welcome to my dumbass corner of the internet for all my constantly-changing interests and hyper fixations. i <3 reblogging so this is gonna get mad fucking crowded. my navi tags r mostly for me because this is a spam & i don't expect to get many followers lol. anyways have a good day
he doesn't know you. yet. he just knows that you're new to the gym, based on the fact he's never seen you around. simon would've remembered a girl in tight biker shorts and skimpy sports bras, taut workout jackets, and the occasional oversized hoodie. adorned with a cute matching water bottle to whatever you wore that day and headphones.
he's never seen someone so polished for...the gym. a place meant for getting dirty and sweaty after a good workout, but he doesn't mind. not at all.
especially when you're doing leg and glute day. bending over for stretches, squatting with a full rack of weight—or whatever your body can carry. the grimace on your features with a heavy hip thrust. it rushes all his blood down south.
it's barely been a week since you'd joined this gym, and he's already enthralled—and a downright dog.
but he wasn't used to talking—just staring someone down until they noticed, which he did a lot. when he approached you, he didn't know what to say, and you felt the looming presence over your shoulder. well, there he was, staring you down.
lifting off your headphones, you spared him a sweet look, "you need something?" he just pointed to the machine you were using. "oh! i'm almost done, you—"
he threw you a thumbs up and turned away as quickly as possible, leaving you dumbfounded. instead of continuing the exercise he interrupted to approach you, he sat back on the machine and watched you finish your set. adjusting his heavy erection that wasn't hidden by his gym shorts. you felt his eyes but didn't dare look his way.
just as you finished and were about to clean off the seat, he appeared at your side and stopped you. simon was filthy, seeing the sweat marks left on the seat made his cock throb. "'s fine." he grunted, sitting his heavy body right down. your perfume still lingered when he did.
it wasn't even part of his strict workout routine. he was working legs that day, you were doing arms. he didn't care.
numerous other times stuck out. moments you caught him turning his head over his shoulder to stare at your ass when he walked by, picking machines right behind where you squatted, hijacking your machines after a heavy workout, or picking a treadmill right beside yours when all the others were empty.
until he finally worked up the courage to ask to spot you. he knew you didn't need it, but god, it was the only way to get close to you, to touch you.
he was surprised you even agreed, but you saw what he did. perving on you any time you went to the gym at the same time—which was often because he learned your gym schedule.
he was helped you squat, hands unnecessarily on your hips, chest way too close to your back. every so often, a certain squat slotted his hard cock against your ass, and he didn't hide the grunt. adjusted himself shamelessly while he did so.
it's not like you reprimanded him, but you also didn't feed into it—though, by default, not saying no to him was a greenlight in his eyes.
just ignore the way his breathing picks up and a choked groan escapes him. he definitely didn't just finish in his shorts.
This heatwave is annoying. Can we get the 141 boys and how they and poor reader keep cool during a heatwave?
don’t even get me started on my hatred for heatwaves omg
and yes we can get the boys and reader keeping cool
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"Fuckin' hell," Price barges into your apartment unannounced not even looking your way as he heads right for the kitchen.
"Hello to you, too?" You get off the floor and follow him, watching as he takes the liberty of getting a water from the fridge and chugging half of the bottle. "You realize I only gave you guys keys in case of emergencies, right?"
"35 degrees is very well an emergency, love."
You stare at him blankly and shrug, not having gotten completely used to Celsius just yet. Price sighs and thinks for a few seconds. "95."
You nod and decide to get a water for yourself as well, shoving him to the side and grabbing one. You get to small talk when you hear your door open again. You didn't even have to look to know who it was. Heavy ass footsteps and the balaclava thrown onto the counter was more than enough information to go off of. Simon opens the freezer and sticks his head in, sighing dramatically in relief. Before you could ask what he was doing, the door opens again and in come Johnny and Gaz loudly complaining about the heat.
"Freezer's taken," Simon calls out and flips them off when they start complaining about it. The whole time, you're watching the chaos unfold and suddenly your place feels much too cramped to hold an additional four grown adults in the middle of a heatwave. Price gets waters for the others and you can only stand the noise for so long before cutting into the conversation.
"What the hell are you all doing here?"
