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You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
or: Trucker!Price does you a solid, you return the favor
cw: 2.5k wrds, 18+ mdni, plot and smut, dad bod Price! mentions of sèx work, hooker!reader, mentions of violence, power imbalance (?), age gap (40s John, mid 20s!reader), heavy praise kïnk,
inspo song: be like a woman by Chris rainbow
How could such a pretty girl like you, all dolled up for the middle of no where, end up staggering into the close to empty diner with a bloody nose and a few other bruises on your face.
Your tight crop top had a few droplets of blood on it, you were holding your head back the best you could, curls on your hair just a little bit messy, the waiter came from the back. His eyes widened at the state of you.
“Can I get some napkins please?”
How kind of you, John thought. To ask in this shitty place when most people would just take and go. You stuffed the napkins up your nostril, unknowingly passing the older bearded man sitting in the booth right next to you. You leaned back on the red cushion of the seat, letting out a shaky inhale and exhale. And John’s so attentive, listening so closely to how you soothe yourself right under the 60s pop hits that play from the radio. He waits to see if you end up moving again, but you don’t. The man catches wind of your hushed snores and your stilled feet.
Price shifts in his seat, just so see enough of your sleeping face, long lashes closed, your chest rising and falling as you held your tattered purse to your chest. Clearly you were exhausted from, whatever the hell you just experienced. But John doesn’t intend on leaving you alone like this. Not in the dead of night in this empty diner where anything could happen. So he stays, two hours, three hours, finishes his meal and waits. The few stragglers not bothering to come near the large brute of a man sitting just on the other side of you.
Your body is aching when you wake back up, eyes adjusting to the poor fluorescence. Using the table to stand, you stumble out the door, heavy foot steps soon to follow. You’re bent over cleaning your nose of the body mess with a half empty water bottle and the napkins you stashed with John sets eyes on you again. Just at the end of the restaurant’s parking lot, as if this will revive you in some way. The nights still young.
“You alright?” John asks that makes you slightly jump. You take a deep breath out, wiping the blood from your nose with a damp napkin, you give him a nod, “Yeah, thanks.”
A few moments pass but John doesn’t leave, keeps his eyes on you, his surroundings, hearing the cars fly by on the highway.
You fix your posture, using the glass of the diner as a mirror. Fixing your hair, pulling your cropped shirt down so your cleavage shoes.
“Do you need something?” You look over at him, eyeing the middle aged man up and down, before you shift in your heels, eyebrow cocking, “or do you want something?”
John doesn’t know how to answer. no, no that’s not what he wanted. It was to make sure you were alright, that no one would give you hell. Atleast for the rest of the night. But the man couldnt deny you were attractive. Even with you mascara smudged, slightly irritated look on your face.
The man clears his throat, “Just checkin t’see you weren’t lying.”
“About?”
“You want the truth or should be beat around the bush all night?”
He’s got you there, with a huff, you turn on your heal, “‘Ve had a shit night, as you can see.”
“A little scuffle?”
“Little considering how quickly it ended. Not the reason.”
“And that being?”
It might as well been an interrogation, you could be police for all you knew and what do you look like running from police at a time like this in the middle of fuck ass no where. But tonight, just for tonight, less than 30 minutes you’ll let this beared stranger be your therapist.
You cross your arms over your chest, letting out a dry laugh, “About money. It’s always about money around these parts though right?”
“I’m really not a hard girl to pay, really. I can be sweet if someone wants me sweet, or mean if they want me mean. But that son of a bitch— why do you gotta be such an asshat and a stingy fuck for a pinky sized dick?! Makes no fuckin sense! And then fight me about it? Fight fuckin lady about paying?!”
You didn’t realize how loud you were getting, your voice booming with anger, resentment you’d been holding on for so long. Working constantly for a living, to get the fuck out this shitty town in no man’s land. But you’re stuck. In a sink hole, how many other girls have disappeared from your line of sight out here and never to be seen again, how many street walkers end up on drugs out here.
This wasn’t even you plan, to be living like this, day to day. You were supposed to be in Hollywood— lights the cameras, writing some tv show. Or some fucking intern for a shitty pay— not- not like this.
You sniffle, hold yourself tighter, “I- I’m talking too fuckin much, I gotta get home. Call it a night.”
John hates it, the thought of it, of you going. Of you goin back to that life. Even if he’s only known you for less than a couple hours, he’s got tattoos and beard hairs older than you. But it’s something about you, that’s him dead set on you. The way you’re talking to him, your walls, rightfully, miles and miles high.
If he knew what was best for him, he’d be casual. Leave you alone. Knows better than to get too deep.
“Don’t you wanna get outta here?”
You look back at him, confused, but shake your head, “I wouldn’t even know how if I tried. Where would I even go?”
And there’s a silence from the man, still but strong look on his face, one that has you wanting more answers to unrealistic questions. “With you?”
“It’s an option better than being stuck here.” He starts, watching you scuff and walk towards the motel. Heals clicking against the pavement, with John hot on your tail, the flickering sign buzzing as you get closer, crickets singing.
“Don’t follow me.”
“Give me a ‘no’ and I will.”
You let out a frustrated noise, squeezing your eyes shut, “Sir, I really will do better without the hopeful shit you and everyone else who comes through here thinks I’m willin to fuckin buy!”
“I’m not sellin you shit for fucks sake, ‘m givin you a chance.” Price griped, jaw tightening, “You come for a day, even a fuckin hour and you if you like it, we’ll go. Give yourself a chance to think about what you wanna do. You hate it, I’ll get you on the first flight back to this shit hole, you hear me?”
You look around, the near silence of this cool summer. Music coming from someone’s room, cars passing by, blue ocean eyes glued to you. In a dry desert, he was a drop of rain.
You rock on your heels, biting your lip, you stare at your feet, “Where are you goin?”
“North.”
He’s a liar.
This man you’ve just met is a god damn liar.
And you’re aiming to get yourself killed.
“Do you wanna get outta here, or not?”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Trucker!Johns semi truck is nice.
Much nicer than you expected it to be.
Tattered and worn books stacked in crates, his clothes stored in drawers of the small bed, bed neatly made, rustic, plaids and brown bedding, cross dangling from the sun visor. John takes your duffle bags and puts them in the overhead.
“You can sit upfront or go to sleep, ‘s your pick.”
You meekly take a seat in the passages side, watching as John ignites the truck to life, lettting a hand wipe down his beard with a incoherent grumble, checking his mirrors.
You’re already down the road by the time you’re able to say anything, the sign of the motel getting smaller and smaller as you drive away. Your heart threatening to leap out of your chest. Everything you’ve known for the last couple of years suddenly now gone. And your alone.
In a truck.
With a Mr. John Price who you just do not know other than he drives this truck and that he’s getting you out of the country for a change of scenery.
“How am I gonna pay you back?”
It catches the older man off guard for a moment, it never crossed his mind. All he knew was that he wanted you. Call it naive for his age. John leans back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, takes a glance over at you, “Didn’t ask you to luv, think of this as my good deeds to the world. Helpin an angel out.”
An Angel? You want to roll your eyes but you don’t, biting the inside of your lip, “but I don’t have enough money to give anything to you, unless you want my stash— I- how can I be useful to you Price?”
“Sit there and be pretty.”
“But-“
“—You’re a stubborn little thing, aren’t you that doll?” He interjects, ends of his lips curving upward. Handsome face going in and out of the glow of the highways few lights.
John puts out his hand for you to take. You hesitate but slip yout hand in his. Letting his thumb go over your knuckles, he sighs, “Not expecting much ‘f you. But you do what you want, ‘s your trip too. All I ask if you keep the place clean, just as you see it. And don’t ask what’s in the back.”
Should be simple of enough. No- it is simple enough. You’re good at not asking questions that can lead to bad answers.
You’re free living, easy living.
For the first time in years.
It’s early in the morning when John wakes you up to go to bed with him. You’d shoo’ed him away the first couple of times he tried to get you to go to bed alone. Made sure his warm calloused hand was rested on your thigh, yours atop of his like it was instinct.
It’s what you really liked about Price so far, how warm he ran with small touches. How he made you feel like you didn’t always have to be on edge.
The old man tried to be good, really he did.
Instructed you to sleep on the inside and John would basically sleep on the edge of the cramped bed. But you slipped you hand onto the plush roundness of his torso, fingers tiptoeing up his chest to cup his face, you straddled his hips, beard hair prickling your hand. “Can I- lemme repay you, Price.” His voice so hushed, sultry, your manicured thumb going over his bottom lip, “please.”
Trucker!John is bigger than any man you’ve ever been with. To the point it shows on your face, lips full lips slightly parted, it’s fat and girthy, large and slapping against your stomach when you pull it out. Crown of his length leaking down every vein.
“Not too late to back our love.” He lets out low rumble of laughter.
You gulp down, shaking your head, “Can handle it, just- hah- just need a second.”
Right? All you needed to do was stretch yourself out for it!
And that would be the perfect thing to say after the old man lazily finger fucked you, lips brushing against each other every time the both of your fingers, all messy in your juices, fucked into your heat. Had your lower half shaking just from three of his thick digits paired with a slow kiss, wrapping your tongue around yours, swapping saliva till you came and hard.
But even with some fingering, it only made you dizzy just from the way his tip was stretching you out. The sweet burn that had you choking up as you eased yourself down on him, your jaw slack, and head thrown back. Covering your mouth to try to hide the scream you so desperately want to let out.
“Eaasssy luv, you’ve got it. Can take it for me.” John croons, large hands firm on your hips. Guiding them up just enough so you slowly rock more and more of him inside.
Your pussy so throbs, mewling at his words, your mind already hazy, “I- can- shit- I can take it. Aaangh! god its so good. Feels so gooood Price.”
