Sanji on the shoulder, who looked like a kicked puppy.

Unlike the rest of the days, Zoro kept a stoic, angry frown on his face. He felt a feeling he couldn't describe, a firey anger. He didn't talk, didn't encourage, just processed in silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You could feel the aura radiating off of him, and you didn't know what to say. You stayed silent, an uncomfortable emotion settling in your chest.

You didn't know if it was Sanji that made him mad or maybe the fact you were late. Most likely Sanji, they're rivals or frenemies... the term is interchangeable. It felt like something was severed, a tie that you just started to knot.

Things weren't handled with as much care. A weight dropped into your hand too suddenly, hands loosely protecting what used to be fully secure.

This continued day after day, the jokes and banter replaced with a mutual feeling that couldn't be put into words. The air was thick around the two of you. You could hear a pin drop on the deck when you two were training.

Still, you showed up each time.

Eventually, you got tired of it. You confronted him while he was in his room. Everyone else was occupied, so only the two of you could hear the accusing tone being thrown back and forth between the two of you.

"What is up with you?" You jabbed a finger into his chest, and he gripped your wrist. You looked at him with a hard gaze, but he held your tighter.

"So you think pretty boy is better than me, huh?" Your face contorted into a confused expression, and then you laughed.

"You're jealous? Is that what this is?" He let go of you like you offended him. You were still laughing your butt off, and he couldn't see why it was funny. He was not jealous. At least that's what he believed.

"So what if I do like him more? What are you gonna do about it?" You teased, stepping back. He stood up off his bed and matched your steps until your back was flush against the wooden ship wall.

"What am I gonna do about it...?" He mumbled in your ear, then bit your neck softly. He pressed his knee up against your clothed core, licking and sucking on your collarbone.

Your hands pressed against his abs through the shirt, feeling how toned he was. You gripped at his clothes, and he pulled at your top to take it off. You lifted your arms, and he pulled it over your head. He let out a sound of appreciation, cupping your breasts.

You unhooked your bra, and he got down on his knees and sucked on your nipple, his fingers pulling on the other. Your back arched, and he looked up at you with a smile. He pulled off, wiggling your pants down. He licked you through your underwear, growing the wet spot that was already forming.

You were growing impatient, the stimuli underwhelming. You tried to take them off yourself, but he didn't let you, stopping you and pushing them back up. He held his hands on your waist, making sure you couldn't remove it.

"Admit I'm better than him. Tell me you like me more." He said and started sucking your clit through the fabric, one hand moving from your hip to rub circles on it. You huffed, annoyed because this is not the time.

"You know I like you more, Zoro. Stop playing." You shot out, trying to remove your bottoms again.

"Uh-uh. Like you mean it." He looked up at you sternly, and you got the memo. You sighed again before speaking.

"I like you more than Sanji, Zoro. Now will you please stop teasing already?" He smirked, celebrating his little victory before removing the last of your clothes. He groaned seeing you fully undressed. He liked his view.

"Good girl." He praised before attaching his lips to your clit and sticking two fingers in your needy hole. You gasped from the stretch, clenching around his fingers.

You whined his name, making him move his fingers in and out of you, the lewd sound making your face heat up. He looked up at you and saw how flustered you were, chuckling at the cuteness of it all.

"You're adorable, you know that?" He sped up, making your eyes roll back. You whined, and he reached up to cover your mouth. "Don't want anyone interrupting us, do we?" You shook your head no, and focused on being quiet.

It was hard to be silent with how good his fingers felt sliding in and out of you, hitting your sweet spot over and over. Your slick just dribbled down your thighs, and he licked it up each time, sucking hickeys into your skin.

You cupped your hand over his when you were close, your legs starting to shake. "There we go... cum for me." His voice was laced with pride in his work, and he had a huge smile on his face.

When you did cum, your legs almost gave out. Zoro pulled his fingers out of you and sucked them clean, a sight to behold. You felt like you could cum all over again from seeing that.

"I want you inside me." You said in his ear, pulling his pants down. The two of you were sprawled out on the floor, too occupied to think about getting on a bed.