They stop and look at you, then Johnny takes a gulp of water. "AC went out at the barracks and yer the only one with an apartment."
Johnny’s as touch starved as a man can be and highly uncomfortable with simply asking for what he needs.
In his line of work, where hypermasculinity is the norm and he can go months at a time without so much as speaking to another woman, (excepting Laswell, of course), gestures of affection are expectedly rare.
As a result, he’s gotten himself a reputation that’s weirded out more than a few soldiers in his years of service.
“MacTavish is…touchy,” one would whisper under his breath, looking around to make sure he was out of earshot.
“Yeah….Don’t get me wrong; nice bloke. But he’s always pulling me in for hugs or sitting real close. A tad weird if you ask me,” another would reason, fidgeting with his hands.
“You don’t think he’s…?” at third would ask, nervous to say the word.
“Definitely not; have you seen him at the clubs around base? He’s into women, mate, trust me,” a fourth would chime in, chuckling.
“So…what? He’s just, like, lonely?” the first would ask.
“Aren’t we all?” the second would sigh and all four would nod wistfully.
Variations on that conversation have taken place between soldiers of all ranks and nationalities that have had the privilege of crossing paths with the inimitable Sergeant MacTavish.
Johnny deals with his burning need for physical affection by whoring himself out in exchange for human comfort.
Whenever he gets lonely or particularly depressed he heads straight for the nearest bar, lines up several rounds of shots and takes home the first lass to offer to neck one with him.
He plays his part brilliantly, spewing dirty talk like it’s a second language in an accent that drives girls of all backgrounds wild. He fucks rough and thorough and makes sure they have a good time.
And then he gets his end of the deal; after-sex cuddles. The only time it’s appropriate for Johnny to curl up in the warmth of another person and finally breathe a sigh of relief.
Of course, that relief is often interrupted by the poor girl getting the creeps from their one night stand’s extended spooning session and jumping up to leave suddenly.
When they leave like that, Johnny feels their absence like a knife in his chest. The sudden lack of warmth feels suffocating and he folds in on himself to try and chase the remnants of the comfort he’d just been feeling.
Then he meets you, out late one night in a foreign city he can’t pronounce the name of. You’re a uni exchange student; he couldn’t care less. He rushes you out of the pub and back to your shabby uni accommodations, cooing filthy nothings into your ear the whole walk back.
He takes his time lapping at your cunt until you’re shaking and moaning, but when it comes time to push himself inside and you catch his eye, you can tell he’s somewhere else.
His thrusts are robotic, rehearsed even. He’s just going through the motions, like this is a means to an end. What end? you wonder to yourself.
You get your answer when you notice the way he’s gripping your hips; not possessively, but desperately, like you’re tethering him somehow.
Realization dawns. Ohhhhhhh; this big strong masculine military man really just wants a hug.
“Hey, um, can we stop?” you ask timdly and Johnny’s body immediately ceases all movement, “I’m kinda not feeling it,”
“Oh my god, yeah, of course; bon I’m so sorry,” he stammers, pulling out of you and shuffling away from you on the bed, “I’ll be going, you just get some rest; all good love, all good,”
His cheeks are flushed red and his hands are shaking as he reaches for his boxers.
“Wait! You don’t um, don’t have to go….” you stammer, playing it up perfectly, “it sounds kind of dumb but, uh, we could just cuddle? Like, hang out? If you want to, of course,”
Johnny’s ears go red to match his face as he stares into your eyes with wide-eyed appreciation. No one’s ever asked to stop having sex in favor of cuddling instead before.
He shakes his head slightly, as if to check that his ears heard you correctly.
“Bonnie, that’d be great, I’d love a cuddle” he stutters, rushing to get back into bed with you. You smile; he thinks this is all just for you. Now he can get what he needs and not feel weird for asking.
After pulling on your underwear and t-shirt, you insist on putting Johnny in a little spoon position. You lean back and spread your legs, patting the spot of bed between them.
Johnny bounds into place like an overeager Labrador. He nestles his head right beneath your sternum, his torso framed by your inner thighs, arms along the outside of them, hands rubbing absent circles on your calves.
You both make easy conversation as your hands begin to roam his body gently. After a few minutes Johnny just closes his eyes and sinks into a state of bliss he’s never felt before.