His blushing cockhead is probing your insides, only reaching higher and higher as your thighs smack against his with every thrust. Your hands lay flat on his hairy chest, bouncing yourself up till just the tip is in, and down, hiccuping on a moan, “Fuck- wanna move f-faster. Wanna make you feel good.”
John lets out a low grunt, loving just how warm and soaking you are even through the thin condom that’s just barely fitting him. Threatening to break with every sleazy drop of your hips onto him. “No baby, gotta let you feel every bit of my cock, get your cunt nice ‘nd used to me. Doin so good fuckin me slow.”
John must be a miracle worker, getting you all worked up, hushed moans as his hands travel down to your supple ass, spreading them apart and squeezing the globes of your ass while you gyrate your hips on him. So hipnotic, sensual, desperate to meet every sledgehammer of his member up into you. His Pubic hairs damp with your slick with every squealch of your greedy and tight pussy brushing against your g-spot. The little bed is creaking, unsure if the truck itself is moving along with it.
Price’s hand wraps around the back of your neck, bringing you down closer to him, your nipples hard and brushing against him through your shirt, “Bloody good at this aren’t you hun, atta girl.”
You whimper as rolls your hips, lashes flirting shut, “Wanna hear you Price, nngh- please, need it.”
“‘F course you do baby, wanna hear juuust how gorgeous you look all fucked out on me. How you tremble and pull me away when you feel too good. Hck- How good you make me feel, How your cunt chokes me out every time i press, right here,” he thrusts up with a heavy thwack, pushing against your sweet spot that makes you keen out in pleasure. “Desperate fuckin thing, wanna hear how I could stay deep inside you all day. Wrapped up this all fuckin day-“
“Yes!” You gasp, head falling against his shoulder, clawing at his broad shoulder. Your fingers going through his greying brunette locks, lips weaving together is a wet and steamy French kiss, his beard tickling your face. Hushed groans and moans filling up the space. Meeting each other half way with each grind of your hips till you’re feeling every shockwave rush through you to the tips of your finger tips.
“Good work lovie.” He coos, slipping his cock out after filling the condom with his cum, it’s heavy and creamy. Price kisses your forehead, both of you exhausted from the long day, his hands patting you back to soothe you in his beefy arms, “We’ll make perfect partners from now on won’t we sweetheart?”
a/n: so much shit plot for shit smut that took too long to write. Sorry all.
“and where do you think you’re going?” andrew jokes, holding his widespread stance against the kitchen island as his head swivels to follow you. his tight, gray t-shirt clings to his arms that bulge as he watches you flit about the living room. “my nail appointment” you chirp out happily, jingling your car keys as you look for your sunglasses. “baby, have you seen my sunnies?” “here.”
andrew pulls a wad of cash out of his jeans, the stack held together by a pink rubber band. pulling out a few $20s, he puts them in your hand before straightening his stance as he stretches his neck and body. his shirt rides up, exposing the tanned freckled skin of his belly, and your face heats at the fading hickies.
you’re well versed in how to respond to your generous husband. he hates when you refuse money, hates it even more when you look guilty taking it. so you smile, a genuinely happy toothy grin, and lean forward to kiss him. “mmmmmwah! thank you baby! ”
andrew’s ears are tickled pink, his strong, veiny arm coming around your waist to cuddle you to him as you peck his cheek over & over. settling on his lips, he whines, holding you close before smacking your ass as you walk out. shaking your excessive keychain, you squeal happily as you walk out.
before continuing his conversation with his brothers, pope calls out “do you have enough gas?” “um… yeah! it’s like one notch-ish above E!” you continue walking out, oblivious to his anxieties.
if the ac works & the radio & gas & brakes, what else could be wrong? it’s a luxury to be so unbothered, a luxury only andrew can afford his girl to have!
shaking his head with a smile, he sighs, grabbing his keys and following out after you, “go wait by my car princess, ‘m driving you.”
on the way out the door, he has you tucked into his side with his arm thrown lovingly around your neck. tickling you with his whispers as you walk, he tells you “gonna give me a fuckin heart attack one of these days, you know that?” and when you giggle in response to his teasing, he squeezes you tighter to him, “what color are you gonna get? you doin’ your toes too?”
warnings: smut!! jack is a single dad (widower), fauxcest, you are so horny for jack you can’t even think straight lol, jack has a guilty conscience but still fucks you, you love his praise, you have severe daddy issues (self indulgent lol)
you love your best friend. you do.. but you’ve always loved her dad a little more - maybe because he was always a dad to you as well, knowing yours passed away at a young age. it’s something you & your friend could always relate to, knowing she didn’t have a mother.
so he always made sure to be there for you in subtle ways: making sure you ate after school when you would come over your best friend house for a playdate, when he would buy you your favorite treats along with his daughters when going grocery shopping, just always thinking of his sweetie & how nice her friend is- and when he was there for you in high school when prom came along & you didn’t have a date - he was there for you & went as your plus one. you friend thought it was so embarrassing that her dad would be keeping an eye at her at prom, but she’ll be fine in the end, you thought- plus you two had a fun sleepover after. and when he helped both you move into your dorm for college with your friend & settle into your studies.. you felt the most safe with him.
but what your best friend didn’t know is how sometimes you crossed certain boundaries, like your first day of college. you had a stressful time settling into classes & maintaining your chaotic schedule- you kept getting lost on campus which due to that made you become late to your classes. by the time the day ended you had cried twice, ruined your makeup- & sweated through your clothes. you knew what you needed right now, so, you just walked to your dorm pulling out your phone to send a quick text to your favorite person.
dad <3: can i come over please? had a stressful day :(
jack was just relaxing when he saw your message, but he replied with a swiftness. he deemed himself a regular man who cared for more than one sweet girl in his life, & that girl was you. you were just the nicest little thing always looking for approval. especially his. he loved the way you smiled brightly when he subtly complimented you. he loved your manners. the way you always said “please” & “thank you.” you even called him sir for a very long time until he corrected you-
“please- call me dad, sir makes me feel all old.”
so when you texted him, he didn’t hesitate at all when it came to his answer.
jack: you don’t even need to ask, honey. you can know you can. is my other daughter in the dorm with you currently?
as you stepped out of your shower, you thought about her- you don’t know where your best friend was currently. you remember she told you about a guy she was interested in so she’s probably with him. so you decide to cover for your friend this time, only cause you didn’t want jack to worry..
you: yeah, she’s here!! chilling & relaxed so no need to worry ! & i’m on my way right now :3
you felt slightly guilty about the little lie, but what your best friend didn’t realize- is how you also call him dad.. just when it’s you two, you just feel so comfortable around him & plus you he wanted you to.. so why not?
“as long as you feel good around me okay?” jack voice ringing in your head from the distant memory. so when you finally get to his house & jack opens the door, you knock into his chest and hold onto his embrace, his warm chest comforting you immediately.
“missed you a lot dad, had such a bad day.” you say muffled into his chest. you’re just so at ease around him, it naturally slips out. when he hears the wobbling tone of your voice he felt his fatherly instincts kick in with you immediately, wanting to shield you from the rest of the world.
“awe, come’ere. what do you wanna do? just cuddle & watch tv for now like always?” jack says in such a soft voice not wanting to upset you even more.. he could never upset you though. he kicked the door back with his foot so he could still hold onto to you- only to soon break you apart from his chest. you whine slightly.
“hey, hey- have you eaten yet?” you shook your head no. “you know better baby..” jack grips the bottom of your chin with his thumb, grazing just below your lower lip. you look down guiltily. you know you know better, but you were so overwhelmed today you just simply forgot.
“well, i’m gonna make you a meal & then we’ll cuddle together & we can watch whatever you want okay?” you nod now. you’ve gone nonverbal- his care making you feel all warm & relaxed.
“words, my girl.” “o-okay..” his casual dominance towards you stirs something inside of you. you can’t do anything but obey him.
“go upstairs, make yourself comfortable in my bed, and i’ll be up there soon. okay?” when you nod your head again he kisses the top of your forehead then dismisses you. your stomach is swirling with different emotions, but you head upstairs walking to his room anyway.
when you entered his room all of your worries just floated away.. you didn’t want to think about anything else.. all that was on your mind was jack. dad. your daddy..
so, you dropped the white skirt you wore over along with your top and put on one of his plain black shirts, feeling engulfed by him completely.
you felt your thoughts start to drift again when you relaxed onto jacks bed, smelling his musk all over his clean, organized sheets. you started to think about the ways that he’s always been there for you. always there when you needed comfort.
especially in these simple situations of distress. you begin to think about how he could be there for you in other ways.. like helping you get your scheduling together back at college, like maybe giving you a bath for the days you’re really exhausted & you just need someone to take care of you…. like thrusting his thick fingers in & out of your wet hole while you’re needy, whispering into your ear telling how you’re his favorite daughter, and how you’re always so good for him…
you don’t even realize your hands are in your panties swirling around your soaked clit.. so lost into your imagination about your dad. you’re so far gone when you realize you’re thinking about jack pressing his thick cock into your tiny cunt.. stuffing your wet pussy while telling how much of a perfect girl you are. you’re filling yourself with your own fingers, dreaming of your dads cock in you. fuck. you feel so dirty.. but you can’t help it..
but what you don’t know is how dirty your dad feels too. because he’s watching you. jacks watching you. in the doorway- pumping your fingers in & out of your sloppy cunt through your panties - and you don’t even realize because your eyes are snapped shut, drowning in your own bliss. he was coming up here to check on you only for him to see you doing the unexpected.
jacks not stupid, nor is his blind. he sees the way you’ve grown… womanly over the years. but he knows he shouldn’t see you like that, his daughters best friend- basically a second daughter to him.. he’d be pervert to see that.. to see the way your lips became so pouty when you were sad just earlier in his arms, to feel how your chest felt again his hard one, so full & plump.
your body has filled out very nicely… he thinks. the way his large hands fit perfectly with your hips & the way he softly caressed your back .. you fit perfectly with his body. the way your cute, sparkling doe eyes just look up at him with such want- looking to be cared for.
but fuck- he can’t let his thoughts wander, it would be unethical. immoral. and he can’t ruin his relationship with his babygirl. he can’t. he loves you too much.
but when he sees that you’re softly whimpering “dad.. daddy..”while toying with your soaked little clit, he speaks up.
