Bartenders!tf141 and their lilâ waitress. Theyâre retired five years now and decided to go in on a bar together so they could still work and exist in each othersâ space. Price maintains the books and the establishment, Gaz takes care of the menu and mixing drinks, Soap is the front-end bartender, and Ghost is security and bartends on occasion. It fits them.
But they need a waitress. Someone to make the rounds throughout the night and keep things light and lively for the patrons and drunks alike. Someone to keep the light in their eyes when flashbacks and mental toll start to darken their moods and their gazes.
And maybe you dance on the bar and start line dancing on Thursdays and maybe those hurricane shots keep the money flowing for the five of you. Maybe you have the four guys watching each time you fulfill a shot, breaths catching and hearts skipping and pants tightening because how can that be so hot?
Maybe, just maybe.
Let me know what you guys think! Iâm at work and lost in my thoughts đ
Prompt: You are a doctor on base and become the 141's work wife.
The double doors fluttered shut behind you, nearly thrown off their hinges in your flurry to escape the cacophony of the ER. Your heels clicked a staccato rhythm on the tile, echoing your irritation.
Your morning wake-up call was a code blue for an unlucky private that choked on his own vomit after attempting to drink his entire liquor supply before inspections, and that immediately spiraled into two cadets that nearly blew off their fingers messing with fireworks.
Sometimes it feels like you are a pediatrician and not a military physician. All things considered, you are now in desperate need for a cup of coffee and a little peace and quiet in your office.
"Morning glory," Soap, one of your 'work husbands' as you've taken to calling them, was sat in your chair with his boots up on your desk.
"Johnny, I told you to stop calling me that."
"Why not? It's morning and it's a glory to see you." He winked, standing up and gesturing for you to take a seat. Your aching feet thanked him as you dropped down into the warm leather chair.
"Don't you have things you need to do?"
"Something more important came up." Soap answered, cheeky. His hands found your shoulders when you sat down, calloused thumbs massaging into your nape.
"Mm, that's nice," you hummed, eyes closing.
A quick knock on your door woke you back up. Gaz, another 'work husband', stood there with your favorite mug in hand. "Hope I'm not interrupting," he said, inviting himself inside.
You moaned at the smell of coffee. "You're a life saver, Kyle."
Gaz set the mug down on your desk, flashing one of those smiles that made your nurses giggle whenever he stopped by. "My pleasure, love."
Behind you, Soap scoffed. "What am I? Chopped liver?"
Another pair of boots entered your small office. Price sighed at the sight that greeted him. "There you idiots are. We got debrief in 15." His gaze turned warm when he looked your way, "Morning, beautiful."
"Good morning, Captain." You took a slow sip of your coffee, letting your eyes run over him. "Busy today?"
"Let's just say you're a sight for sore eyes." Price spared you the details, but the lines in his face told you the big picture.
"Where's your shadow?" You asked, looking for the Ghost.
"Over here."
You jumped out of your skin, nearly splashing coffee on your scrubs. The men in the room didn't react at all, turning a leisure gaze over to the corner where Ghost's looming figure stood silently.
"Were you there the entire time?" You questioned, hand over your heart.
"Yes," Ghost and Soap both answered.
Mildly terrifying experience aside, you didn't have time to dwell on it before your work buzzer went off. You cursed, quickly gulping down the rest of the hot coffee.
"Duty calls?" Ghost asked, amused.
You wiped away a bit of the coffee that clung to your lips, gasping. "Unfortunately."
When you stood up, you wobbled a bit on your heels, getting whiplash from the shot of caffeine and their undivided attention.
At once, all four of them reached out to steady you. You waved it away though, fully capable of walking on your own two feet.
"Thanks for the visit, boys." You said, tapping Gaz's cheek affectionately when you passed by. "And the coffee, handsome."
You didn't stay long enough to hear the boys dissolve into chaos. They were always shocked whenever you flirted back.
[i woke up with this in my head so i just had to write it]
Ghost has one weakness. It is a big, round, perfect weakness, and itâs currently arched in the air directly in front of him.
You are on your hands and knees on the bed, face pressed deep into the pillows, your back curved in a gorgeous, deep arch that presents your ass to him like an offering. The soft glow from the bedside lamp catches the slick sheen of your skin, making the two plump globes look as though they have been carved from polished ivory. It is a view that short-circuits his brain every single time.
He stands behind you, one knee resting on the mattress, his other foot braced firmly on the floor for leverage. His black balaclava is pulled up just enough to expose his mouth and jaw, creating the perfect canvas for the guttural sounds he can no longer hold back. In his hand, his phone is held steady, the red recording light a tiny, glowing eye capturing every angle.
The camera is angled flawlessly, framing the obscene sight of his heavy, flushed cock sliding across the slick valley of your ass. He isn't even inside you yet; he is merely dragging the thick, weeping head up and down, coating himself in the combined mess of your arousal and his own precum. The sight of his dick nestled against your flesh makes his balls throb with a need so acute it borders on painful.
"Fuckin' hell," he rasps, his voice a low, staticky growl through the fabric of the mask. "Look at that. Perfect fuckin' view."
He shifts his hips, pressing his cock more firmly between your cheeks, the sudden pressure forcing a whimpering gasp into the pillow. He records it all, watching the way your flesh yields to his touch and the way your body trembles in desperate anticipation. This is for his personal collection, a private stash of sin reserved for the long, lonely nights spent in dusty deployment tents and freezing barracks. When he is overseas, surrounded by the grim, violent reality of his job, he will pull up these videos to remind himself exactly what he is fighting to come home to.
Finally, the teasing becomes too much to bear. Reaching down with his free hand, he grips the base of his shaft, lining the blunt head up with your dripping entrance. The camera zooms in slightly, capturing the exact moment he presses against your tight hole.
"Simon, please," you whine, pushing backward against him, desperate for the stretch.
He grants your wish, sinking into you in one long, powerful thrust. The groan that tears from his throat is animalistic. You are so fucking tight, so burning hot, gripping him like a vise. The camera shakes for a split second as he loses himself in the sheer sensation, before his training kicks in and he steadies his grip.
The view on the screen is purely pornographic. His thick length disappears into you inch by inch, your slick lips stretched wide around him. Directly above it is the masterpiece, which is his taut, heavily tattooed stomach. The dark ink seems to shift and twist with the roll of his muscles as he begins to move. The skeletal face and the roaring skull dance in the low light as his abs contract with each deep, punishing thrust.