You rub his arm muscles, massage his neck and draw invisible patterns on his lean chest with your warm fingers. His breathing is slow and deep and a permanent smile remains tugging at his lips.
You periodically pull his calloused hands up to your mouth to pepper with soft kisses. He’s sighs contentedly each time and returns the favor, practically worshipping your hands with his lips.
When your hands begin to slowly knead and rub his scalp, some band of resolve in Johnny just snaps. Slowly, small sniffles begin to escape his throat while hot tears well and eventually fall down his weathered cheeks.
“I’m sorry, fuck-so sorry. Steaming bloody Jesus, I’m a mess bonnie,” he stammers, face going red in embarrassment. He goes to sit up, to pull himself away from you because he thinks it’s what you’d want.
Because here he goes again, fucking crying at the feeling of finally receiving the physical affection his body’s been screaming for. How pathetic, how needy, how ridiculous is he to be sobbing in some poor girls arms who just wanted a one night stand with a sexy military man.
He can’t stand himself and his stupid bloody needs. The monumental hole in his chest that felt almost filled as you caressed his body.
But you push him back down into you and wrap your arms tightly around him. Of course he could easily break out of your grip if he wanted to but he stays like he’s trapped.
“You’re ok, Johnny, you can cry. I’ll just hold you,” you murmur in his ear. That phrase is all it takes for the damn to fully break. The sobs come more ragged, he lets every tear fall uninhibited as he holds onto you like he would a life raft in a hurricane.
He cries until there’s nothing left, with you planted firmly in place, keeping him emotionally and physically tethered.
“Thank you, fuck, I’m sorry, thank you,” he blubbers through his shame.
“You’re welcome, Johnny; anytime,”
repost from my old blog strawberryglock (I miss her :/)
With a body like that, it would be hard not to stare
18+ mdni
tf141 x reader
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In the absolute back-ass of some godforsaken country on a mission, you and the rest of Task Force 141 finally managed to crawl back to a proxy safe house. You’d been awake for forty-eight straight hours, your skin caked in layers of sweat, field dirt, and dried blood.
You wanted nothing more than a boiling hot bath to ease your tense, aching muscles. Instead, you were going to have to settle for a dingy, makeshift shower setup.
The safe house was far from luxurious, but it offered the team enough sanctuary to rest up and scrub the grime of combat off your skin before continuing the op.
The one major drawback of the temporary base was its size. It offered virtually zero privacy, but none of you had ever really cared.
The professional respect and tight-knit bond among the team ran deep. It also helped that the men treated you as one of their own—or, at least, that’s what you had assumed.
As the gruelling team debrief finally wound down, you decided to make your move with impatient haste. Wanting to be the first one in, you grabbed a change of clothes and called out to the room that you were heading to wash up.
The shower cubicle was actually situated just outside the main structure. It didn't offer much in the way of shielding—just a single brick wall. If anyone felt like walking around the corner, they’d get a completely unobstructed, full view of the stall.
Stepping onto the cracked tile floor, you stripped down out of your heavy tactical gear. Since there were no locks or even a proper door, you just threw a loud warning shout out to the yard to let the guys know you were showering.
The moment the cold water hit your skin, a deep, shuddering sigh left your lips. As the stream ran through your matted hair, it began to warm up slightly, but you were honestly too exhausted to care about the temperature.
Too wrapped up in the blissful sanctuary of the running water, you had absolutely no idea you had suddenly acquired an audience. And they were standing in a state of absolute shock and giddy amusement.
“Jesus Christ,” Soap muttered under his breath, his eyes instantly glued to your form. He was completely enamoured, watching the way the water glistened down the plump, smooth curve of your ass.
Gaz walked over to see what the hell Soap was staring at so intently. The second he rounded the corner, he froze, jaw dropping so fast he practically drooled.
“Mate, why the fuck are you—oh.” Gaz’s train of thought was instantly derailed, his brain short-circuiting entirely.
You began lathering shampoo into your hair, your back still completely turned to your pervy teammates, utterly oblivious to the commotion you’d caused. Your hands tangled in your long locks, pulling them up and giving them a full, glorious display of your toned back. Your spine arched slightly as you began to hum a mindless tune to yourself, working the suds into your scalp.