“… baby.. what’re you doing..?” jacks voice is so strained, almost like he’s trying to hold himself back. you gasp slightly when you see that he’s in the doorway, but you don’t take your hand out of your panties. infact you start thrusting your fingers back & forth into your needy hole even faster.. seeing the one you crave so close to you.
“i-i need you daddy.. please..” you’re out of breath, feeling yourself beginning to get close to your orgasm- wet squelching getting louder.
jack doesn’t know what controls him. maybe it’s the way you’re getting your pussy wet for him all over his bed, maybe it’s the way you beg so sweetly for him- and you’ve always been a sweet girl, so why not give you a reward?
so he does what any sane man would do in his situation, he walks over to you, go down to your level and kisses your needy lips, basking in the way you respond & reciprocate to him. you moan into his mouth like you’re starved. your tounges clash together with such fervor, you love the way you can taste his masculinity- he loves the way you taste so sweet.
he slides your damp panties down- taking his thick middle and ring finger & dips them into your soaked pussy, just seeing how wet you really are for him. he groans from seeing how sticky you are.
then unbuckling his own pants, he frees his hard cock & starts tapping it directly onto your clit. you mewl & your hole clenches around nothing, feeling so empty suddenly. he rubs his cock back & forth on your clit before sliding down your labia, before swiftly stuffing himself into your tight drooling cunt, making you immediately cum & gush all over his cock. he grunts at the tight feeling around his dick.
“such a pretty little doll. i can’t believe you’re my fucking daughter.. so perfect for me.”
“..dad!- please!- more!” you yell.
you’re moaning so loud but you can’t help it, you’re creaming all over your dads cock from the first thrust. you feel so filthy, but so does jack. he can feel all of his daughters hot juices on him- & as much as he wants to wait for you to come down from your orgasm, he can’t. so, he begins chasing his own pleasure - pressing his cock deep into you then pulling halfway out- then repeating the process, making you squirt with each pump.
jacks preening at the way your hole just takes him- stretching around his aching cock- it’s like your pussy is begging to be filled with his cum.
“fuck, you’re tryna milk your dad for all he’s worth aren’t you?” you can’t do anything but squeal in reply. everytime time his cock pumps deeper into your pussy, feeling the way his balls slap against the bottom of your ass, his cock becomes ready to shoot deep inside you.
loving the way your cunt clenches around him, like you’re trying to push him out, it’s only in a matter of minutes that you feel a warm substance thats filling your hot pussy. “god.. you’re such a good little girl for your daddy..” you both moan at the feeling of his cum overflowing your cunt, making a mess everywhere on the sheets..
“mmm- thank you, thank you daddy.. it feels so good..” you babble out.. your head is so clouded you don’t even process jack removing himself from on top of you to lay himself next to your body & pressing soft kisses onto your damp neck, hoping to soothe you. you love the feeling of his scratchy stubble against your soft skin.
you just hope that this can happen more often now..
i hope this was decent!! feedback is always appreciated!! <33
Fat Reader crying because theyre insecure about their weight, and when Simon, the man Reader's been pining on for months confesses to them, they think its a cheap joke, and degrade themselves, saying "You can't even pick me up!"
Simon somehow gets Reader's number (Reader did NOT give it) and sends a video of Simon hip thrusting double Reader's weight with sweet groans, the outline of his bulge straining, clearly imagining Reader was on top of him.
🜼 ⋆ toji hates when you cover your face whilst he’s fucking you dumb
tw: spıt, degradation, rough sēx !
“fuckin’ move your hand.”
his voice slices through the thick slap of skin on skin, ragged and breathless, but not any softer for it. his hips grind into you, deep and deliberate, cock dragging along your walls like he’s angry at them. like they’re the reason you’re crying already.
and maybe they are. maybe he is.
you cover your face anyway, forearm thrown over your eyes like it’ll save you. there’s snot on your lip, tears in your hairline, and your voice’s all broken up. you keep trying to tell him something—something about how it’s too much, how he’s too deep, how you can’t stop coming, and he just laughs, a sharp huff against your cheek.
“tch—again?” toji spits, a little amused. a little cruel. “can’t even take a proper fuckin’ dick without fallin’ apart, huh?”
your hand trembles where it shields your face, like it wants to fall. like it knows better. but then he shifts his weight, catches your wrist, and yanks it down to the bed with a slap of sweat-slick skin on cotton.
“wanna see your fuckin’ face when you cry.”
you whimper when toji says that and he simply grins.
“there she is,” he murmurs like he’s mocking tenderness, hips rolling slow now, filthy and sticky, cock buried in you to the hilt. he gives a rough thrust, then another—each one lifting your back off the bed, forcing your chest to arch. “s’pretty when you sob. keep lookin’ at me, baby. don’t go hidin’ now.”
you can’t. he’s so deep it’s nauseating. so thick it feels like your cunt’s gone loose and raw trying to keep him in. his pelvis presses right where it shouldn’t and it makes you jolt, a breathless little hiccup of pain and heat that makes your thighs twitch.
he notices. of course he fucking does.
“you like that? yeah, i know you do,” he pants, voice getting rougher now. his hair’s stuck to his forehead, eyes dark as sin. “cryin’ like a fuckin’ whore but keep squeezin’ me like you’ll die if i pull out.”
he grabs your jaw—his hand huge, fingers curling rough around your throat just enough to make your breath skip. your mouth falls open on instinct, dumb and wet and desperate for more, and he spits right on your tongue. doesn’t ask. doesn’t wait.
“swallow it.” and oh you do.
“good fuckin’ girl.”
he starts moving again, really fucking you now, rough and deep, his balls slapping up against your ass, wet and relentless. the bedframe creaks like it’s gonna break. your head knocks into the pillow with every thrust, dizzy and messy and barely present in your own skin.
“you think i’m gonna let you cum like this? when you keep coverin’ your face like a brat?”
you sob out a “no—no, please—i’m.. toji ngh, i’m sorry,” and he chuckles dark. leans down until your noses brush, until you’re forced to look up into those black eyes while he ruins you.
“yeah,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “you are sorry.”
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, f!reader, dumbification, brief oral mention (f. receiving), daddy kink, pet names, finger sucking.
you’re not thinking at all—
you haven’t been since andrew buried his face between your thighs and made you cum twice just because he missed you while he was “working.” that was the beginning of the end. you’re barely coherent as he maneuvers you onto your tummy before pulling your hips back to meet his, propping you up on your knees so he can slip his thick cock inside easy. you’re too messy for there to be any true struggle, but the reminder of how well he completes you always snatches the air from your lungs before you can get yourself to breathe through it.
clawing at the bed, you prepare yourself for him to move. the first thrust has you burying your face in his crisp sheets and whimpering, especially when he leans over you with a hand on either side of your dizzy head. the sound of his heated skin meeting yours is lewd, it makes your ears burn. your toes are already curling as he groans over you, feeling your soft cunt trying to milk him dry without even meaning to. one hand comes to grab your jaw, holding your head up to keep you from suffocating yourself in your state. he’s always amazed by how much he can break you down. you’ve always been a sensitive girl but when he has you like this, it’s a whole different level …
you babble, each movement knocking a few dumb hiccupy sounds and syllables out of you, “andrew, andrew— s’good— feels s’good, daddy.”
his heart stops. he’s too greedy to fully halt the rythym of his hips, but it comes to a slow grind that keeps you right where you need to be. blissed out and desperate. that word falling from your glossy lips was the last thing he expected. he didn’t know you had it in you to be so perverted. it forces him wonder how long you’ve wanted to claim him as your daddy. he nuzzles his face against the side of your own, feeling your supple skin and the shared heat between you two, “what did you just call me, baby? where did that come from, hm?”
you only whine in response, too gone to register what you’ve started. you lift your hips up in an effort to get more from him, pressing your ass against his hips and attempting to fuck yourself back on him. a groan claws up his throat, raw and raspy. and suddenly he’s pounding you into the sheets, still keeping your pretty face in his grip. you huff out little breaths against his thumb only to have the digit stuffed in your mouth, effectively muffling your squeals and sweet moans.
“i know, i know. don’t worry about it, should’ve known you were too fucked up to speak— let daddy do all the work, baby girl.”
︵ ೀ mdni. satoru is undoubtedly attractive but you still see him as the annoying little kid you babysat every weekend to earn some extra money during high school. little do you know that he wants to rail you bad ( pervert!satoru / reverse age-gap )
satoru gojo used to be the annoying little kid you babysat every weekend to make extra money during high school.
he was your neighbor’s son—loud, spoiled, with those striking blue eyes that always followed you around the house like you hung the stars. you’d tuck him in, read him stories, and laugh when he threw tantrums about bedtime. “you’re like my big sister,” he used to say, clinging to your leg. you found it cute back then.
now he’s nineteen, tall, ridiculously handsome, and somehow even more trouble.
you still live next door, working part-time while finishing your degree. satoru has grown into something dangerous. six-foot-three of muscle, messy white hair, and that infuriating smirk that makes girls on campus lose their minds. but to you, he’s still little satoru. the kid you used to scold for eating too much sugar.
he wishes you’d stop seeing him that way. because every night when he’s alone in his room, it’s your face he sees. your soft smile, the way your hips sway when you walk, the curve of your breasts under those old t-shirts you wear when you come over to help his mom. he wraps his hand around his cock and strokes himself slow and desperate, imagining bending you over the same couch you used to read him stories on.
he cums hard every time, biting his lip to stay quiet.
seeing you now drives him insane.
you’re in his kitchen again, helping his mom with groceries like you always do. satoru leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you laugh at something his mother says. you’re wearing shorts that hug your thighs and a loose top that slips off one shoulder. he wants to rail you so badly it hurts. wants to push you against the counter, shove those shorts down, and fuck you until you finally see him as a man.