He establishes a relentless rhythm, snapping his hips forward until the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes obscenely in the bedroom. Each thrust drives you forward, a choked moan forced from your lungs with every impact. He fucks you deep, deliberately bottoming out against the exact spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he pants, his eyes glued entirely to the screen of his phone, watching his own cock piston into you. He cannot get enough of the visual contrast between your soft, giving body pinned beneath his hard, demanding frame, and the way your ass ripples with every heavy slam of his hips. "Takin' my cock so well, sweetheart. Such a good girl."
Leaning forward to change the angle, the new position presses the hard ridge of his lower abs flush against the swell of your backside. The camera catches it perfectly, recording the friction of his skin against yours, the slide of his cock, and the way his muscles flex and shift beneath the ink. It is a work of art, and he is the twisted artist who gets to create it over and over again.
Looking at him out in the field, no one would ever guess it. He is the stoic, silent lieutenant with eyes like chips of ice and a presence cold enough to silence a room. Simon Riley is a man of few words, a fortress of absolute control and iron discipline. But in the dark, behind locked doors, that fortress crumbles entirely, and the man who emerges is a filthy, vocal, desperate animal.
The phone is eventually forgotten, discarded onto the mattress beside you, though the red light continues to blink, recording the raw audio of your shared undoing. Simonâs hand is no longer holding the device. Instead, it is wrapped securely around your throat, a firm, possessive weight that makes your head swim. His thumb presses gently under your jawline, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
"Fuck, yes," he groans, the deep, gravelly rumble vibrating through his chest and directly into your spine. He bends over you, his sweat-slicked chest pressing hard against your back, the fabric of his shirt bunched up under his arms to expose the full expanse of his inked torso. You feel every single word as a physical vibration. "Gonna fuckin' fill you up."
His hips remain a relentless piston, the steady slap of his skin against yours drowning out every other sound. He isn't quiet, not even close. Every breath is a ragged grunt, and every thrust is punctuated by a low, guttural moan that speaks of a pleasure so intense it borders on agony. It is the sexiest thing you have ever heard, especially that deep, dark voice, usually so fiercely controlled, now spilling a continuous stream of dirty praise and desperate demands.
"Want it all?" he pants, his grip on your neck tightening just a fraction. "Want my cum deep inside you, huh?"
"Yes! Fuck, Simon, yes⊠" you beg, your voice breaking into a wail. You are right on the edge, the pressure coiling so tightly in your gut that it threatens to snap. The feeling of his thick cock dragging against your inner walls, the possessive hold on your neck, and the raw, filthy words pouring from his mouth are entirely too much.
His rhythm suddenly falters, becoming erratic and frantic. He drives into you with short, sharp, bruising jabs, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. "Fuck, I'm close. Gonna cum. Gonna fuckin' breed this sweet little cunt."
The word, delivered so raw and primal, sends you hurtling over the precipice. Your vision whites out completely as your orgasm crashes through you, your walls clamping down on his length in a series of powerful, violent, rhythmic pulses. You scream his name, a raw, soundless cry as your body convulses underneath his weight.
With a roar, Simon buries himself inside you. You feel the hot flood of his release as he pumps his cum deep into your core, pulse after burning pulse. His entire frame shudders against you, his hand on your neck the only thing keeping you both grounded as he rides out the most intense climax of his life.
He stays buried deep, his cock still twitching inside you, as if completely reluctant to leave the warmth of your body. His hand finally releases your neck, moving to brace his weight on the mattress beside you, but he does not pull out.
You can feel his cum, a warm, heavy slickness, beginning to leak from your heat, trickling slowly down the inside of your thigh. The filthy sensation causes you to instinctively clench around him again.
Simon lets out a low, breathless chuckle, the sound dark and thoroughly satisfied. "My greedy little girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Made a fuckin' mess of you."
He finally shifts, slowly withdrawing his softening length. The sudden loss makes you whimper, but then he is using two fingers to push the thick, white fluid back inside you, his touch shockingly gentle compared to the rough driving from moments before.
"Don't waste it, baby" he commands softly, his tone brooking no argument. "I want you feeling me for days."
You can only moan in response, thoroughly claimed. You look back at him, at the man with the ice-cold eyes who has just given you the most earth-shattering, vocal, and dirty experience of your life. He reads the question in your gaze, the sheer disbelief and awe.
He simply smirks, the slow, wicked curve of his lips visible just beneath the edge of his mask.
"What?" he rasps, his voice still thick and heavy with sex. "You look at me like I'm some kind of fuckin' saint out there. This is what saints pray for."
And as he leans down to kiss you, slow and deep, you realize you are the luckiest sinner alive.
Single mom!reader and baby whisperer!Simon pretty pretty pleasđđ»đđ»đđ»đđ»
you weren't ready to tell simon about your baby.
you'd been a single mother since you found out you were pregnant and did everything alone. she was only three months when you met simon, and you weren't exactly ready to date.
but you couldn't resist simon. his gorgeous face, decorated with scars. his big frame and bulging muscles. you wanted to lay on his chest and ride his big meaty cock all at once.
you should have mentioned it on the first date. she was the lock screen of your phone, which you left on the table for most of dinner. just hoping he'd pick up on it.
but you didn't mention it. and then you couldn't mention it. how could you on the second date? and then on the third?
except on the third date you take simon back home. you're not thinking about the nursery, you're thinking about getting him into your bed and doing whatever.
"thank god!" your mother was waiting by the door with your bundle of joy in her arms. she shoved her little girl in your arms and grabbed her coat. "she's been crying all night!"
your mother left, slammed the door shut behind her, and you were left with your baby girl and simon.
you're terrified when you turn to him, your baby girl screaming as you tried to bounce her in your arms. "surprise," you whispered. you were ready to start crying, ready for him to walk out that door and to never see him again.
"who's this then?" he asked as he moved closer. he looked down at your pudgy baby, no teeth in her mouth as she screamed and screamed and screamed.
you sucked in a deep, shaky breath. "this is clementine," you mumbled as you rocked her. but nothing was getting her to calm down.
"can i?" simon asked, reaching for her.
you let him take her in his big, strong hands. she was the size of his hands, so tiny compared to him. "easy, clem," he whispered as he bounced and rocked her.
your baby fell silent as simon walked over to the couch. "there y' go," he mumbled and sat down with her against his chest. he looked up at her with gorgeous eyes, your eyes.
"holy shit," you whispered, coming to sit beside him with your legs tucked beneath you. "i don't think she's stopped crying since i brought her home."
simon didn't expect you to fall asleep against him. he was fully ready to snog you silly while keeping your little baby calm, but you were sleeping against his bicep, drooling on his black shirt.
simon dropped a kiss to your forehead. he was in it now, not going anywhere. not while you and little clementine needed him.