Taking their sergeants' sudden silence as an open invitation—and getting thoroughly pissed off that their orders were being ignored—Captain Price and Lieutenant Ghost stormed over.
“Are you lot fucking deaf?” Simon growled out, his voice a low, threatening rumble. But the words died in his throat.
He went wide-eyed beneath his skull mask, shutting up instantly as he took in your naked form.
A slow, knowing smirk crept onto Price’s face. He thoroughly enjoyed the view, but he enjoyed how easily undone his hardened men were at the mere sight of you even more.
“What’s wrong, lads? Never seen a woman before, is that it?” Price teased, though his own eyes lingered. The three younger men stood entirely unfazed by the jab, unable to look away.
“I just… I didn’t realize our wee sergeant was quite so much of a lady under all that gear,” Soap choked out, his Scottish accent thick with awe.
To be fair, you weren't exactly the overtly feminine type in the field. Matching the masculine, rugged energy of the unit was a survival trait, and living and working alongside hardened military veterans most of the time didn't leave much room for glamour.
But all that brutal training and combat experience had sculpted your body to absolute perfection.
Yet, there was something undeniably, breathtakingly feminine about you in that exact moment.
The way your chin lifted toward the showerhead, leaning your head back into the spray; the way your long hair was tussled with white soap suds; the way your soft, supple curves were on full display, glistening and wet under the dim light.
It wasn’t until you finally turned around to rinse that you saw the group of men ogling you like a bunch of spellbound schoolboys.
You didn't scream or cover up. Instead, you simply rolled your eyes, reached over the partition, and grabbed your towel.
‘Those fucking idiots.’
Their faces burned a deep crimson from a potent mix of embarrassment and sudden adrenaline. They had just been caught red-handed looking in on their teammate, and they were fully expecting a high-decibel meltdown.
Instead, you casually wrapped the towel around your wet hair, stepped out of the stall, and walked right up to them. They stood entirely paralysed, practically terrified to even breathe, as you looked every single one of them dead in the eye with a sharp, deviant glint in your gaze.
“What?” you asked, looking down at your bare body before locking eyes with them again.
“I may look and act like one of the guys on a run, but I’m very much still a woman.”
You flashed them a teasing, wicked smile, walking right past the frozen line of soldiers while shaking your head.
As your hips swayed deliberately down the narrow corridor toward one of the bedrooms, walking painstakingly slow, each step further adding to the aching bulge in their pants. You could feel all four pairs of eyes burning holes into your skin with an intense, suffocating heat.
Stopping just at the threshold of the doorway, you trailed off. “Well…”
You slowly turned around, a dark, playful look washing over your face as you looked back at the hallway.
“Are you lot just going to stand there, or do you actually want to come get a closer look? Your call.”
You didn't even have to wait for an answer. The words had barely left your lips before all four men practically tripped over their own boots, breaking their paralysis in a desperate, chaotic scramble to make their way into your room.
Hey, nothing like a little boost in team morale, right?
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void
a/n: let me know what ya think <3
part 2 here
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
Wholesome!König who metamorphoses into the ultimate European Dad whenever you go to the beach.
Insists on picking you up at 7:15am sharp so you can arrive before all the good spots are taken? Check.
Pulling up his weather app at 15 minute intervals the whole ride there, updating you on wind speed, pollen count, and UV index? Check.
A chunky, waterproof watch on his wrist with three alarms set to ensure the day stays on schedule? Check.
Sunscreen applied to every conceivable inch of skin, with an extra thick glob on his nose? Check.
Swim trunks with tiny pineapples that you bought him after the first time he tried to wear a Speedo to the beach? Check.
But for all his foibles, the day you spend together is truly the highlight of your summer. Arriving early to set up your towels, chairs, and umbrella in the right spot was the best move; the generous application of sunscreen prevents you and your dreadfully fair-skinned boyfriend from turning into lobsters; and to his credit, his regimented, Austrian work ethic does turn off once you're truly settled in your spot.