“hey,” he says, voice low and smooth as he walks in. he’s learned how to turn on the charm. “you look good today. new shorts?”
you glance down, then smile like he’s still ten years old. “these old things? thanks, satoru. you’re sweet.”
sweet. the word burns.
he steps closer, towering over you now. “i’m not a kid anymore, you know.”
you laugh softly, patting his arm like you used to when he threw tantrums. “of course you’re not. you’re all grown up. my little troublemaker became a heartthrob, huh?”
satoru’s jaw tightens. he wants to grab you, pin you to the wall, and show you exactly how grown up he is. instead he flashes that signature gojo grin, leaning in so his breath brushes your ear.
“you should let me take you out sometime. dinner. drinks. whatever you want.”
you blink, tilting your head with that innocent confusion that drives him crazy. “aww, that’s so nice of you! are you practicing your lines for the girls at school? you’re gonna break so many hearts.”
he nearly groans. “i’m not practicing. i mean it. i want to take you out. just us.”
you wave him off with a smile, completely missing the heat in his eyes. “you’re adorable. but i’m way too old for you, satoru. focus on college girls your age.”
adorable.
the word makes something snap inside him. he’s imagined you on your knees, lips wrapped around his cock. imagined folding you in half and pounding you until you scream his name. imagined filling you up while you moan about how big he is.
and you still call him adorable.
he steps even closer, backing you against the counter. his height makes it impossible for you to ignore how much he’s grown. “i’m not a little kid anymore,” he says, voice dropping. “i know what i want. and i want you.”
you laugh again, reaching up to ruffle his hair like you did when he was eight. “you’re so funny. always teasing your old babysitter.”
satoru catches your wrist gently but firmly, holding it against his chest so you can feel how fast his heart is racing. his blue eyes burn into yours.
“i’m not teasing.”
for a second you pause. but then you smile again. “you’ll find a nice girl soon. i promise.”
he lets you go, watching you walk away to help his mom again. his cock is half-hard in his pants just from being close to you. the frustration is driving him insane.
every time you treat him like the child he used to be, it only makes him want to ruin you more. to prove how much of a man he is by fucking you so deep you forget you ever saw him as anything but yours.
satoru leans against the counter, eyes dark and hungry as he watches you move around the kitchen. he stays there until he can’t take it anymore, then pushes off the counter and heads upstairs to his room without a word.
the second his door clicks shut, he’s already palming himself through his pants. he frees his aching cock and starts stroking, hoping that you’ll take the garden path home like you usually do so you’ll walk right past his window and hear the wet sound of his hand pumping his cock and the moans he doesn’t even try to hide because he wants you to know. he wants you to hear exactly what you do to him.
a few days later, satoru comes back from a late training session when he cuts through the side yard like he always does. your bedroom curtain is pulled mostly closed, but there’s a gap—just enough, and he stops dead. through the narrow opening he sees you.
you’re on top, completely naked, riding your stupid boyfriend with slow rolls of your hips. your head is tilted back, lips parted, hands braced on his chest. the moonlight catches the curve of your breasts, the way they bounce every time you sink down. your boyfriend’s hands are on your waist, guiding you, but his thrusts look lazy.
satoru’s mouth goes dry.
he should look away. he knows he should. but he can’t. his cock hardens instantly, straining against his pants as he watches you move. you look so pretty like this—flushed, glowing, lost in pleasure. but something ugly twists in his chest because it’s not him underneath you. he wants to be him so fucking bad.
before he can think, satoru slips behind the bushes, hidden in the shadows. his hand shoves into his pants, wrapping around his aching cock. he strokes himself in time with your movements, eyes locked on the way your body rises and falls. every soft moan that drifts through the cracked window makes him leak.
“fuck… you should be riding me,” he whispers. his fist moves faster, thumb swiping over the head as he imagines it’s your tight, wet heat instead. he pictures grabbing your hips, slamming you down on his much bigger cock, making you scream his name instead of whatever soft sounds you’re making now.
he cums hard, biting his lip to stay quiet, painting his hand while watching you chase your own pleasure. the sight of you cumming—back arching, mouth open in a silent cry—pushes him over the edge again. he milks himself through it, thick, messy spurts flooding into his boxers and soaking through his pants. after the orgasm fades and reality came back he stares down at the dark wet patch on the front of his sweatpants.
later that night he lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, still half-hard while his damp pants he cleaned in a hurry so his mom wouldn’t notice, dry on the back of his chair in his room. that loser didn’t even make you cum properly. satoru could tell.
your moans were pretty, but not desperate enough. your body moved like you were doing most of the work. he knows he would be so much better for you. he would flip you over, pin you down, and fuck you so deep and so good you’d forget any other man existed. he’d make you cum until you cried, until your legs shook, until you begged him to fill you up. he’d treat you like the goddess you are instead of some half-assed ride.
the jealousy burns hotter than the lust now. you still see him as the little kid you babysat. you have a boyfriend who can’t even make you cum right, and you smile at satoru like he’s harmless.
it makes him insane.
the next afternoon he sees you working in the garden.
you’re kneeling in the flowerbed next door, wearing those same old shorts that ride up your thighs and a loose tank top, hair tied back messily as you dig around the roses. the sun makes your skin glow. satoru leans against the wooden fence that separates your yards, arms crossed over his chest, watching you in silence for a long moment. his eyes trace the curve of your back, the way your shorts cling when you shift, the soft bounce of your breasts every time you reach forward.
his cock twitches at the memory of last night—you riding that loser, the way your body moved, the sounds you made. he still feels a little ashamed about cumming in his pants like a desperate pervert, but the hunger is stronger.
finally he speaks, voice casual but laced with something darker.
“had a good night?”
you look up, brushing dirt off your hands, and give him that same bright, innocent smile you always do. “oh, hey satoru. yeah, it was alright. why do you ask?”
he shrugs, but his blue eyes are intense behind his sunglasses. “just curious. you seemed… busy.”
you laugh softly, standing up and stretching. the hem of your tank top rides up, showing a sliver of skin, and satoru’s gaze drops there instantly.
“nothing special,” you say. “just hung out with my boyfriend. watched a movie, you know how it is.”
satoru’s jaw tightens. he wants to tell you that “hung out” clearly wasn’t enough if you weren’t even satisfied. instead he flashes his usual grin and leans further over the fence.
“movie, huh? sounds boring. you deserve better than boring.”
you tilt your head, amused. “are you offering to entertain me now, little satoru?”
there it is again. little satoru.
the nickname stings worse than usual after what he saw last night. he wants to vault over the fence, push you down into the dirt, and fuck you right there in the garden until you scream his name instead of calling him little anything.
“i could entertain you way better than a movie,” he says. “just say the word.”
you chuckle and wave him off, going back to your flowers like he’s still the kid you used to babysit. “you’re such a flirt these days. go find a girl your own age.”
satoru stays leaning against the fence, watching you work, heart pounding and cock half-hard again. the frustration coils tighter in his chest. one day you’ll stop seeing him as the little boy next door. one day he’ll make you see exactly how much he’s grown—preferably while he’s buried nine inches deep inside you.
as you lean down deeper to reach a stubborn weed, your loose tank top slips forward. satoru catches a clear view of your tits—soft, full, and perfect, nipples just barely hidden by the thin fabric. the sight hits him like a punch to the gut.
his cock instantly swells, painfully hard again in seconds.
he can’t tear his eyes away. he imagines pulling your top down completely, watching those pretty tits spill out into his hands. he wants to grope them, squeeze them, bury his face between them while he fucks you. he wants to suck on your nipples until they’re swollen and sensitive, until you’re whimpering and arching into his mouth.
the urge to take a picture is so strong it almost hurts. he wants to save this view forever—the way your tits hang and sway as you work, the soft curve of them, the way they move when you shift. his fingers twitch at his side, desperate to grab his phone, but he forces himself to stay still.
he can’t. not without risking everything.
instead, he just stares, breathing hard through his nose, cock throbbing angrily in his pants as fantasies flood his mind. he wants to cover them in his cum. he wants to watch them bounce while you ride him. he wants to mark them as his.
he can’t take it anymore. muttering a quick excuse, he turns and practically runs inside his house. he doesn’t even make it up the stairs to his bedroom this time. the second he’s inside the downstairs bathroom, he locks the door, yanks his pants down, and wraps his hand around his throbbing cock.
he strokes himself furiously, leaning against the sink, replaying the image of your tits spilling out of your top and the memory of you riding your boyfriend. it only takes him a minute before he cums hard again, biting his arm to stay quiet as thick ropes paint the sink.
panting, flushed, and still half-hard, satoru stares at his reflection. he knows he’s completely fucked. but he also knows he won’t stop until you finally see him the way he sees you. lucky him, it didn’t take long for the next opportunity to arise.
the next time you come over, it’s to help with groceries like always.
satoru’s mom is out running errands, leaving the two of you alone in the kitchen. you’re putting things away, humming softly, completely unaware of the way satoru is watching you. he’s done playing nice. the images from the garden and that night through the window have been burning in his brain for days. he’s tired of being “cute little satoru.”
you reach for the top shelf, standing on your tiptoes, trying to slide a heavy bag of rice into place and your shorts pull tight across your ass.