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
âThis for me?â John saunters over to the bed, absently rubbing his hairy chest. âAnd above the sheets?â
âNo,â you warn, because you know that look. You know what John is up to. âDonât think about it. Not tonight.â
He cocks an eyebrow, all flirty mischievousness. âHave I done something?â
âNo,â you repeat. âItâs hot. And youâre a furnace. Youâll get me sweaty.â
Itâs the wrong thing to say.
John dives at the bed, crushing you beneath him. âDoesnât have to be a cuddle, love. Could do something rigorous.â
You twist, evading a kiss. âStop poking me with your dick.â
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
You and Kyle lay on your backs, staring at the ceiling. Overhead, the ceiling fan whips up a breeze but offers little to alleviate the heat. Worst heat wave in the last decade. Thatâs what theyâre saying.
âI know,â you reply. âI hate it, too.â
The pillows are gone, bed stripped down to the fitted sheet. Both of you are freshly showered and naked, and still youâre sweating. Kyleâs arm shifts, the side of his hand brushing against yours. Your index fingers connect, hook around each other. Sweat immediately accompanies it.
Kyle reaches for his phone. âIâm ordering another fan.â
John "Soap" MacTavish
âJohnny,â you grumble, half-asleep.
His hand pauses on your bare hip. âCanât touch you?â
âToo hot,â you mumble. âHow are you not hot?â
The bedding is tossed aside, pushed to the edges of the bed. Itâs the middle of the night but feels like the middle of the day. Has been for weeks. A goddamn heatwave.
Beside you, the bed shifts. âNot even a hand?â
âNo.â
âWhat about a finger?â
âNo.â
Johnny sits up onto his elbow. âA tit?â You open one eye and glare. âA quick squeeze?â
âFine,â you mutter, relenting. âBut only one tit. And only one squeeze.â
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Sleeping naked under the covers isnât an option. Itâs disgustingly hot out. If you just lay here, on your stomach and above the covers, naked, unmoving, youâll cool off. You just canât move. You canâtâ
A hand comes down on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap.
You bolt up, startled. âWhat the fuck, Simon? Iâm trying to sleep.â
Your husband stands next to the bed, hand still raised like heâs aiming for another. He shrugs. âCouldnât help myself.â
You roll your eyes but Simon is settling beside you anyway, handsy as always.
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
Youâre boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe youâre imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. âSimonââ
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
âWhat?â
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. âYouâre bleeding.â
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. âSânot mine.â
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But youâre too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space youâve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
Theyâre clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You canât shake the feeling that theyâre different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These arenât the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. âWhat happened?â
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isnât pressed into you to the hilt - like he isnât the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didnât come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
âWhat happened was,â he pauses. âGraves opened his fuckinâ mouth.â
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
âWhatââ you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. âWhat did he say?â
Simonâs hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
âHe said heâd wondered what you sounded like when you begged.â
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you canât reconcile the sentence with the room youâre in. With Simon above you. With Gravesâs name in Simonâs mouth and blood under Simonâs jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
âHe said,â Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, âthat a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.â
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
âI-Iââ you whimper. âSiââ
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
âThat Price needs to put you in your place,â he hisses through his teeth. âThat heâd have had you on your knees by now.â
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you donât even know what youâre denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simonâs voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
âThen he looked at me,â he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, âand asked if Iâd taught you to take orders.â
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simonâs eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone elseâs blood.
Gravesâs blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
âOh God.â You force the words out. âWhat did you do?â
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. âI hit him.â
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. âHow bad?â
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
âHowââ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. âBad enough Price had to pull me off him.â
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesnât.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if heâs lost his fucking mind. Tell him he canât do that, canât put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Canât turn command into a blood sport. Canât risk his place, his rank, Priceâs trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. Heâs pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
âNo,â you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. âOh.â
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. âSimonââ
âThere she is.â
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. Itâs a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
âYou liked that.â He croons.
You shake your head, but itâs weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
âN-no.â
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
âLiar.â
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You canât find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Gravesâs blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simonâs eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
âYou should be pissed at me,â he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
âYou should be callinâ me reckless.â
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
Itâs all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
âYou should be asking what the fuck I was thinkinâ,â he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. âYou canâtââ
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simonâs eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
âI canât what?â He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
âYou canât justââ your breath catches on a thrust. âYou canât hit him because heââ
âBecause he talked about fucking you?â Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. âIf thatâs what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckinâ believe it.â
You canât.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
âToo far gone to scold me now?â
You glare at him, or try to. It doesnât land.
And it didnât stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
âIâm, mmffâserious,â you whisper.
âSo am I.â
âSimonââ
âNo.â His voice cuts low through the room. âYou donât get to say my name like that while youâre grippinâ me tighter for it.â
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
âMhm. Yeah.â His voice drops into something rougher. âFuckinâ problem, you are.â
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him heâs wrong. Tell him itâs just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But itâs useless because Simon would know itâs a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âNothing clever now?â
âMmff.â Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. âShut up.â
His eyes flash. âMhm.â
âI mean it.â
âNo, you donât.â
âI do.â
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
âTry that again.â
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
âYouâreââ you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. âYouâre going to get yourself benched.â
âProbably.â
âPrice is going toââ
âAlready did.â
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. âWhat?â
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
âRead me the riot act.â
Your nerves jump at that. âAnd you came here?â
âYes.â
Something in your chest tightens. âWhy?â
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. âBecause I had to see you.â
God. You think heâs lost his mind.
âSimonââ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. âThatâs notâthis isnâtââ
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
âYou think I lost it because he insulted you?â You donât answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. âNo, sweetâeart.â
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
âI lost it because he thought about touching whatâs mine.â
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âThatâs what you like, yeah?â
You squirm under him, helpless. âSimonââ
âHe said your name like he had a right to it.â His voice roughens. âLike heâd survive putting his hands on you.â The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. âI had to let him know what mine felt like first.â
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. âLook at me.â
You do.
âAnother man touches you like this,â he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, âand Iâll break every finger he owns.â
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
âAnd if he talks about you like that again?â
You barely manage the whisper. âWhat?â
Simon presses his forehead to yours. âI wonât stop at his face.â
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Gravesâs blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
âLeave it.â
Your breath trembles. âWhy?â
His eyes darken. âBecause I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.â
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you donât belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that heâs going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. âThatâs what I thought.â
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
Youâre Simonâs for as long as youâre both breathing.
Ghost with demons!
TF 141 with dogsđ¶
It's been a while painting full rendered pieces, enjoyed a lot!
Inspired from awesome @yourfaithfulauthor's request.
The apartment had gone unbearably quiet after he yelled.
Not the comfortable kind of silence either. Not the kind Simon liked after long missions where the world finally stopped demanding things from him.
This silence was wrong.