When you looked, the sheer size of him was enough to make you gasp. He was thick, long, and hard as a rock. You held him in your hand, spreading his precum along his length. You positioned yourself over him and rubbed his tip against your entrance.

Now it was his turn to get impatient, pulling you down by the hips onto him. He pulled you down inch by inch, and the stretch was heavenly. You tried to ride him, but you couldn't take it.

"What, too big?" He said as he flipped the two of you over, your chests colliding. He pushed one of your legs up, using it as leverage to get deeper.

"I can feel you in my stomach..." You whined as he started up a slow pace. The two of your breathing synced up as his head landed on your shoulder, grunts and groans coming out of him. "Fuck, you're tight." He said that like it hurt him, his hand gripping your thigh as he pushed it up more.

"You like this angle? Feels good?" He asked, knowing the answer from how your hands were gripping at his back. You bit down on his shoulder to stop from screaming, your eyes squeezed shut. You had to look crazy taking it, but it felt so good.

"Zoro- I'm gonna cum-" You panted out, your sounds filling his head with all the sinful things he could do to you. "Say my name again." He ordered, fucking you harder. When you replied with a moan of his name, he couldn't take it anymore. He rubbed your clit in fast, harsh circles until you squeezed around him, creaming on his dick.

Once you started cumming, he filled you to the brim, to the point when he pulled out it came with him. He pushed it back in with his fingers, kissed the spots in your body he knew he was rough with, and started putting your clothes back on. You were too out of it to do anything except lie there, the aftershocks cutting through your body.

Maybe you should have paid attention, because you couldn't find the pair of underwear you had on.

[lesserthan-3]

Portal pussy with tf141 but it’s your job to figure out who has your pussy for the day.

You’re shaking and sweating, holding the base of the chair so tightly that your knuckles turn white. The circular sensation against your clit has been non stop and your brain is about to turn to mush because of it.

“You okay, love? You look tense.” You glare at price to which he gives you a knowing smirk. “Not too much now. I’m still your captain. Could send you to train the recruits if I wanted to.” There’s an intentional pause- as if to leave the mind to imagine. “although I doubt you’ll be able to demonstrate much in this state.”

You lift your hips off the chair in hopes to alleviate some of the friction but to no avail. A string of curses leaves your lips. “Fuck…I’m gonna cum.”

“Easy now.” Ghost chimes in. “Still in a briefing. Keep it professional, kid.”

“You could just take a guess- put an end to it.” Kyle so kindly suggests. There’s a few menacing chuckles in response. “Remember your forfeit though.”

And just like that- the sensation stops. It’s both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, you no longer have to climax in front of your team at a mission briefing, while on the other, your thighs are now rubbing against one another for any amount of friction that could just give you that relief you need.

Later in the day, Soap finds you curled up on a couch, clutching your lower abdomen and eyes just a little bit glazed over. “You look like shite.”

And you felt like it. “One of you fuckers has been edging me all day,” you mumble, pressing your legs so tightly together as if that would do you any good.

“At least you know it’s not me, you know I like to give ya what you want.”

You shoot him a glare- because Soap will let you cum. The problem is, that’s all he does. You’re climaxing at least once an hour when he has your pussy, and he’s not shy to experimenting.

He’ll grind the toy against the corner of his desk, he’ll hold it under running water, he’ll even go so far as to tie it to a vibrator as he’s sleeping just to make sure you’re left satisfied.

And the day will always end the same- soap locked inside his room while you’re banging for him with cute glistening tears, begging and sobbing for him to stop which just isn’t enough for him until you’re sitting in a puddle of your own arousal outside his door.

“C’mon, lass. Just take a guess.” He steps closer, lifting your chin with a finger. His eyes glimmer with excitement when he sees the way you’re practically looking through him and not at him. “You get it right, you get your cute cunnie back. And if you get it wrong…” he leans closer to your ear, “I’ll take ya first and you know I’m good at making ya cum.”

The offer is tempting, and you almost mutter a name in his advice but suddenly you gasp when you feel a low vibration make contact with your sore clit.

You hunch over, gripping the back of the couch. “What’s going on?” You don’t even have the strength to look up but from voice alone, you know it’s Gaz.

“Looks like someone’s having fun.”