“here, let me help,” satoru says.
he steps right behind you before you can protest. his tall frame cages you against the counter, one arm reaching easily over your head to push the bag into place. but he doesn’t step back. instead, he presses forward, letting you feel every inch of his hard cock against your ass through his sweatpants.
you freeze. “satoru…?”
he doesn’t move away. if anything, he presses closer, rolling his hips just enough for you to feel how thick and heavy he is. his breath is hot against your ear.
“you feel that?” he murmurs. “that’s what you do to me. every time i see you. every time you smile at me like i’m still that little kid.”
his hands slide down to grip your waist, holding you in place as he grinds slowly against you. the hard line of his cock nestles perfectly between your cheeks, and he lets out a shaky breath.
“i’m not a kid anymore,” he continues, lips brushing your ear. “i’ve been jerking off to you for months. thinking about bending you over this counter and fucking you. thinking about how much better i’d be than that useless boyfriend of yours.”
you try to turn around, but he keeps you pinned, chest pressed to your back.
“satoru, this isn’t funny—”
“i’m not joking.” his voice drops even lower, more aggressive. one hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. “i saw you riding him the other night. through your window. he couldn’t even make you cum properly, could he? i would. i’d fuck you so good.”
he rolls his hips again, letting you feel how hard he is, how big. his cock twitches against you, desperate and leaking.
“tell me to stop and i will,” he whispers, even as his grip tightens possessively. “but i think you feel it too. how much i want you. how much better i can make you feel.”
you’re breathing faster now, trapped between the counter and his tall, muscular body. satoru leans down, lips grazing your neck. “let me show you. just once. i’ll make you cum so many times you’ll be begging for more.”
you’re breathing faster now, trapped between the counter and his tall, muscular body. satoru doesn’t wait for a clear answer. he rolls his hips forward again, slower this time, deliberately dragging the thick ridge of his cock against your ass through your thin shorts.
a shaky breath escapes you and he feels it—the way your body tenses then softens just a little. encouraged, he does it again, pressing harder, grinding his clothed cock between your cheeks in slow rolls. the friction is maddening. even through two layers of fabric, you can feel how hot and heavy he is, how big.
“satoru…” your voice comes out breathless.
“shh,” he murmurs against your ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin. “just feel me.”
his hands tighten on your waist, holding you still as he starts dry humping you properly. long, deliberate thrusts that slide his hard length up and down between your ass cheeks. every roll makes your shorts ride up further, the fabric catching and pulling against your pussy. you can feel yourself getting wet, your body reacting even though your mind is still spinning.
satoru groans softly, forehead pressed to the back of your head. “fuck… you feel so good. been dreaming about this for so long.”
he picks up the pace a little, hips snapping forward with more urgency. the kitchen is quiet except for your shared heavy breathing and the faint rustle of clothes. you grip the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white, trying to steady yourself as heat pools low in your belly.
“you’re getting wet, aren’t you?” he whispers. one of his hands slides down your stomach, stopping just above the waistband of your shorts. “i can feel how warm you are. your body knows i’d be better.”
you bite your lip, a soft, involuntary whimper slipping out as he grinds particularly hard against you. the pressure on your clit through the fabric is driving you crazy. your breathing is turning faster, chest rising and falling quickly.
satoru notices immediately. a pleased sound rumbles in his chest.
“that’s it… getting breathless for me already?” he teases, but his voice is strained. he rolls his hips in a slow circle, pressing his cock right against your clothed entrance. “good girl. let me hear those pretty sounds.”
he keeps grinding harder, faster, like he’s trying to fuck you through your clothes. every thrust makes your tits bounce slightly and pulls another shaky breath from your lips. you’re starting to push back against him without thinking, chasing the friction.
satoru’s hand finally slips under your tank top, palm hot against your bare stomach.
“tell me to stop,” he rasps, lips against your neck, “or tell me to keep going. because if you don’t… i’m not gonna be able to hold back much longer.”
you’re panting now, head spinning, body burning under his aggressive touch. satoru keeps grinding against you like he’s possessed, cock throbbing against your ass, waiting for you to decide how far this is going to go.
“satoru… we can’t.” your fingers dig harder into the counter, knees feeling weak. “this is wrong… you’re—you’re basically still my—”
“we can,” he cuts you off. “we definitely can. and we’re going to.”
before you can protest again, his hand leaves your waist. you hear the metallic clink of his belt buckle, the sound of his zipper being dragged down. your heart hammers wildly as he frees his cock. it’s heavy and hot as it springs out, slapping against your ass cheek. he’s so hard it looks painful, the tip already leaking.
“feel what you do to me,” he murmurs, pressing the thick length against you again, this time with nothing but your thin shorts and panties between you.
his fingers hook into the side of your shorts and panties, tugging them just enough to the side. cool air hits your soaked pussy for a second before he slides his bare cock along your drenched folds. the hot, velvety length glides up and down your slick lips, parting them slightly with every slow stroke but never pushing inside.
you let out a broken whimper, forehead dropping against the cabinet door.
“fuck… you’re soaked,” satoru groans. he rocks his hips, sliding his cock repeatedly between your folds, coating himself in your wetness. the head catches on your clit with every pass, sending sparks shooting through you. “all this for me? and you still tried to say we can’t?”
he keeps the teasing motion going—long, deliberate slides from your entrance up to your clit and back down. every time the thick head nudges against your hole, you clench around nothing, aching to be filled. your breathing is ragged, little gasps and moans slipping out despite yourself.
satoru’s free hand comes back to your hip, holding you steady as he grinds his bare cock against your dripping pussy.
“see? we can. and it feels so fucking good, doesn’t it? just imagine how much better it’ll feel when i finally slide inside you.”
he presses forward a little harder, the head of his cock dipping just slightly against your entrance before sliding back up, teasing mercilessly. you’re trembling, breathless, torn between pushing him away and pushing back for more.
“tell me to stop… or tell me you want it. because i’m this close to bending you over and fucking you right here on the counter.”
finally, you break.
“…just the tip,” you whisper. “okay? just the tip, satoru. and don’t come inside me.”
the words barely leave your mouth before satoru groans like he’s been granted heaven. “fuck, yes. just the tip, baby. i promise.”
he lines himself up, the fat head of his cock pressing against your dripping entrance. he pushes forward slowly, and the stretch is immediate. only the tip slips inside you—just the swollen head breaching your tight walls. it’s enough to make both of you lose your minds.
“oh my god…” you gasp, fingers scrabbling against the counter. the feeling of him inside you, even just that little bit, is overwhelming. he’s so thick.
satoru’s forehead drops to your shoulder. “fuck… you’re so tight. so fucking warm. just the tip feels this good?”
he rocks his hips in tiny, shallow movements, fucking just the head in and out of you. every shallow thrust makes wet, obscene sounds echo in the quiet kitchen. he doesn’t push any deeper, but the way he’s teasing your entrance is driving you insane. the constant stretch and release has your walls fluttering around his tip, trying to pull him in further.
“satoru…” you whimper, pushing back against him despite yourself.
“i know, i know,” he pants. “just the tip. i’m being good. but fuck, baby… you’re sucking me in. your pussy wants more, doesn’t it?”
he keeps it like this—shallow little thrusts that only give you the head, never more. it’s torture. for both of you. satoru’s hands grip your hips so tightly you know you’ll have bruises. his breathing is harsh against your neck as he fights every instinct to slam all the way in.
“you feel so perfect,” he groans, circling his hips so the head rubs against that sensitive spot inside you. “i could cum just like this.”
you’re moaning softly now, completely breathless, knees shaking. the denial is making everything more intense. every shallow thrust sends sparks through your body, but it’s not enough. you need more, but you’re scared to ask.
satoru’s control is hanging by a thread. his cock twitches inside you, leaking precum, and he has to bite back a whine. then his hands slide up under your tank top, pushing it up until your breasts spill free. he immediately gropes them, one large hand squeezing and kneading your soft tits while his thumbs flick over your hardened nipples.
“mmh— satoru…” you moan, pushing back against him desperately.
he chuckles against your neck, pinching your nipples hard enough to make you gasp. “what’s wrong, baby? your loser boyfriend doesn’t play with these pretty tits like this? doesn’t know how sensitive you are here?” he rolls your nipples between his fingers, tugging them while still fucking you with only the tip of his cock. every shallow thrust makes you clench greedily around his head, but it’s never enough.
“bet he doesn’t even make you wet like this,” satoru says, voice dripping with arrogance as he squeezes your breasts harder. “bet he fucks you like a pathetic little boy and still can’t make you cum. that’s why you’re dripping down my cock right now, isn’t it?”
you whimper helplessly, forehead pressed against the cabinet, hips trying to push back to take more of him. but satoru keeps perfect control—only giving you the tip, no matter how much you beg with your body.
“say it,” he murmurs, biting your shoulder lightly while still playing with your tits. “tell me his dick isn’t enough for you. tell me you need mine.”
he punctuates his words with another shallow thrust, the head of his cock catching perfectly against that spot right at your entrance. your moan comes out broken and needy.
“satoru… please—”
“please what? please fuck you properly? or please keep teasing this desperate little pussy until you’re crying for me?” then, just to torture you more, satoru pushes in a little deeper—only an extra inch, but it’s enough.
you cry out sharply, the sudden stretch pulling a broken, needy sound from your throat. your body reacts on instinct, pushing back against him desperately, trying to take more of his thick cock.
“greedy girl… you said just the tip, but look at you pushing back like you want me to ruin you.”
he gives you another shallow thrust, still not going all the way in, but deeper than before. you whimper pathetically, hips rocking back against him again, chasing the feeling. your pussy clenches hard around him, dripping down his length.