You stood by the stove with your back turned, shoulders tense, blinking rapidly like if you just tried hard enough the tears would disappear before he saw them.
Too late.
Simon stared at you like heâd just watched himself pull a trigger he couldnât take back. His chest rose once. Heavy.
â...Fuck.â
The word came out under his breath, barely audible.
You wiped quickly at your face. âItâs okay.â, you whispered , hurt and embarrassment blooming in your chest.
It wasnât okay.
And Simon knew it immediately because your voice did that tiny shaky thing it only did when you were trying very hard not to cry.
He felt sick.
The kind where the person you love looks hurt because of you.
Simon took one cautious step forward. Then another.
âLove.â
You shook your head without turning around.
That hurt more than the tears.
Usually when he came home, you gravitated toward him automatically. Hands on his chest, arms around his waist. Soft little smiles like he was something worth waiting for.
Now you were standing as far away from him as the kitchen allowed.
Because he yelled.
Because he came home carrying all his anger and dropped it right at your feet.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
âDonât do that,â he said quietly.
âDo what?â, you mumbled, trying to smoothen your voice.
âStand there acting like you deserve that.â
You finally turned a little at that, eyes glossy. âSimon-â
âNo.â He scrubbed a hand down his face harshly. âNo, donât excuse it.â
You went silent. He looked wrecked now. More wrecked than when he first walked in.
Rainwater still clung to his jacket. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but guilt sat on him even heavier.
âI came home to you,â he said, voice rough. âWarm flat, food on the stove, you waiting for me.â He laughed once bitterly at himself. âAnd first thing I do is bark at you like some miserable prick.â
Your lips parted slightly.
Simon looked away, jaw flexing.
âSpent two bloody weeks thinking about getting back to you.â His voice got quieter. âThen I walk through that door and make you cry inside five minutes.â
The tears you were trying to stop spilled over again.
The second he saw them, he looked genuinely devastated.
Not angry. Not frustrated.
Devastated.
âOh, sweetheartâŠâ
He crossed the room immediately then stopped himself halfway, hesitating.
Simon Riley, who would walk through gunfire without blinking, suddenly looking uncertain about whether he was allowed to touch his own wife.
âYou donât have to comfort me,â you whispered.
That nearly broke him, his eyes shut briefly.
âChrist.â
He finally stepped closer carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. His hands settled lightly on your arms, almost tentative.
âIâm sorry love,â he said again. âI shouldnât have spoken to you like that. Ever.â
You looked down, vision blurring, âI know youâre tired.â
âThatâs not an excuse.â
âI wasnât trying to annoy you-â,you huffed ,choking slightly on the tears.
âI know.â His voice cracked slightly then steadied. âI know you werenât.â
The guilt in his expression got worse somehow.
âYou were taking care of me,â he murmured. âThatâs all you were doing.â
You tried to look away again but Simon gently caught your chin before you could.
âLook at me.â
You did. Big mistake.
The second he saw how hard youâd been trying not to cry, his entire face softened into something painfully guilty.
âDidnât mean to scare you.â, he murmured ,gently cupping your face.
âYou never yell at me.â, you sniffled.
That one hit directly to the ribs.
Simon actually flinched.
His thumb brushed carefully under your eye, wiping away a tear with absurd gentleness for a man built like a concrete wall with emotional constipation.
âI swear to you,â he said quietly, âthe second it came outta my mouth, I wanted to take it back.â
You could hear how honest it was.
Simon wasnât good at pretty apologies. He wasnât poetic, wasnât smooth. But guilt made him painfully sincere.
âI hate that you looked at me like that,â he admitted softly.
âLike what?â
âLike you were trying to figure out if I was angry with you.â
His voice nearly disappeared on the last part. Because that was the thing eating him alive now. The fact that for even one second, youâd looked at him uncertainly instead of safely.
Simon pulled you against him suddenly, firm and desperate, burying his face into your h.air.
âIâm sorry,â he repeated quietly against your temple. âIâm so fucking sorry.â
You felt the way he held you tighter after every apology, like he was trying to physically make up for it.
âI missed you,â he admitted in a low murmur. âMissed you so bad it felt wrong sleeping without you there.â His arms tightened. âThen I come home and act like that.â
Your hands slowly curled into his shirt. Simon exhaled shakily at the feeling.
âThere she is,â he whispered, relief and guilt tangled together. âThought I fucked this up properly for a second.â he mumbled ,inhaling the scent of your hair.
âYou didnât.â
âNearly did.â
And judging by the way he kept pressing little apologetic kisses into your hair like a man trying to repent for his crimes against domestic peace, he was going to spend the rest of the night making absolutely sure you knew he regretted it.
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
â pairing: Task Force 141 Ă fem!141!Reader
â 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 đ 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 Captainâall 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 directionâdifferent-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 thatâwhatever 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 closerâtwo strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, Johnâ" 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 limbsâlike they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too longâand 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.
"Fuckinâ 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 deeplyâmusk 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, wellâabout 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 menâ"
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 uncomfortableâGhost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like thatâa bioweaponâon soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Waitâwhat? 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 amusedâthe 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 tinglingâfrom 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 andâto your horrorâthey 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 teamâGhost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassuranceâare 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.
"KateâKate," 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'sâit'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 stillâ" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "âbad."
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 himâit'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, "ânot 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 crotchâby accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagineâand 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 foodâwhether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his placeâyou 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 andâ"
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, pleaseâ"
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 ifâ"
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.
"ShitâBabygirl, no, d-don'tâ" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shouldersâand hates himself for how reluctant he is at itâand 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 meâ" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "ItâIt fuckinâ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, yeâre fuckinâ 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, takeâ" 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 sirâ"
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 doâthey trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlockedâjust in case you faint and he needs helpâand 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 stepâthe 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 needâ"
"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 underwearâplain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexyâand 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. Triggerâ
"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 finallyâfinallyâlets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yesâyesâyesâ" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuckâfuckâfuckâfuck.
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 againâclear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your cornersâanything 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'dâ
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 placeâsomething 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 doesnât want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurtingârepeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yoursâthe young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"KyleâKyle, I need more, I need you toâpleaseâFuck, 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."
"Pleaseâ"
"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 onceâyour hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your bodyâand 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 thisâyou're not choosing himâand 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 needâ" 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 openâ
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 drenchedâhis 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 onâ" 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 needsâ" 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 nodâthe 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. "Ahâve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverentâone hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shouldersâand 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, heâd 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 MacTavishâhe 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.
"Fuckâtha'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 awayâoverstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same timeâhe 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 lipsâJohnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnnyâhe 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 underneathâthe toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slickâand 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.
"Godâfuckâlass, ye taste so fuckin' goodâ"
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. Heâs 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.