You alternate between sunbathing, walking up and down the shoreline, and cooling off in the ocean. You've never had a relationship this easy - anything you suggest, he's already halfway done making it happen. Plus, seeing his Baywatch body and muscular build on full display fills you with a mix of desire and smugness, like you know the other women on the beach wish they were you.
When lunch rolls around, König sweeps you out of the water and carries you to the towel "so your wet feet don't get sandy." You would be embarrassed if it didn't heal your inner sixth grader, who'd always dreamed of a man so chivalrous.
It is entirely unsurprising that he's packed an incredible picnic lunch, with kartoffelsalat and hearty roast beef sandwiches and those little packs of pretzel sticks kids used to trade in the cafeteria. He also withdraws a small pitcher from the lunch box and shyly explains that he tried to make mojitos, but he's certain they're terrible and, honestly, you don't actually need to drink it, he's got some water bottles under the icepacks...
When you finally wrap up your day, you're relaxed and sleepy and as happy as you've been in a long, long time. König insists that you remain lounging on your towel while he packs everything else into the car. You doze off on the ride home as your boyfriend smiles fondly and turns down the radio as not to wake you.
[Smut beneath the cut.]
He tries to drop you off at home, but you demand he come inside and at least shower off so he doesn't have to drive back to the barracks grimy with sweat, sunscreen, and sand. Of course he agrees - the man has never said no to you in his life, even before he finally had the courage to ask you out - and he turns eggplant-purple when you casually shuck your swimsuit to join him.
You're stupidly horny for him after seeing him half-naked all day, so you take your sweet time lathering your vanilla bodywash into his skin. He sighs beneath the steam of the shower and the ministrations of your hands, shoulders slumping like his joints and tendons finally realized he's no longer in a combat zone. Blissed out and half way to falling asleep on his feet.
But he wakes right the fuck up when your fingers creep lower and you begin to massage his cock.
König loves your handjobs. He says you're unbelievably good at them and he never needs to worry that his size is hurting you - a frequent insecurity of his when you first became intimate. While you languidly work his hardening member back and forth, you rest your head between his pecs as the water pours down on you both.
He makes the most pathetic little whimpers as your lazy tugs turn into proper pumping. One of his hands flies against the tiles to keep himself steady against the urge to turn into a puddle at your feet.
When you tell him its time to wash his hair, he seems perfectly willing to accept that the handjob is over without having come. But when you ask him to get on his knees so you can reach his head, he quickly picks up on what's actually happening: a perfect excuse to smush his face into your tits.
König may love your handjobs, but he worships breasts.
You squirt some shampoo onto his head and begin to spread it through his short hair while König attends to your chest. Sucking, rubbing his face, thumbing your nipples, and whispering breathless gratitude into your cleavage. It's not terribly long before he picks up where you left off, the wet noises of his hand sliding over his cock speaking to something primal in your cavewoman brain. "I'm so lucky," he says over and over again. "So fucking lucky."
It doesn't take long for him to empty his balls, splattering your legs as he leans so hard into your body you nearly topple. The shower quickly washes away the mess as he plants a final kiss beneath the swell of one breasts.
He quickly asks what you'd like in return - he's happy to lick your pussy for the rest of the night, or he could sit you on his lap and use his fingers - but all you really want right now is a nap. There's something so satisfying about pampering this man, who got dealt a shit hand in life but is somehow still the type to fumble his way through a homemade mojito recipe if he thinks it'll make you smile.
Neither of you bother to put clothes back on as you collapse into bed and wrap your bodies around each other. You think to yourself, not for the first time, what a wonderful father he would make. You can picture with ease König's big hands spreading sunscreen over a little boy who has his eyes and your hair.
A goal for next summer, maybe.
===
I dont usually do requests, but I would literally jump off a bridge for @the-californicationist ❤️💕🧡 Thanks for the prompt, Cali!!
The first time you touched Isaac Lahey’s arm when asking him a question he nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Whoa, sorry! Are my hands cold?” you’d chuckled. He mumbled back a barely audible response about just “not expecting it” and you moved on quickly.
Truth is it scared the shit out of him. An extreme flinch reflex is one of the more manageable quirks he developed after an upbringing filled with abuse. His defense mechanism designed to protect himself from sudden blows, which were frequently levied at his head during his childhood. In stark contrast to Isaac, physical touch comes easy to you. It feels natural to you to have a hand on a friends arm during a conversation or hug a person the first time you meet them. As such, you kept forgetting about Issac’s reflex & scaring him accidentally.