“fuck, you really want it, don’t you?” he laughs breathlessly against your ear “you want your former babysitting kid to fuck you stupid—”
the front door suddenly swings open.
“satoru? i’m back early—”
his mom’s voice cuts through the air like ice water.
you both freeze.
satoru reacts instantly, pulling out of you and yanking your tank top back down to cover your chest. he quickly tucks himself back into his pants, heart hammering. you’re still pressed against the counter, legs shaking, face burning with embarrassment as you try to fix your shorts.
his mom stands in the doorway only seconds later, holding grocery bags, blinking at the two of you.
satoru clears his throat, somehow managing to sound almost normal. “hey mom. we were just… putting the groceries away.”
you nod quickly, too mortified to speak, cheeks flaming red. your thighs are still trembling, pussy aching from being left empty and dripping.
his mom narrows her eyes slightly, suspicious. “hm. well, don’t make a mess in here.”
she sets the bags down and walks further into the kitchen, completely unaware of how close she came to catching her son balls-deep inside you.
satoru glances at you, eyes still dark. he leans in close while his mom’s back is turned, whispering hotly against your ear: “this isn’t over. next time i’m not stopping until you’re creaming all over my cock.”
you shiver, pressing your thighs together as you try to calm your racing heart.
Tf141 who plays strip poker but they all gang up on you until you’re fully naked and the worst anyone else has gotten is a lost sock or shoe.
“No fair!”
“Ain’t our fault youre shit at poker. Now you know the rules.”
Gaz takes you first, biting his lip to hold back the sly grin he has as he sinks you down on his cock. “So pretty perched on a cock.”
His hands gently guide you back and forth, musing nothing but praises. “I’m almost there, baby. I know you want it. Can you feel you wanting it.”
Eventually he holds you still, rutting up into you while his thumb draws soothing circles on your hip. The others watch intensely before he slams you down, keeping your hips pressed firmly against him as he pours his release inside.
Gaz combs your hair out of your face, placing a delicate kiss on your forehead before he peels you off. But not before he gives your cunt a gentle grope with the palm of his hand. “Thanks love.”
He passes you off to soap who’s been bouncing in his seat since you were in your undergarments. He’s quick to get you bent over the table before sinking his dick in with a deep groan.
He’s meaner than Gaz, insisting that you squirt for him before he lets you go despite you cumming multiple times. “I can’t, Johnny! Icanticanticant,” you sob, pussy puffy and swollen.
Soaps arm slinks down between your legs before his fingers repeatedly swipe across your poor clit. He has no aim, but it gets the job done and your vision nearly goes black as you’re leaking onto the edge of the table.
Soap grins victoriously. “So ye can do it. Fuckin’ liar you are.”
Then there’s ghost. He’s not trying to be an ass about it. It’s just that he’s so damn big that it’s bound to hurt no matter how many times Gaz and Soap have cum inside you.
He lifts you up from the underside of your knees, spreading you wide open before nudging inch by inch inside. “Nice view, LT.”
“Wish it were you, aye Johnny?”
Soap smirks. “Who? You or her?”
The conversation ends there, ghost too enthralled by the way his dick pumps out cum with every thrust. The position makes it perfect to see the tip of his dick bulging as he brings you down to the hilt.
“Fuck,” you pant, barely audible over those heavenly wails you let out.
“I know, doll. That’s what I’m doin’.” You don’t even have it in you to tell him to piss off and that’s exactly how he likes you.
Last is price, who lays you gently down on the table with a hand resting on each thigh. There’s no resistance as he slips his dick inside your warm and sloppy hole.
Immediately you shudder from oversensitivity, hands pawing at his abdomen to push him back but there’s no strength behind it.
He’s gentle, but the experience is there when he’s grinding up his dick to all the right places.
Two of his fingers scoop up the leaking cum (probably a mix of all three) before drawing delicate figure 8’s across your abused clit.
You squeak, legs tensing as sparks fill your vision. “There she is, nice and fuckin’ tight.”
And once he knows he has you teetering on that edge, he’s pounding into you like there’s no tomorrow.
The table shakes under the intensity and it proves to be worth it when you’re mumbling gibberish in hysterics.
Price finally pulls out, patting your pussy twice as a reward. “Good girl.” And you don’t know if he’s talking to you or your cunt.
You feel a hand cup your cheek but your vision is blurry and every voice sounds as if you’re underwater. “Ya look like you’re seeing stars, lassie.”
“I’m never playing poker again.”
Your comment earns a few chuckles from the group. “Oh don’t be like that. You almost almost had us!”
“Kyle’s right. You’re improving fast. You’re bound to win the next one, soldier.”
It’s a lie. Price knows it. The group knows it. You know it. But it doesn’t stop you from playing the next week.
"Johnny, down," Simon grumbled, gripping Johnny by the collar to tug him off of you. Johnny had you pinned to the floor, ass up and face pressed roughly into the floorboards.
Simon had hoped that Johnny wouldn't try to mount you the second you got back from your trip to the vet, but he drastically underestimated how desperate Johnny could get.
Johnny whined, tugging against Simon to try and rut up against your ass. You whimpered, tail angrily hitting Johnny in the face. Your soft ears pinned back to your head.
"Sir, make him stop!" You mewled, managed to wriggle out of Johnny's hold, "Johnny!"
Johnny could smell your sweet pussy. Your perfect, sweet, tight pussy. Johnny needed his cock buried in your pussy yesterday.
"Johnny." Simon hissed, tugging Johnny back roughly by his Mohawk, "You can fuck her, but you're getting muzzled."
Johnny was about to protest, but went quiet after Simon gave him a pointed look.
In moments, a muzzle was pinned over Johnny's face. You weren't pleased. You didn't want this filthy mutt to knot you, but you knew better than to question Simon.
Simon sat on the couch, letting go of Johnny's leash. You screamed, trying to scramble away before Johnny caught you. He caught you easily, tearing your pants off of you.
You yelped, blindly swiping at Johnny with your claws. Johnny moaned, huffing and trying to bite at your neck. You gasped as your panties got tugged off, a chill rushing through you.
You heard Simon take his belt off, stroking his cock to your predicament. You mewled for Simon to help you as the wide head of Johnny's cock notched against your hole.
Johnny pushed in, all the way to the hilt without warning, making you yowl helplessly, clawing at the floor. You could hear Johnny whine behind you.
Without letting you adjust to his length, Johnny humped against you roughly. He barely had a rhythm, just cruel, sloppy thrusts into your (shamefully) sopping pussy.
"You can fuck 'er better than that, boy," Simon said from the couch.
Simon's words spurred Johnny on. His thrusts got harder, tip nailing your G-spot on repeatedly. You mewled and sobbed into the carpet beneath you, your tail whacking Johnny in the face.
Johnny gripped the base of your tail, lightly tugging. You cried out, jolting as the touch made you spasm and cum around Johnny's cock.
Johnny groaned like he'd been shot, his free hand moving under your tummy to toy with your sensitive clit. You writhed and yowled, whimpering from oversensitivity.
You could feel Johnny's knot starting to inflate as he rutted into you. It brushed your pussy lips each time Johnny pressed into you. His thrusts felt good. So good, too good.
"J-Johnny! Please, oh-" you sobbed, your clit throbbing, "I-I can't! No, n-no! I can't cum again, please!"
Simon laughed behind you, "Don't be a bitch, kitty. You'll take what Johnny gives you, won't you?"
Johnny huffed, his sweat-covered, hairy chest pressing into your clothed back. His thrusts started repeatedly smacking into your cervix. You could barely form a thought.
Johnny hit your g-spot once more, and you were gone, tumbling into another orgasm. Johnny's fingers stayed on your clit. You kicked at him, yowling like a cat in heat.
Johnny pushed in as far as he could before knotting you. His knot was pressed again you. You shook, trying to wriggle away from Johnny and his fat knot.
You had no luck. With a slow, calculated push, Johnny forced his knot past your entrance. Your pussy tightened around him, another orgasm rocking your senses. You gush around him, making Johnny groan and rub your clit harder.
"Attaboy, knotting your little bitch, huh?" Simon smirked, rutting his cock up into his hand.
Johnny ground against you, jostling his knot. A loud, sustained whine escaped Johnny as he finally came. You were stuffed so full. Your poor tummy bulged slightly. Johnny kept rubbing your clit, sending you tumbling through several more orgasms before his knot deflated.
When Johnny's knot deflated enough for him to thrust again, Johnny rutted into you like a man possessed.
"Oh, kitty, you didn't think Johnny would only knot you once, did you?" Simon taunts, laughing at the fucked-out look on your face and the cum oozing out of your puffy, swollen cunt.
when youre taking camping, you dont have to do much.
sit there and look pretty while they set up the tent, sit there and look pretty while they cook the food. all you have to do is sit there and look pretty.
of course, you know you're gonna get fucked in nature. I mean, does a bear crap in the woods?
im talking knees in the dirt, leaves sticking to your elbows as you hold yourself up. its animalistic, the way simon holds you down and pumps his cock into you.
no protection, youre doing it like wild animals. simon grips your hips enough for it to hurt, but you like it. you love it.
the sounds hes making. its nothing like what he makes in the bedroom. simon is letting himself wild. fucking you into the dirt like he wants to hurt you.
and you're loving it. you know he doesn't want to hurt you, but you love how rough hes being. you want him to cum in you, flood your womb and all that.