"Pleaseâplease, Johnny, I needâI can'tâ"
"I know, hen, I knowâ" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "âjus' 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 meanâhe 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 isnât. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"SimonâŠ"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first nameânone of them doâand 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 wantâ"
"Wasn't bloody askinâ."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistakeâthe critical, tactical, unforgivable mistakeâis 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 lustânot the way you looked at Gaz and Soapâbut 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 headâjust his palm, just enough to support your neckâand 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 longâhis thumb brushing once against the nape of your neckâbefore 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'tâDon't go."
"'M not goinâ 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 slightlyâa fraction more weight, a fraction more warmthâand 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 saidâwhat Price saidâand 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 keepsâ" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying sheâs 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 turnâGaz, then Soapâand 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 mouthâprobably to say something spectacularly unhelpfulâand 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 recognitionâCaptainâbefore 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 stillâ"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and itâs 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 nightstandâGaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthoughtâand 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 expressionârecognition, maybe awareness, youâand finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, yâtell 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 hatesâChrist, he hatesâhow 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 nameânot his rank, not Captain, but Johnâand 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. "JohnâJohnâoh godâ"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulderânot 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 wayâGaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of commandâthis 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 gentleâcan'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, harderâbut 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 itâfuck, yer soâfuckâ"
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 faceâthe quiet oh, shitâwould 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 itâs 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.
"Shitâshit, I'm sorry, Iâfuckâ"
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 medicinalâthe toxin, working its way out of your pores at lastâand 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 whiskyâthree fingers this timeâand 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 needâall 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 upâvehicles, 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.
Didnât hate them â he just didnât get them. Didnât get how people melted over something that screamed, drooled, and stared at him like he was a nightmare in human form.
Kids always screamed when they saw him in his balaclava.
He took it off?
Worse. Way worse.
That was why he never showed at team dinners. Soapâs kids, Priceâs kids â he didnât want to be the reason they cried. Didnât want to see that look again.
Heâd seen it once before.
A kid on the street had stared at him too long and blurted out,âMum, heâs uglier than a monster.â
The woman had grabbed her son and practically run, fear all over her face.
Ugly. Monster. Scarred. Scary.
So when it came to his baby girl, Simon was fucking terrified.
âNo,â he said flatly the first time you suggested it.
Youâd barely finished your sentence.
âSheâs our daughter, Si,â you said gently. âShe should see your face. Her father's face.â
âShe doesnât need to,â he snapped. âMask stays on. End of it.â
Heâd sit with her for hours, mask firmly in place, huge gloved hands impossibly gentle as he played with her. And she adored him âgiggled every time he spoke, squealed when he leaned close.
âYeah, youâre proper hard, you are,â he muttered one afternoon, bouncing her lightly. âBig strong girl. Gonna knock yer old man out one day, eh?â
She babbled back, fingers grabbing his crooked nose through the fabric.
You smiled from the doorway.âShe thinks youâre pretty, Si.â
He scoffed. âDonât talk shite.â
âIâm serious.â
âSheâs a baby,â he muttered. âGive it a second. Soon as this comes off, sheâll scream her head off. Iâm not doinâ that to her.â
Days later.
Steam still clung to the bathroom door when Simon stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, one hand scrubbing roughly at his face. Bare. Exposed.
You froze.
Then grinned.
âOh no,â he muttered immediately. âDonât you dare.â
Too late.
You stepped right into his path, your baby balanced on your hip. âHi, love.â
âAbsolutely not,â Simon barked, panic sharp in his voice. âNowâs not the time. Move.â
âSimon.â
He turned toward the wall, shoulders tight. âI said no. Iâm not lettinâ her see me like this.â
âShe deservesââ
âSheâll cry,â he snapped. âAnd Iâm not havinâ that. So fuck off and let me get dressed.â
You reached for the towel. He tightened it instantly. It was heartbreaking seeing such a well trained soldier and more than capable man hiding himself out of fear of hurting his baby girl. Making her scared of him...
âDonât,â he growled. âDonât push me.â
Silence stretched - thick, painful. You didn't like this side of him. The side that hates himself so much he ends up hurting you.
Thenâ
The loudest giggle youâd ever heard.
Your baby shrieked with laughter, burying her face into your neck, shaking with it.
Simon froze.
âWhatâŠ?â He turned slowly, confused.
She peeked out.
And saw him.
Her smile vanished for half a secondâtiny brow furrowing, eyes studying his scars, his broken nose, the harsh lines of his face. Who was this man...huh...
Simon swallowed hard. âSweetheartâŠâ His voice cracked despite himself. âItâs me.â
That was it.
Recognition hit her like lightning. Her whole face lit up, mouth opening in a toothless grin as she squealed and reached for him.
âNo! wait!!â Simon protested, panic flaring again.
You didnât hesitate. You placed her straight into his arms.
He went completely still. Every muscle locked. Braced for rejection. A scream, a cry.
Insteadâ
She laughed harder.
Her chubby hands smacked against his scarred cheeks, fingers exploring every line, tugging his nose like it was her favourite toy. She pressed her mouth to his cheek and slobbered happily.
Simon let out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
âOh...fuck,â he whispered.
Tears welled, spilling freely as he smiled, really smiled, for the first time in years.
You crossed your arms, smug through your own tears.âTold you.â
She babbled at him, patting his face like she was soothing him now. Little chubby hands awkwardly patting his cheeks and eyes.
He kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like she was air. Then he pulled you into his side with one arm.
âIâm sorry,â he murmured thickly. âIâm so fuckinâ sorry. Thought Iâd scare her. Thought I werenât good enough.â
You leaned into him. âShe loves you, Simon. Mask or no mask.â
He spends days afterwards apologizing, doing everything he could to make you happy. But you already were the happiest seeing your daughter shriek with laughter as her daddy makes funny faces to feed her.
And begs you to make little skull patterned mittens for her. To match of course.
Simon Rileyâs baby loved him more without the mask.
She grew up thinking she looked just like her dad. And that made her proud.
MASTERLIST đ
A/N: Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated. Luv u all đ
Johnny just came back from a long mission, and by now we all know he has a specific food craving.
So he sneaks into the bedroom, clothes already coming off and kneels beside the bed where his pretty little dove is sleeping. Youre already so obedient, moaning when his rough hands slide over your thighs, tugging restlessly at your panties.
"On your back, luv." Soap murmurs both impatiently and with full excitement. He's been about getting his hands on you for a month. Think about all those times hes made inappropriate gestures to Ghost using his tongue and hands to get his point across.
"I've got a pretty bonnie back home. Cunt tastes like focking heaven." He'd say, eyes rolling just at the memory of your wetness lathered all over his chin and fingers.