Gaz’s eyes trace from a smug soap to a pitiful you. “What d’they got going on?”

Your voice strains as you try to speak. “V-vibe.”

Gaz nods in understanding. “Sounds like ghost or price. Me? I’m a traditional man.”

Soap snorts. “Oh, we know.”

Gaz, cursed at him, rolling his eyes with no real heat behind it. But soap was right. Gaz always talking about how he wants to meet the love of his life “naturally” and properly court her, have a romantic wedding, have two kids (one boy, one girl), basically he was traditional in every sense.

This includes in the bedroom where he doesn’t believe in the need for toys. Instead, he’ll plunge his fingers in your pussy till it’s sopping and crying, and then he’ll drink it all up with the tip of his nose pushing against the hood of you clit- all to do it over and over and over again.

The pair continue to argue but you drown out their voices as you feel that sinking feeling deep in your gut again. The vibrations are so perfectly pressed against your clit that it has you seeing stars.

It has to be price, right? The fingers from earlier were rough with experience but the movements themselves were patient and experienced. They move in perfect circles up and down your folds, playing with them like pages on a book before teasingly flicking against your clit.

Or is it ghost? It’s more likely for ghost to be using a vibrator than price. He loves his toys, has a whole fancy collection that are “just for testin’” he says. But usually ghost is a little rougher, isn’t he? So maybe it’s-

The thought is cut off when you feel a blunt, large head of a vibrator forcefully being pushed against your opening. Your eyes widen, and whoever is toying with you isn’t in the room but you instinctively scream anyways which draws the attention of both Gaz and soap. “waitwaitwaitwait- It won’t fit!”

God- fuck- it had to be him. It had to be. Oh shit, just say a name. Or is it price? No- he wouldn’t. Or? Fuck- you could literally count down the seconds as the head stretches you wider and wider and - “Ghost! Stop it!”

And just like that…it stops. And for a moment, it feels like time stops.

“Oh? Looks like we have a name.”

You’re panting for dear life, vision blurry as you curl up in the couch, oblivious to the rest of the team flooding in the room.

Price kneels by your side, placing a warm hand on your forehead and using his thumb to brush away the hair that sticks to your forehead.

Once you catch your breath, you roll over slowly. Your vision is a blur, but it gradually comes to focus and you recognize price’s look of concern with the rest of them peering over his shoulder.

“Did I get it right?”

The men pause, none of them giving it away, until you notice a twitch of Price’s mustache followed my an upward turn of a crooked smile. “Oh, fuck.”

A deep and amused laugh confirms what you already know and Soap is already taking off his belt, “I’m going first, lads.”

“Why do you go first? Price did all of the work.” Gaz retorts, finger twitching in retaliation.

“Called dibs. Didn’t I, lassie?”

Gaz lets out a sputter of disbelief. “Oi, You can’t just call dibs on something like that!”

“Her mouth is still open if you want it.” Soap is already at your legs, grabbing them by the ankles and pulling them apart.

Gaz’s jaw clenches in annoyance…or is it jealousy? He looks at Price, who gives him a fatherly shrug. There’s a moment of hesitation before he’s also undoing his belt, mumbling underneath his breath. “Bloody dibs…an idiot really.”

[jb-writes]

Fauxcest!141 x Reader

Price's Bootcamp

Part 6: Uncle Nikolai (Part 5)

Cw: Porn w/o Plot, Smut, Coercion, Dacryphilia, Degradation, Praise, Fauxcest (Obviously), Use of Petnames, Dad!Price + Brothers!Kyle, Simon, and Johnny + Uncle!Nikolai, Free Use, Voyeurism, Overstimulation, Use of Sex Toys, Age Gap, CNC, PIV Sex, Anal Sex, Grinding, Exhibitionism, Puppy Play, Dumbification, Johnny is Overeager, Simon is the Good Boy, and Kyle is the Wildcard

Your uncle had rules for you, to say the least. Since you were the youngest, you were therefore deemed his favorite. The boys tell you about their experiences with him, and they don't even compare to yours.