“Shit, I’m sorry; I gotta get better about that,” you apologized one day after straightening Isaac’s scarf and watching his eyes go wide in shock.
“Actually…it’s probably the other way around,” he chuckled nervously and you raised an eyebrow at him. “I-I should probably try to not, um, freak out when people touch me,” he explained, squirming under your gaze.
“Oh, um, yeah maybe. Well if you ever need physical touch exposure therapy; I’m here,” you offered up, half-joking.
Isaac took a long look at you. “Ok, yeah; let’s do it,”
“Wait; now??” you look at Isaac utterly bewildered as he sets his jaw in preparation.
“No time like the present,” he quips through his growing anxiety, “Touch me, Y/N” Isaac very nearly growls in his low, scared voice. You let your eyes roam him for a moment before lacing your fingers with one of his hands. He sucks in a shaky breath as his heart begins to pound.
“Ok, um, I’m uh-touching you and…it’s ok because I’m your friend…”you clumsily reassure, feeling stupider by the word, “…and I won’t hurt you. You’re safe, Isaac. I’m not going to hit you. I’m touching you to show affection; no other reason,” you finish, finding your words easier the longer you talked.
By the end of your impromptu speech, Isaac’s heart rate had slowed and the urge to run far away had almost completely dissipated. He wasn’t comfortable, by any means, but at least he wasn’t terrified. From then on you continued your completely unlicensed and unprofessional exposure therapy and, (slowly but surely), Issac started to get more and more comfortable. His flinching got less and less severe and finally dissipated entirely. His heart rate stopped jumping and he even started initiating physical touch. Simple stuff like high fives and back pats but still; huge for Issac.
Subtly you got the whole pack in on this ‘desensitize Lahey’ schtick.
Derek & Peter would put a hand on Isaac’s shoulder while giving him instructions. Scott & Stiles would dap him up in the school hallways. Allison & Lydia would link arms with him when they walked together and Erica & Boyd frequently rested their hands on Issac’s knees when they were sat next to him. Isaac was, embarrassingly, quite surprised to learn that he actually really liked physical touch. Once it was finally associated with good things, (friendship, the pack, celebration), instead of his father’s iron fist, he found he craved it nearly constantly.
From you, specifically.
He always held your hand when you walked anywhere, let you play with his hair during pack movie nights, sat closer to you than was really necessary in almost every setting. One day he got brave enough to initiate the scariest kind of physical contact there is.
“Hey, uh, Y/N, I’ve been thinking. There’s uh, one type of physical touch I, um, haven’t gotten used to yet,” Isaac stammered one night during an all nighter study session in your room. You were seated at your desk while he was sprawled out on the bed.
“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” you asked, curious. He got to his feet.
“Um…close your eyes,” he stammered and you complied.
Slowly, shaking and terrified, Isaac drew his face nearer to yours. His heart was pounding in his ears and his stomach was in his throat but he pushed through the anxiety until his lips brushed against yours.
Your eyes flew open to meet his and for a split second he worried he’d misread everything and that you were about to slap him in the face. But a blink later and you were pulling him in close, tangling your hands in his hair and kissing him like it was your one and only chance to do so.
Finally; the one type of physical affection you’d been craving from him all along.
Simon doesn't really go for the whole… Pride Month… thing. It's not offensive. He doesn't begrudge anyone else their celebrations, but he leaves the rainbows and parades to the younger generations.
As he smokes on a bench in the park, watching young men holding hands and laughing and bouncing around, he can't help but smile a bit. His back aches just watching some of the baby lesbians carrying each other this way and that, and he scrubs a hand over Toaster Strudel's head on his knee.
"This seat taken?"
Simon chuckles as Kyle drops to sit next to him. "Savin' it for my 'usband, ain't I?"
"Husband?" Kyle chuckles and drapes his arm over the back of the bench. "Sounds serious."
"e's my world," Simon answers, too sincere. He drops his hand on Kyle's knee and tips his head to whisper, "Great cock."
The laugh that gets him is so beautiful that he can't help but lean in for a kiss.