Immediately, Soap folds you onto your back, knees up to your chest, pussy already pulsing inside your cute little panties. He practically snaps them off with a rough tear and just as quickly shoves two fingers inside you.
"Oh fuck- shit.. Johnny.. baby, please.." Youd beg, even with your eyes half closed from sleep. Your hands would tug at his wrists, hips rolling up lazily. "Johnny, I need your tongue.. please.."
He groans, getting on his knees and shoving his face into your pussy, nose pressed against your pubes, tongue lapping happily at your tongue. A thick rumble leaves his chest as he begins pumping his fingers in and out, expertly locating your g-spot and tormenting it until your squirming and squealing.
"God, cum on my face, dove." He'd grunt, dragging his tongue from your back hole to your pretty clit. It pulses in his mouth when he sucks it inside, curling his fingers at the same time.
An embarrassingly loud sound escapes your mouth, you want to drag it back inside but its too late, youre already cumming. You hear a groan leave Soap, his tongue increasing rhythm.
Only after do you realize you squirted. All over his fucking face.
"Shit, I'm sorry, baby-" Youd rush out to say, but he'd immediately shush you, sucking his fingers into his mouth and wiping away his face.
"That was the hottest thing I've seen all month, luv. And were doing it again."
Johnny who rarely texts, always opting for calls and facetimes. maybe itâs the fact he doesnât have the patience to type and read back and forth when talking is faster, or maybe itâs because he likes hearing peopleâs voices, but heâs always quick to call when you text him. doesnât even read the message you sent, just jumps straight in to talking on speaker with you. doesnât matter where he is or who heâs with, youâll be heard by everyone while he loudly laughs and happily responds. his favorite thing is putting you on speaker with the 141 around, waiting for you to say something embarrassing before piping up with, âOhâ âah told you Kyle anâ Simon are here too, didnae âah?â, with a shit-eating grin. he gets a full bellied laugh when you hang up, thumb already moving to call you back
Was the first thing Simon said when he met you, after you asked him if his broken arm didn't hurt or if he wanted a shoulder to cry on.
"love I told you I don't cry" Whispered Simon shakily, hugging you back tightly two years later when you hugged him after you found him mourning his lost family in a cementery.
Simon let out a choked laugh of joy, feeling the sting of tears of joy when you accepted to be his girlfriend six months later after the cementery thingy.
"Boys do cry honey, it's normal we're humans"
You said, crying of joy too.
"It's ridiculous I don't cry" was what he snapped back to Johny with fat tears the moments he saw you walk around the aisle looking as beautiful as the day he met you.
"I'm not crying you're crying" he mumbled while signing the documents of the house you two bought together, you nodded, sobbing and smiling widely "I do cry, you big softie"
You could just stay there, years later, smiling gently while Simon hugged you, crying on his shoulder after you showed him the positive pregnancy test.
"but baby you do cry!" You teased softly, exhausted and next to him, five years after getting married and buying a house seeing him cry with trembling yet secure hands while holding his newborn little boy.
And now, as he knelt down on the grass of his big house, with you reading a book on the bench and Riley the dog playing around, grey hairs now adorning his once golden locks, when he looked down at his six year old son Ethan after the little guy tried to contain his tears thanks to a rough fall, he smiled softly.
"Don't worry champ, boys do cry, and it's completely normal"
He mumbled gently, lifting up the crying little boy and holding him close to his chest while your heart melted not too far away.
Author note: crying is completely okay, regardless of the gender (sorry I didn't edit the colors I'm exhausted đ)
no thoughts just simon riley and your new back tattoo.
his first thought is fuck - because it's big and intricate and must have fucking hurt.
his next thought is also, still, fuck - because all he can picture now is digging his fingers into the meat of your hips and fucking you from behind with this addition to his already perfect view.
that night he's uncharacteristically gentle; carefully helping you peel the wrapping off, rinsing blood and plasma and excess ink from your back in the shower. and for the next two weeks? he's there, helping spread cocoa butter over every inch of your new tattoo with careful touches; learning the shape of it with his fingertips.
and when it's healed? yeah, he's getting a cumshot video to cherish forever. something to take with him when he's away next to remind him of you. the perfect video of thick white ropes of his cum running down your tattooed back; gathering in the dimples either side of the base of your spine.
john price x fem!reader
The one where John Price pulls rank on the mattress setup, demands you take his heat, and then thoroughly ruins any semblance of professional distance you ever had.
[3.2k] safehouse trope, forced proximity, omg there was only one bed! competence porn, teasing, dirty talk, praise, hand over mouth, spooning, breeding if you squint, creampie, porn with little plot basically
The old, run-down, and quite honestly, shitty safehouse smelled of the distinct, biting chill of a Siberian winter bleeding through the floorboards. It wasnât homey by any definition of the word, merely hidden beneath a disused mechanics shop that seemed to be out of business since the late nineties, barely large enough for two people to stand in without bumping shoulders.
And of course, to your absolute luck, there was only one cot. A narrow, rusted frame with a mattress that looked about as forgiving as a slab of granite.Â
John Price stood by the reinforced door, practically swallowing the limited space. He had his heavy tactical jacket unzipped just a fraction, the scent of tobacco, rain, and sweat clinging to him like a second skin. His blue eyes, usually sharp enough to cut glass, always aware of everything around him, tracked you as you dropped your rucksack onto the dusty floor.Â
âCosy,â you remarked, wiping a layer of grime off the back of a plastic chair. âI see the Royal Army really spared no expense on the honeymoon suite.Â
Price let out a low huffâ the closest youâd get to a laugh while knee-deep in the red zone, halfway through a deep-cover mission. He pulled his watch cap down tighter over his ears. âYouâre lucky itâs got a roof, love. Last time I was in this sector, I slept in a ditch with a wet poncho.â
âAnd youâve been lovely ever since,â you shot back mindlessly, unbuttoning your own heavy coat to check the seals on your sidearm. You didnât look up, but you could feel his gaze on you, always. Heavy, observant, laced with the respect he only reserved for operatives who were genuine survivalists out in the field. Sometimes you wondered if he only ever liked you because you didnât know how to complain. âDonât worry, Captain. If you get cold, Iâll let you have the chair.â
Price took a slow step forward, floorboards groaning a little beneath his boots. He leaned against the low ceiling beam, looking down at you with that maddeningly calm, knowing smirk hidden in his stupid beard.