(Just a quick version of the camping thing im tiree
fratboy!sukuna was realllllyyyy big, in every sense of the word. from his massive meaty biceps and thick calves, to his broad chest that spanned almost double the length of your own. he was 200 pounds of straight muscle. so, it really shouldn't of been a surprise when he first pulled out his dick and it was as long as your forearm.
fratboy!sukuna always felt a sick sense of obsession wash over his body from watching your eyes light up with a fear and an adorable air of endearment whenever he whipped it out. "ryo... i- i'm sorry... i don't think i can take that..." you'd whisper shyly, staring up a him through long pretty lashes as you hid the bottom of your face, a look so innocent it made his dick twitch and grow harder. "my poor girl, i know you can handle it. just let me work you open, yeah?" he reassured, slipping in a thick finger, slowly, until you whined.
fratboy!sukuna gets filthy with praise when you get tired. the minute your voice cracks he goes feral, he grabs the back of your neck and kisses you deep, whispering through his own moans, “that’s my girl… keep giving me those pretty sounds.” he doesn’t stop talking, doesn’t stop feeding you little praises that make your stomach knot tighter. “you feel so fucking good around my cock.” “you take me so well beautiful girl.” “tell me what you want. i’ll give you everything.”
fratboy!sukuna fantasises about fucking you on his weight bench. every time he works out he imagines you under him, lying back on the bench with your legs spread and your eyes wide. he pictures grabbing your hips and pulling you onto him with no warning. he’s thought about it so much that he gets half hard mid set. sometimes he’ll grin to himself, wiping sweat from his jaw, planning exactly how he’ll lift you onto the bench next time you come over. he won’t even pretend to be gentle with that one. he’ll hold your ankles, thrust up into you, and kiss your jaw.
fratboy!sukuna has to force himself not to fuck your face when you get on your knees for him. the sight of you kneeling drives him up the damn wall. he’ll rest his hand on the back of your head guiding you gently. when you wrap your mouth around him he lets out a curt breath and , “look at you… my pretty girl.” sometimes he has to dig his fingers into his thigh so he doesn’t grab your face and take over. when you pop off the tip for a second, he’ll tilt your chin up with two fingers. “look at those pretty eyes... you're doing so well for me.”
fratboy!sukuna is obsessed with finishing inside you. there’s something about the moment he gets close to coming that makes him lose the last bit of restraint he has. he’ll grab your hips, pull you up against him, and whisper, “let me give you all of it.” he loves the way you tense when he spills deep. afterward he stays inside you, breathing against your neck, holding your waist still like he doesn’t want a drop of his cum escaping. “stay like that for a second,” he mutters. “fuck, i’m not done feeling you yet.”
fratboy!sukuna gets insanely jealous. one time at a party, he saw gojo starring a little too long at your ass and his mind went haywire. he almost immediately grabbed you by your wrist and pulled you down onto his lap on the couch, wrapping his big biceps around your waist. "kuna? are you okay?" you'd ask so obliviously, squirming on his thighs. "just fine, baby." he'd grit, staring gojo down.
fratboy!sukuna gets unbearably horny in lectures when you’re not near him. he’d sit in the back row man spreading, pretending to take notes while he kept glancing at the empty seat beside him. it made his mind wander in the worst possible way. he’d rest his hand over his mouth like he was focusing, but really he was picturing you sitting on his lap bouncing up and down, instead of two buildings away in your own class. when the professor called on him he barely heard the question. after lecture he’d text you, “come over now. i'm not kidding, i can’t think straight when you’re not here.”
fratboy!sukuna loses it the first time he hears you moan. he swears he wasn’t going too rough, but the second you let out that soft little sound he lost every bit of composure. it wasn’t loud or filthy. it was timid and breathy and so you that it sent a jolt straight to his soaked cock. he’d grip your thighs, eyes fixed on your mouth as you tried to hide your face. “don’t do that,” he’d mutter, tugging your chin up. “let me hear you, precious girl.” every time you let out another tiny sound, his grip would tighten and he’d push in deeper, almost desperately, like each noise from you made him harder and harder.
fratboy!sukuna wants to ruin you, but you’re just too sweet. he had the strength and the drive to toss you around, fold you in half, keep fucking you until your eyes blurred. he wanted to. it sat in the back of his mind every time you touched him. but then you’d look up at him with that shy expression, fingers fisting in the sheets. he’d lean down, kiss your jaw, and breathe out a quiet laugh. “you don’t even know what you do to me.” he’d move slow, controlled, holding himself back even when he felt his restraint slipping. you were too sweet for the things he imagined doing. so he kept himself steady and gentle until you were ready for more.
fratboy!sukuna loves overstimming his sweet girl… especially when he’s eating you out. sukuna could stay between your thighs forever. he’d hook your legs over his shoulders, grip the backs of your knees, and settle in like he had nowhere else to be. the first release he drew out of you only made him hungrier. he’d dive back in before you could caught your breath, tongue flicking up and down over your clit, savoring every twitch of your hips. you’d whimper his name, hands gripping the sheets, trying to close your legs. he’d keep you open easily and glance up at you with that hungry look. “aww, i’m not stopping, baby." he’d say, voice low. “c'mon, give me another.”
fratboy!sukuna loveeeees pushing your limits, seeing how far you can really go. of course he never forces anything, but he loves showing you just how much you can take. he’ll start slow and watch you take him, then grin when you whimper his name over and over and... then he’ll shift your hips higher, testing how far he can go. “you can handle more,” he whispers, voice thick with need. when you nod, he drags you back onto him harder, murmuring praise against your cheek. “good girl. don’t hide your face from me.”
fratboy!sukuna has a massive kink for pinning your hands above your head. the moment he realised how small your wrists looked in his hand, something in him ignited. he’d push you back onto the mattress, fingers wrapping around both your wrists with ease, pressing them above your head. your breath would hitch and your legs would tense. he’d grin down at you, leaning close so his nose brushed yours. “stay like that,” he’d groan while guiding himself in. he liked the way you squirmed, the way you tried to move your hands only for him to hold you still with one arm like it was nothing. “good girl. keep them there.”
fratboy!sukuna loved dragging things out just to see how flustered he could get you. he’d lay down between your legs looking at you with those lustful eyes. his fingers would circle your clit without actually giving any real relief, he was slow on purpose. “why’re you wriggling?” he’d tease, leaning close so his breath fanned over your sensitive skin. “thought my shy girl liked taking things slow.” you’d try to glare at him but he’d just laugh under his breath and kiss your jaw, voice softer. “just say you want me and i’ll give you exactly what you need, baby girl.”
fratboy!sukuna has a fixation on you riding him. he’ll sit back against the headboard with his hands resting softly on your thighs while you climb onto him. he loves the way you sink down slowly, your breath catching as you take all of him to the base. “use me how you want, precious,” he says, watching every little thrust you make. when you start getting overwhelmed or tired, he grips your waist tighter and lifts you up and down himself with ease. “thought you wanted to be on top. come on, baby, keep going.”
fratboy!sukuna uses his size to fold you however he wants, he's not necessarily rough, just fast. god, he loves how easily he can move you. he’ll grab your hips and flip you onto your stomach before you even process it. he’ll push your legs apart with his knee and slot in behind you, leaning over your back. “you fit so perfect,” he smiles, dragging his mouth along your neck. he likes bending your knees to your chest while he’s inside you, holding your ankles with one hand like it’s nothing. your little gasp always gets him. “yeah. that’s it. take all of it.”
fratboy!sukuna gets off on how tight your cunt grips him. he was already massive, so your tight pussy made it even worse. the way your body squeezes around him drives him insane, he’ll slow his thrusts sometimes just to feel every inch. he’ll groan against your shoulder, “you’re gripping me so tight… you trying to keep me in there? hmm?” when you shake your head he smirks, pushing deeper. “then relax. or don’t. i like it when you cling like that.”
fratboy!sukuna was obsessed with your hands. he’d stare when you fidgeted with your sleeves or played with the necklace he bought you. it got so much worse when you touched him. the first time you wrapped your fingers around his cock he had to squeeze his eyes shut in ecstasy for a good while. “yeah… fuck, like that,” he’d grunt watching your wrist move. he’d guide your hand at first, then let you take over while his breathing grew uneven and he'd come undone much faster than usual. afterwards he’d kiss your knuckles, "your hands are so cute, baby."
fratboy!sukuna doesn't need photos or videos, he jerks off to the thought of you alone. he's lay in his room after football practice, replaying how you looked earlier in chem when you fiddled with your pens and gave him that adorable smile. fuck you were cute. he dragged a hand down his stomach and wrapped his fingers around his dick, huffing unevenly as he pictured you kneeling between his legs, eyes big and wide. he’d whisper your name under his breath, hips lifting into his palm. sometimes he’d stop right before finishing just to imagine how you’d react if you walked in and saw him like that, hand around his length, chest rising, groaning for you.
fratboy!sukuna likes making you beg without saying a word, he’ll hover right at your entrance rubbing the head of his cock against you slowly while watching your face contort. he grins. “c'mon, sweetheart." you whisper that you need him and he still shakes his head. “not enough.” when your voice gets small and shaky and oh so desperate, he finally pushes in, groaning at the way you immediately tighten around him. “yeah. fuck, that’s what i wanted.”
fratboy!sukuna gets dangerously turned on when you cry from the pleasure, those tiny tears at the corner of your lashes? they make him so much hornier. he’ll kiss them away stroking your cheek. “fuck, y/n,” he whispers, sliding deeper. “you look so pretty like this.” he slows down for a moment, letting you breathe, then drives back in with more focus. “i’ve got you honey, let me take care of you.”
fratboy!sukuna groans into your throat when you scratch his back, every time your nails drag down his shoulders his thrusts shudder. he leans over you, mouth pressed to your throat, breathing hard. “do that again.” when you tug his hair he actually laughs under his breath and pushes in harder. “yeah. that. don’t be shy with me.”
fratboy!sukuna loves when you leave marks on him, he’ll tilt his head to the side, exposing his thick, meaty neck. “go on.” when you bite or suck lightly he moans like a porn star and pulls you closer. the next morning he checks the marks in the bathroom mirror with a satisfied smile. he doesn’t cover them up. he wants people to see.
fratboy!sukuna finishes on your stomach just because he loves watching it drip, sometimes he pulls out at the last second just to see it. he pumps himself fast, staring at your flushed tits and swollen lips. when he spills across your stomach, he drags his fingers through it, spreading it lightly. “pretty.”
nothing makes fratboy!sukuna hornier than his sweet girl.
go read the long fic these are based off, chemically bonded!