Referring to the pretty entrance between your thighs, Simon reminds you of your place every morning with a quick forehead kiss.
You’re his pretty little house plaything, his bed companion that keeps his cock warm after long hours on base. So you touch yourself all day, using your arsenal of vibrating, sucking, pulsing toys to stimulate your throbbing clit and perky nipples.
But nothing that penetrates your walls; that task is reserved for Mr. Riley.
The only task on your to-do list is keeping your shy pink hole gushing cream for him all day, keeping you prepped for your beloved’s girth. Porn plays on a loop on your rose-gold laptop as your eyes glaze over and your mouth starts to drool. You lose track of how many orgasms you’ve wrung out of yourself by midday.
Simon comes home and slips out of his uniform, cock flushed and standing at attention when he pulls it from his boxers. The obscene squelch of your sopping cunt allowing his cock to slide right in with no resistance is Simon Riley’s favorite sound in the world.
Good girl…so wet f’me…how many orgasms today, princess?
His fat mushroom tip kisses your sensitive cervix over and over again as he grinds his hips against you. You’re already dumb from pleasure, mind in a haze as overstimulation takes over.
Dunno baby…mmphhhff
Simon leans down to pepper your flushed face in kisses.
That’s ok, kitten; think ya can do one more f’me?
You nod lethargically as Simon’s hips piston his thick cock faster and faster in and out of your hot, dripping core. He pinches your stiff nipples, grinning at the pathetic whimpers it causes you to make as you writhe beneath his rough, relentless fucking.
Your orgasm rises and falls over your spent body in a minimal wave, but Simon’s pleased regardless. He speeds up his thrusts, chasing his own release.
Good job, kitten, soooo obedient…my good girl…gonna cum right inside my perfect girl…c-cumming princess
With a grunt he adds his thick creamy load to the juices coating your gummy walls. The sticky mixture between your thighs is the best lube in the world, and Simon keeps grinding until his cock goes soft inside you.
This is how he always wants you to be. A cute hedonist with no aspirations outside of sexual pleasure. A sloppy fleshlight with real tits he can hump anytime he wants. You’re not a person to Simon Riley; you’re a pet. And he takes very good care of his pets.
Oh my leaky little girl, you did so good; let’s get you cleaned up
You smile as he coos at you and carries you to the bath tub to massage your sore muscles and scrub your puffy folds.
A boomer with feelings - Cpt. John price x Reader.
This fic is inspired by @everythingisalwayswipsueme beautiful brain 🧠! Enjoy!
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John Price had made one catastrophic mistake.
He’d downloaded TikTok. It started innocently enough. Kyle had sent him a video. “Sir, just download the app. It’s easier than sending links.”Five words. Five stupid words.
Now it was two weeks later, and John Price was lying awake at one in the morning watching videos of someone pressure-washing driveways.
Then military edits. Then cooking videos. Then relationship advice. Then…
Relationship trauma. The algorithm knew too much.
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One evening he was curled up beside you on the sofa while you showered upstairs. His phone buzzed.
“People you may know.”
Your username appeared. He smiled. “Didn’t know they used this much.” He tapped. Your current account was adorable.
Cat videos.
Random recipes.
You dancing terribly while making coffee. His lips twitched. Then he noticed a link in your bio.
Old account.
Curious, he clicked.
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The first video hit him like a train.
“I genuinely hate my boyfriend.”
John froze.
Next.
“I wish he’d disappear forever.”
Next.
“Being with him makes me feel disgusting.”
Next.
“He makes me hate myself.”
Next.
“I’m so tired of pretending everything is okay.”
His stomach dropped. There were hundreds.
Hundreds. Video after video after video.
Crying.
Angry rants.
Sleepless nights.
“I wish he’d just die.” John stared at the screen. His chest felt tight. “…Christ.”
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He couldn’t stop scrolling.
Every video sounded like…
Him.
He worked too much, missed anniversaries, forgot dates, didn’t compliment enough, sometimes disappeared on deployment. He’d always worried he wasn’t enough.
Now…
Apparently you agreed.
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The next morning—
The briefing room. Price looked like absolute death. Of course Ghost noticed immediately.