âIs that right?â his voice dropped an octave, a rough purr that vibrated right through the thick, stale air of the room. âGenerous of you. But I outrank you, Sergeant. Which means if anyoneâs taking the luxury seating, itâs me.â
âAh, pulling rank already? Weâve only been locked in a basement for, what, ten minutes?â you finally looked up, meeting his eyes with a challenging tilt of your chin. âI thought you liked a capable partner, John.â
âI do,â Price murmured, holding your gaze, his own darkening a little. Though you werenât sure, as exhaustion had played with your brain way too many times before and told you that on quiet nights like this, Price was thinking exactly the same things as you were. âWhich is why Iâm letting you figure out how weâre both going to fit on a mattress meant for a single schoolboy without one of us falling off.â
Ah. Sure.
The unspoken rule between the two of you had always been distance. It wasnât born out of dislikeâ quite the opposite, actually. In your line of work, professional distance was a life jacket. The cold, the bone-deep exhaustion, the proximity of holding the line with someone could easily play tricks with your head, make you see things that werenât necessarily there, have you holding onto words like the world outside of that specific perimeter had lost all its meaning.Â
Price was a man who carried the weight of too many ghosts, and you were a woman who valued her autonomy too much to let a commander see the softer edges of your armor. But there was a gravity between you, undeniable in its nature, a pull that both of you spent a massive, unnecessary amount of energy pretending didnât exist.Â
You took great interest in the smaller details of the room whilst your brain scrambled to find a way to get you out of the situation, before setting your eyes on him.
âA schoolboyâs mattress,â you repeated, voice a dry defense mechanism against the sudden tightness of your chest. âRight. Well. Good thing I practiced my posture in training.â
The banter was a shield, of course, but as the clock ticked past midnight, the cold began to strip it away. The heating unit in the corner, which you deemed hopeless within twenty minutes of settling in, gave one pathetic hiss before dying completely, leaving the air so frigid your breath bloomed in fragile, ghostly clouds between you. The Siberian winder certainly didnât care about the military rank Price was always so eager to pull with you; if it could seep through the concrete this much, it could easily bypass your skin to settle deep into your bones until shivers wracked your shoulders.
Price noticed. Why were you even surprised, he noticed everything.
âDrop the boots and the rig,â he commanded quietly. It wasnât his âCaptainâ voice that you were used toâ it was lower, thicker, roughened by the drop in temperature and something else he was trying hard to suppress. âWeâre losing heat. We freeze up, weâre useless tomorrow.â
You didnât have it in you to argue this once. The bravado was gone, replaced by the instinct to just survive which was quickly blurring into something far more dangerous in your book. You stripped off your tactical vest and boots, leaving you in your thick thermal layers. When you climbed onto the narrow cot, pressed flat against the damp concrete wall to leave him room, you realized just how impossible this was going to be.
The bed groaned under his weight as Price laid down beside you, facing away at first, trying to preserve a polite boundary. But you both knew it was useless. The cold was a physical blade, cutting through the thin fabric of your thermals, the skin beneath, your bones. You shivered again, hard enough that the rusted springs gave a little.
With a heavy sigh that sounded a lot like surrender, Price turned around.Â
Thank God you were facing away from him because if you had to face him in the dark now, you would probably say something stupid.
âCome here,â he muttered into the dark.Â
Before you could even try to fire back a witty retort, his arm reached out, hooking around your waist and pulling you backward against his chest. The impact took your breath away. He was a literal furnaceâ visceral, solid, and utterly massive. Your back pressed flush against his torso, thighs nesting into his, head tucked just beneath his chin.Â
The dynamic shifted in an instant, you could feel it. You were no longer just two highly capable soldiers sharing a safehouse to lay low for the night. You felt skin and bone, heartbeat and heat, terrifyingly, deliciously close.Â
Priceâs breath hitched as your heat met his. Through the layers of clothing, you cold feel the hard expanse of his chest rising and falling against your shoulder blades, his heart thumping a steady rhythm that almost matched the sudden racing of your own. His beard brushed the crown of your head, the scent of him enveloping your entire being completely. He was rigid, every muscle in his body coiled tight as a spring, as if he were actively fighting the urge for something. To pull you closer, your treacherous mind whispered into you. To feel your body against his, closer, warmer, perhaps even wetter.
Heâs affected by this, you realized, a sudden thrill of heat shooting through your veins that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather. The great John Price isnât as untouchable as he lets on.
âStill cold?â he murmured, his voice rumbling directly into your spine, making its way down in between your legs, to contribute to the growing anticipation there.
You remained entirely frozen, terrified to your bones that even a single, misplaced shift of your weight would shatter the fragile illusion of military necessity. But the cold was unrelenting, forcing you to melt backward, pressing your spine firmer against the solid wall of his chest.
âIâll survive, Captain,â you managed, voice nothing above a hushed thread in the dark. âThough I think you forgot to mention in your briefing that field-expedient thermal sharing involved being spooned by a human bear.â
Price let out a soundâ not a huff this time, but a vibration that rippled right through your shoulder blades, making your muscles go taut. His arm, still wrapped around your waist, tightened just a little bit, pulling you a microscopic inch closer until there wasnât a single millimeter of air left between his front and your back.
âItâs called survival, Sergeant,â he murmured, breath hot against the shell of your ear. You shushed your mind before it could tell you that he was doing it deliberately. âIf youâve got complaints, you can file âem with Hereford when we get back. Till then, shut up and take my heat.â
âAlways so textbook,â you whispered, tilting your head back just slightly. The crown of your head rubbed against his jaw, the rough stubble of his beard catching on your hair. âAnd here I thought you were breaking character just to be nice to me.â
âDonât flatter yourself, love.â the term of endearment slipped out a little too easily, too breathily, with a weight that didnât necessarily belong on a mission roster. Priceâs fingers twitched where they rested against your stomach. His hand flattened there then, palm heavy and searingly hot through the synthetic fabric. He was pinning your hips directly against the apex of his thighs, and you didnât have a single intention of complaining.Â
âBesides,â Price added whilst shifting his weight, large thigh sliding between yours a bit. âIf I were breaking character, you wouldnât be doing this much talking.â
A treacherous thrill coiled tight in your lower stomach. The undercurrent of the remark he threw so casually wasnât a blunt admission, no, that wasnât in Priceâs nature, but it was thereâ thick, sticky with a promise that made the back of your throat go dry.
âIs that a threat, Captain?â you whispered, your own voice taking on a slight edge. You tilted your hips back just a fraction into his heat, testing the boundary, testing him. âLast I checked, Iâve never had an issue keeping up with your pace. In or out of the field.â
You heard a jagged intake of air that ruffled the hairs at the nape of your neck, then, you felt the immediate consequence of your movementâ hardening of a certain something against your lower back, thick and unmistakable even through the heavy layers of clothing. He was fighting a losing battle against his own restraint, and you werenât exactly making it easier for him.