I know I said I won't release a double part this weekend, but here we are. I have made this part many weeks ago, and I do not see the point why I shouldn't share it with you now! I'm tired of holding it all back for the algorithm, I want ya'll to read it. I changed this part multiple times until it was finally the way excactly as I wanted it to be. It also hasn't been easy for me writing this… and this goes for all the way we go down in this fanfic from now on…! I know there was a lot of happiness and cuteness and I think Faith and Johnny deserve this, but as we know, that isn't the way that Night City works all the time… With that being said, have fun with this part. ❤️
For better reading experience please visit my blog: https://www.tumblr.com/neon-dawn-fanfic
Well I've never prayed
But tonight I'm on my knees yeah
I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah
I let the melody shine,
Let it cleanse my mind,
I feel free now
But the airwaves are clean and there's nobody singing to me now
No change, I can change
I can change, I can change
But I'm here in my mold
I am here in my mold
And I'm a million different people
From one day to the next
I can't change my mold
No, no, no, no, no
Have you ever been down?
I can't change it you know
I can't change it
you’re already crying. from the stretch. from how rough sukuna's fucking you. from how deep he is in you. thick and brutal between your legs with one tattooed hand gripping your jaw so tight it’s almost bruising.
his thumb drags over your bottom lip.
“c’mon, sweetheart,” sukuna smirks. all teeth. his sharp canines baring out.
“be good for me.”
you do. trembling. mouth open and tongue out.
his eyes darken.
his hips are still grinding into you. dragging obscene little whimpers out from your throat. he’s purposely fucking you slow now, just to watch you squirm.
then he spits.
right onto your tongue.
your whole body shakes. you moan. loud. too loud
“fucking knew you’d like that,” he growls, laughing low in your ear.
“slutty little mouth. always whining about nothin’. figured you’d want something to fill it.”
your cheeks burn. your cunt clenches around his thick cock.
“swallow it.”
you do. instantly. breath shaky. tongue wet. eyes glazed.
“that’s my girl,” he snarls.
then, he fucks into you hard again. dragging your hips down on him - rutting both deep and fast. your moans going high and wrecked.
you can’t think. can’t breathe. can’t speak. you can only feel his cock pounding into you. his hand around your throat. how your lips are still wet from his spit. his deep voice in your ear all smug.
“so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs while licking up your cheek. “so easy. made to be ruined.”
and finally you do cum. sobbing. trembling. clenching around him.
he fucks you through your orgasm. kissing you open-mouthed and the bastard spits into your mouth again.
“say thank you.”
“thank you, daddy,” you whisper - completely gone and drunk on him.
he smiles.
“good fuckin’ girl.”
A/N: I have a whole bunch of short smut dribbles i need to post hehe !
you've been snapping at him since he walked through the door—something about him being late again, something about never telling you shit, something about how you're "not his fucking maid." every word dripped venom, every glare sharp enough to cut. he let it slide for the first ten minutes. let you pace the living room in those tiny sleep shorts and his old tank top, tits bouncing with every angry step, voice climbing higher.
then he stopped letting it slide.
now you're bent over the arm of the couch, cheek pressed to the cushion, ass up, shorts yanked down just enough to bare you. one of his big hands is clamped around the back of your neck—not choking, just holding—keeping your face down while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. his cock is already buried to the hilt, thick and unforgiving, stretching you wide on the first brutal thrust.
"still got somethin' to say?" his voice is low, gravel-rough, right against your ear as he leans over you. the weight of him pins you completely. you try to push back up—instinct, defiance—but he just tightens his grip and slams in deeper, forcing a broken moan out of you instead of whatever bitchy comeback you had lined up.
"thought so."
he doesn't ease into it. never does when you push him this far. he fucks you like he's trying to carve the attitude right out of your body—long, punishing strokes that knock the breath from your lungs every time his hips slap against your ass. the couch creaks under the force; your fingers scrabble at the fabric, nails digging in for purchase.
"f-fuck—t-toji—slow down—"
"no." he punctuates the word with a particularly hard thrust, grinding deep until you feel him against your cervix. you cry out, thighs shaking. "you wanted to run your mouth. now you're gonna take it."
he pulls out almost all the way—lets you feel the drag of every thick inch—then snaps back in, setting a rhythm that's all power, no mercy. wet, filthy sounds fill the room: skin slapping skin, the slick squelch every time he bottoms out, your own choked whimpers you can't hold back anymore.
his hand slides from your neck to fist in your hair, yanking your head back just enough so he can see your face—flushed, eyes glassy, lips parted on gasps.
"look at you," he mutters, almost mocking. "all that fire and now you're just drooling for it. pathetic."
you try to glare, try to snap something back, but he chooses that moment to angle his hips and hit that spot inside you that makes your vision white out. your words dissolve into a high, needy whine.
"there she is." he smirks, dark and satisfied. "that's the sound i wanted."
he lets go of your hair only to wrap his arm around your waist, hauling you up so your back presses to his chest. the new angle has him driving even deeper, cock bullying against every sensitive ridge inside you. his free hand snakes down between your legs, rough fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles.
"you gonna come like this?" he growls against the side of your neck, teeth grazing skin. "gonna soak my cock while i fuck the brat right out of you?"
you can't answer—can only nod frantically, hips bucking back to meet his thrusts. the pressure builds fast, too fast, your whole body tightening around him like a vice.
"that's it. come on—give it to me. show me you can be good when you want to."
your orgasm hits like a slap—sharp, overwhelming, ripping a scream from your throat as your walls clamp down hard. you gush around him, slick dripping down your thighs, soaking the couch arm beneath you. he doesn't stop—fucks you through it with short, brutal snaps of his hips, drawing it out until you're trembling, overstimulated, tears pricking your eyes.
"fuckkkk—good girl," he groans, voice finally cracking with how close he is. "squeezin' me so tight—gonna fill this pussy up. make sure you feel me for days."
one last deep thrust and he buries himself completely, coming with a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your back. hot pulses flood you—thick, endless, spilling out around his cock as he grinds slow circles, forcing every drop as deep as it'll go.
he stays like that for a long minute—still hard inside you, breathing heavy against your shoulder—until your legs give out and he has to catch you.
then he pulls out slow, watching the creamy mess leak from your swollen cunt with dark satisfaction. he turns you around, thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks almost gently.
"attitude gone?" he asks, voice softer now, thumb pressing against your bottom lip.
you're still panting, still shaking, but you manage a weak nod.
he smirks, leans in, kisses you slow and filthy—tongue sliding against yours like he's tasting his victory.
"good. 'cause next time you start mouthing off…" he nips your lip. "i won't stop at one round."
you shiver.
he just chuckles, low and dark, already scooping you up to carry you toward the bedroom.
18+ MDNI, smut - accidentally calling bf!toji 'daddy' in bed
tojis got you on your stomach with your head turned sideways on the pillow. arms all wobbly and useless. you’re babbling - barely coherent - while he fucks into you slow and deep.
his hands firm on your hips. voice low and smug in your ear. “so fuckin’ tight, baby. makin’ all these cute little noises.”
you sob something that’s not really a word.
“what was that?” he huffs a laugh. “couldn’t hear you, sweetheart.”
your toes curl.
he’s big. that massive cock that always stretches you just a little too much until you’re wrung out and trembling. of course, tonight’s no different. he’s been fucking you for what feels like age. slow and punishing. letting you feel every inch like he’s trying to ruin you permanently.
your brain’s melting. your mouth moves faster than your thoughts.
“d-daddy-“
you freeze. he stills. mid-thrust. a beat of silence.
oh my fucking god. you did not just say that.
you bury your face in the pillow, mortified. “i-i didn’t- i wasn’t-“
he growls, “say it again.”
you peek up, startled. “what?”
his hand comes down, sharp on your ass.
you yelp.
“say it again, baby. you said it so sweet.”
you squirm. he rolls his hips into you, slow and filthy.
“go on. i’ll fuck you just how you like. but you first have to say it.”
you choke on a moan. “daddy-“
he groans.
grabs you by the waist and pounds into you - harder, deeper and rougher than before. the bed creaks. the air knocks from your lungs.
“fuck, that’s it. that’s my girl.”
he doesn’t let up. you’re clawing at the sheets. crying out with every thrust and he’s right there behind you. his breathing ragged, hands all over your hips and waist and thighs.
“you like that? like daddy fuckin’ you stupid?”
you nod frantically. “yes- yes- please don’t stop-”
“didn’t know you were such a little slut for it, baby,” he leans down and presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. “shoulda called me that sooner.”
you shatter after that.
cry out his name while you fall apart underneath him. your legs shaking. throat raw. he finishes not long after, groaning into your skin with his cock buried to the hilt. you both collapse in a mess of sweat and shaky limbs.
after a minute, he reaches for a tissue, still catching his breath.
“you alright, princess?”
you cover your face. “i can never show my face again.”
he laughs.
“what, because you called me daddy? please. you think i didn’t love that? i’m gonna bring it up every time you ask me for anything now.”
you groan.
he leans over and kisses your cheek.
“‘daddy can you get me a glass of water,’” he mocks you in a fake high-pitched voice.
you smack his chest.
he’s grinning.
“spoiled little thing. but you’re my little thing.”
A/N: I feel like I haven't written a toji fic that wasn't apart of the fushiguro family series in AGES! so here's one!!!