“…You look like shite.” Soap nodded. “Ye look like ye’ve buried someone.” Kyle frowned. “You alright, sir?” John rubbed a hand down his face.“…Need to show you something.”
He slid his phone across the table. Soap watched one video.
“My partner.” Another video played. “I hope he never comes home.” Soap’s eyebrows shot up.“Oh, absolutely not.”Ghost looked murderous.“The fuck?”Kyle blinked. “They’ve…they’ve never acted like this around us.”John just stared at the table. “I didn’t know.”
Soap slammed the phone down. “No.” Ghost stood. “We’re going.” John looked up. “…Going where?” Ghost was already grabbing his jacket.“To your house.”Kyle sighed. “We should probably hear them out.”Soap looked scandalized. “Hear them out? They’re wishing the captain dead!”
John stood slowly.
“…Need answers.”
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Twenty minutes later— Your front door swung open. You blinked. “…Why are all four of you standing on my porch?”Ghost folded his arms.
Soap looked furious. Kyle looked deeply uncomfortable and John wouldn’t even meet your eyes.
You frowned.
“…John?”
There was silence for what felt like 30 minutes. Finally he spoke. “…Did I do something?”
“…What?”
“You can tell me.”
“What are you talking about?” He handed you his phone. You looked down. “Oh.”
“…”
“…”
“…OH.”
Your eyes got bigger. “Oh my God.”Nobody spoke. You started laughing. Soap looked offended. “What’s funny?” You looked at John. “Babe.”He looked miserable. “…Yeah.”
“Read the date.”
“…”
“…What?”
“The date.”
John frowned. He looked.
Then looked again. Tiny grey text underneath the username. August 2022.
He blinked.
“…”
Your smile slowly disappeared. “…John.”
“…”
“…John.”
He kept staring.
Then swiped.
Every video.
His ears slowly turned red.
Ghost leaned over.
“…”
Soap leaned over.
“…”
Kyle leaned over.
“…”
There was a very long silence. You finally asked— “…You thought…” John closed his eyes. “…Aye.”
“…You thought these were about you?”
“…Aye.”
“…”
“…”
Then you burst into laughter. Not a little giggle. Full-body, wheezing laughter. You had to lean against the doorframe. “Oh my God!” Soap looked between the two of you.
“…Wait.”
Kyle squinted.
“…That was your ex?” You nodded “the abusive one.”Ghost’s expression changed instantly.
“…”
Soap slowly looked back at John.
“…Captain.”
John refused to look at anyone. “…Don’t.” Soap started laughing too. “No, no, no—”
Ghost actually snorted.
Ghost.
Snorted. Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sir…” John muttered, “…I know.”Soap wiped tears from his eyes. “Ye marched us over here because ye cannae read a date?”
“I said don’t.”Ghost’s shoulders were shaking. “The old man got cyberbullied by archived posts.”
“I said—”
“Archived.”
“I know!”You stepped forward, still grinning, and cupped John’s face. “You absolute idiot.”
“…”
“I’ve been with you since 2024.”
“…”
“How could posts from 2022 be about you?”John opened his mouth.
Closed it. Opened it again.
“…Didn’t…think.”“No,” Ghost agreed dryly. “You really didn’t.”Soap was still laughing. Kyle had actually sat down on your porch because he couldn’t breathe.
You kissed John’s forehead. “For the record…” He finally looked at you. “I adore my current boyfriend.”His cheeks somehow got even redder.
“…Yeah?” “I make TikToks about you too.” His eyes widened.
“…You what?”
You pulled out your phone. Opened your current account. Scrolled.
“When your boyfriend brings you tea before you’ve even asked.”
Next.
“POV: your grumpy military boyfriend secretly loves cuddles.”
Next.
“He’s pretending not to smile.”
Next.
“My favorite person.”
John stared. “…Oh.” You smiled softly. “Those are about you.” He looked like someone had physically restarted his brain.
Soap groaned dramatically. “Oh, that’s disgustingly sweet.” Ghost headed back toward the truck. “Crisis over.” Kyle patted John’s shoulder.
“…Maybe next time read the timestamp before assembling the task force.” John sighed so heavily it sounded painful. “…I’m deleting TikTok.”