âCareful now,â the warning rumbled right into your skin. His hand on your stomach moved, palm spreading wide, charting the curve of your hip with an agonizingly slow pressure. âYouâre playing a high-stakes game in a very small room, love.â
âBut youâre the one who told me to take your heat,â you breathed, the dizzying heat washing over you entirely eradicating the chill that a few minutes ago was paralyzing you. âIâm just⊠following orders. Finding out how much youâre willing to give.â
âWanna talk orders?â his voice was a rough purr now, lips brushing your earlobe as he spoke, sending an electric ache straight down between your thighs. His fingers dug a little deeper into your hip, pulling your backside flush against the rigid line of his groin. âIf I give you an order right now, Sergeant, Iâd have to make sure you take every single piece of it.â
The weight of his tone made your knees weaken, even lying down. It was a masterclass in control, a tether keeping the monster on a leash, but the leash was fraying way too fast. Every slow rise and fall of his chest rubbed torturously against you.Â
âThen why donât you?â you challenged softly, heart hammering against your ribs. âUnless the Captain is all talk tonight.â
Price didnât answer that. The time for words, apparently, was over.
His hand moved from your hip with urgency, large fingers gripping the waistband of your thermal trousers before hauling them down along with your underwear in one heavy sweep, exposing your bare skin to the biting chill of the room. That didnât last long, though, as his massive, burning body crowded right back against you. You heard the harsh, metallic slide of his own zipper, the rustle of heavy fabric, then the staggering reality of his bare length pressing directly against the slick, aching heat between your thighs.
He was massive.Â
You let out a soft gasp into the dark, hands reaching back to blindly grip at the fabric of his shirt for leverage as he grabbed a hold of your leg, lifting it up and hooking it over his, opening you right up for easy access as his fingers found their way over to your aching clit.
âAll talk?â Price growled into the nape of your neck, voice stripped of all the restraint it had before. It was deep, feral, and deeply, deeply hungry. âLetâs see how well you keep up now, hm?â
With a tilt of his hips, and a helping hand, Price managed to drive himself forward a bit, blunt tip catching onto your desperate entrance.
He didnât ease into you, not that you expected him to. He sank straight into your tight, drenched heat in one long push, filling you to the absolute brim. The light pain of his thick length stretching you open took the breath out of your lungs, having your eyes snapping open in the dark, spine arching off his back as pleasure crashed over your brain. A loud, high-pitched cry built in the back of your throat, threatened to tear past your lips and echo straight up through the floor to the street above.
Before the sound could even escape, though, Priceâs large hand slammed over your mouth.Â
His palm was warm, smelling of one of his cigars, effectively smothering your voice into a muffled, breathless whimper against his skin.
âShh, quiet, baby,â Price hissed against your ear, holding you completely still for one torturous second, letting your desperate body stretch and adjust to the fullness of him. âOne sound out of you, and weâre compromised. You stay quiet for me, okay pretty girl? You hear me?â
You could only nod frantically against his palm. The danger of the mission outside was entirely eclipsed by the overwhelming danger and embarrassment of the orgasm forcing its way to the surface, before he even had a chance to move properly.Â
Price let out an approving grunt. âGood girl.â
Then, he began to move.
Because of the cramped, narrow spooning position, every single thrust had to be so, so deep and agonizingly slow. He pulled back until he was almost entirely out, letting the freezing air hit the slick skin of your cunt, before driving all the way back in, bottoming out against you with a wet thud each time. His thick hips rolled against your backside, weight crushing you into the wall and the hard mattress with every relentless stroke of his.Â
You writhed against him, muffled whimpers trapped behind his hand as he tore through all of your defenses. The pleasure was too sharp, too much. Every time he hit your sweet spot, your legs twitched helplessly, begging for a faster pace, but Price maintained a commanding rhythm of his own. He was using his size to dominate the space, thick thighs anchoring yours, chest pinning your shoulders flat when he moved a bit further to keep you under him.
âLook at you,â Price whispered roughly, lips dragging along your jawline. âTaking all of it. So quiet. Built perfectly for this, arenât you? My perfect little soldier.â
The dirty praises sent an entirely new wave of heat straight to your core. You clamped your thighs tighter around his leg, tilting your pelvis back to meet his deep thrusts, desperately chasing the peak that had been building between your legs a while.
Price felt the shift in your body, the tight squeeze of your wet walls around his girth. He let out a low groan, hand gripping your jaw just a little tighter. âYeah, just like that,â he muttered, breaths coming in short pants now as his own control began to fray at the edges. âTake it all from your captain, baby, take all of me.â
You felt Priceâs restraint snapping cleanly in two when he stopped pulling back. He simply drove into you over and over, frantic thrusts that slammed his hips flush against yours with a wet echo, and at that point, his tight hand around your jaw wasnât doing much to muffle you. The rusted springs of the cot creaked beneath, but neither of you cared about the noise anymoreâ not when he was so big and unforgiving, not when you were so tight and soft beneath his palms.Â
âIâm gonna ruin you,â Price growled, voice barely feeling human as his teeth grazed your shoulder. âGonna fill you up. Fucking breed you. Just hold on, love, hold on for me.â
Your walls clamped helplessly around him, and the orgasm actually felt like a physical blow against your pussy. You arched your spine, eyes rolling back in the dark as a choked, muffled scream was smothered entirely into his palm. Your walls clamping tight around his rigid length as you came around him pushed Price right over the precipice.Â
He let out a guttural moan against your neck, body locking up when he drove himself into you one final time, burying his length as deep as it could possibly go, and then, he unleashed.
You felt the pulsing before the warmth flooded your tight space, filling you to the absolute brim. He poured into you in deep waves, the volume of his seed pooling deep within your core until it slickly escaped the seal of your skin to drip onto the mattress beneath you. Price remained buried deep, chest heaving against your back, heart hammering on top of you like a war drum as he slowly emptied himself into you.Â
For a long, beautiful minute, the only sound was the desperate panting of two people trying to catch their breaths.Â
You felt him soften slightly, though he stayed put, preserving the connection there for a hot minute before carefully withdrawing his large hand from your mouth, fingers trailing down your jaw, over your chin, before resting against the pulse point on your neck.Â
He pressed a soft kiss to the damp skin beneath your ear, breath still hot and shallow.
âLove,â he whispered into the dark, shifting his weight to ensure he wasnât crushing you. âYou alright? Did I hurt you?â
âI just might have to start disobeying orders more often, Captain,â you murmured with his soft chuckle rumbling against your back, as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.Â
âSmart mouth,â Price whispered affectionately, thumb gently stroking the pulse point on your throat before he retreated a bit to pull the blankets back up over the two of you.Â
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