You snuck back in your room to throw on a nightgown your uncle gave you and slip your feet into some house shoes. Johnny, being the smart dumbass he is, jumped into the shower. All of you know that anyone in the shower is getting your uncle's attention first.

So, you had time. He liked you a certain way. Long enough shirt to cover everything or a nightgown, both options with noting under. You put on that nightgown cause he gave it to you, and you learned the hard way last time what happens when you don't express that you wear his gifts.

He was rough on you, but he had some exceptions. The boys could only call him Uncle Nikolai, nothing more, nothing less. You were "allowed" to call him Papa. Every time he takes you out, you have to call him that. He doesn't tell you, but it's because people's weird looks after you call him papa, then he puts a hand on your thigh or kisses your neck makes him hornier.

You've had to sit on his lap more times than you can count. In private and in public. You "hate" going out with him because he dolls you up in skirts and dresses, takes you shopping, and then finds a dark corner to set the bags down in and use his hands to make you whine.

Dad doesn't do anything about it. He just watches it happen. You've reached out to him countless times in tears from overstimulation, and all he does is pat you on the head. It seems as if dad gets powerless around your uncle.

You made sure you were okay before you went down the stairs. Nikolai always wanted you to come to him, to be excited to see your uncle. When you got downstairs, nobody was there, so you just waited.

You lounged around, turning on the TV and watching a show until you heard heavy footsteps. You looked behind you to see your uncle, and you got up to hug him.

"Hi Papa!" You exclaimed, the feelings of longing and apprehension mixing in your stomach. You haven't seen him in so long, but you know what he's gonna do to you. Was the feeling anticipation?

"Hello, malyshka. Papa missed you." He stroked your hair, giving you a kiss on the forehead. His big hands traveled down to your waist, grabbing and groping your lower body. It only took a little bit before his hands were in your ass and you were bent over the arm of the couch.

You whined as he ran his fingers along your slit, your slick making him slide with no friction. "You missed Papa too, ya?" He chuckled, a deep sound that sent shivers down your spine. You nodded, and he nudged your entrance with his fingers. You could feel him stretching and prodding at your hole.

You squirmed, and he landed a smack on your ass, making you cry out. He pushed your face into the pillows and rubbed the hot area forming on your butt. "Shhh. Don't run, Papa's got you." He sped up, your moans muffled into the couch. You clenched around him, about to cum, and he took his fingers out. You whimpered, looking back at him.

"Good girl." He muttered, licking your slick off of his fingers. "Papa wants to take you out. Let's go play dress up." He helped you up, smoothed your nightgown out, and made you walk in front of him. Just so if you walked too slow, you'd be able to feel how much he wants you pressed right against your back.

When you got up to your room, you could hear your brothers playing a game in theirs. You frowned cause you wanted to be included, but you were stuck with your uncle. While he was taking your nightgown off, you told him.

"I don't wanna go out, I wanna play with Simon, Johnny, and Kyle. We usually play on Saturdays." Your uncle let out a chuckle, his hands ghosting over your tits, making your nipples perk up. You shivered as another rough hand went to knead your ass.

"Milaya, let papochka hasn't seen his good girl. You can play with your brothers later, let me take care of you." He moved his hand off you and got up, opening your closet full of dresses he bought you. He picked a sundress and pulled it over your head, no undergarments.

He kissed you on the forehead and sat you down on the bed to put some flats on you. He led you to your vanity and grasped your chin in his hands, gently guiding you to look at yourself. His middle finger played with your pussy for some extra slickness, and you felt something pressing against your entrance. Your body tensed up, and he kissed your neck.

"It's okay, shhh." He pushed the object all the way in, and all you could do was clench around it. "Papa brought a new toy for you." He stroked your hair, holding your hand and leading you out.

He knocked on Price's door and shouted something in Russian before the two of you made your departure.

(Part 7)

@st4rv1ng-m0uth @sunburnt-siren @iloveslasher @mrsmalfoy1005 @ang3lblade67 @sugarcanetastebuds @funny-tasting-tacos

[tb-png]

the prettiest boy of the 141!!! - 🧢

hes so PRETTYYY I LOVE HIM SM

i spent half an hr on this so please ignore all the mistakes 😭 i just wanted to draw my pretty boy