Simon x Reader whose already work with TF 141 for a pretty long time. And one day, there's a traitor around the base, leaking their information. All of the proof are leading to reader but reader always deny it! And they interrogated reader, and reader always deny it! And he's (with other 141 members, of course, but it mostly him) do their torture methods to get information out of reader. They keep doing it until someday, the real traitor finally captured!
And make the reader traumatized, pls. Like, she would have trust issues, trauma, and others. She wouldn't forgive them, tho.
ooooo the angst. had to sit on this one for a few days before I wrote something, but here goes nothing.
ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE
when you blink open your eyes, the room is dimly lit. it’s silent save for the sounds of your labored breathing.
you must’ve passed out. one second johnny— a man you’d known for years—was slicing into your skin with a knife. the next, you’re staring into an empty room.
your hands jerk up involuntarily. still bound. the rope holding them to the arms of the chair have rubbed them raw. the skin is bright red and bloody. it makes you grit your teeth.
you look down at your lap, taking inventory of the parts of your body you can see. large gashes break up the fabric of your tac pants. the blood surrounding the deep wounds is dry and crusty.
one of the cuts looks like it’s getting infected. you swear you can see bone.
you’d taken this kind of suffering before. been capture by enemies, held and tortured and pushed to the brink of death. this was different. this was being done by your team. men you’d bled with. cried with. laughed with.
one you’d even slept with. the same one you loved. the one you called yours.
the door to the room swung open, hitting the wall with a metal thud. your head slowly lifts, eyes squinting to see him. by his stature, you know it’s simon.
he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. instead, he walks towards you slowly. as he comes closer, can make out his eyes in the sea of dark paint he smears around them. the same paint you’d helped him apply a time or two.
“back for more?” you say, and it’s meant to sound sarcastic, but all it sounds like is pitiful. your voice cracks, and pain seeps into your tone.
the first rule they’d taught you about scenarios like this was to never let the enemy know it’s working. never let them know that they’re hurting you— that they’re slowly wearing down your defenses.
well, you’d just broken that rule, and you hadn’t even meant to.
you didn’t know how long you’d been tied up, subjected to torture by men you had once called your family. all because a fucking liar whispered your name into their ears. all because they fucking believed it.
apparently the years meant nothing to them. to him, least of all, considering he’d done more damage to you than the rest of them.
simon comes to a stop in front of you. his hands are empty by his sides, but that’s not reassuring. there’s a table full of weapons off to the side. he would have his pick of the litter.
“ready to talk yet?” he says, and his voice is gruff. his tone is hollow. he’s speaking to you the same way he’d spoken to countless enemies. it makes you sick.
“fuck you, simon,” you spit out.
the betrayal of john, gaz, and johnny had hurt. but simon’s betrayal? that was enough to almost put you in the ground.
you’d stopped pleading with them the second they tied you to the chair. now, you were angry. furious. rage filled your veins, and if you weren’t beaten to all hell, you’d find a way out of these fucking restraints and strangle the man in front of you to death.
the man you loved. you’d thought you meant something to him, but apparently not— because who tortures someone they love?
“if you talk,” he ignores your outburst. “it’ll be easier. quick.”
“fuck. you.” you enunciate the words, your jaw impossibly tight as you grit your teeth. “im not the fucking rat.”
“all the evidence,” he starts as he disappears from your vision. you know he’s going to pick his weapon of the hour. you force yourself not to shudder.
“points to you.”
“take that bullshit evidence and shove it up your ass, riley,” you seethe, ropes pulling taut as you lean forward in the chair.
he’s back in your line of sight now, brandishing a large knife.
“you’re only making it harder on yourself, love,” he tuts, and then he’s swinging the knife down, right onto one of your fingers.
you scream as the blade cuts right through skin and bone. your teeth dig into your lip, drawing blood as you refuse to give him more of a reaction. it fucking hurts, but you’ll be damned if you let yourself cry.
“feel like talking now?” he asks, watching as half of your left pinky finger falls to the floor.
“or should we take off another?”
you look up at him, hoping he can see the hatred in your eyes as you speak your next words. “you could take the fucking hand off and I’d still have nothing to tell you.”
“let’s see how true that is then, eh?” he replies, and raises the knife again. he’s about to swing, when someone comes running into the room.
“ghost!”
it’s johnny. he’s obviously winded as he stops beside simon, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggles for breath.
“what, mactavish? im busy.”
“they’re—” he gasps. “they’re not— the— rat.” he says between breaths.
the room goes impossibly still. so quiet you swear you could hear the men’s heartbeats (or maybe that pounding in your ears was your own).
“you sure?” simon’s voice is softer as he lowers the knife and turns to johnny. the younger man nods, his eyes trained on you. you can see the regret in them, the sorrow.
“it’s fucking shepard.”
it’s not funny, but at the news, you burst into laughter. the men stare at you in confusion, but you can’t stop.
you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, and they’re just standing there.
“are you alrigh’?” johnny’s asking as he moves towards you. he’s fully recovered his breath now, and he drops to a crouch to be eye level with you.
you don’t answer— you can’t. you keep laughing. distantly, you hear the knife simon was holding clatter to the ground. can just make out the sound of more footsteps out in the hallway, coming towards the room.
you pass out.
when you wake up again, you’re in the infirmary. your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights.
“easy, love,” a voice to your right drawls.
your eyes are fully open now. you look down at yourself, noticing the lack of bindings. noticing the iv taped to your arm, the stitched cuts, the black and blue bruises, the missing fingernails and missing finger.
the person sitting next to you clears his throat. that’s when you look up and meet the eyes of your captain.
your captain. the man who was supposed to lead you, to keep you safe. what a fucking joke. he’d started the damn witch hunt.
“how d’you feel?” he asks, his words soft, like he’s trying not to scare off a timid animal.
you stare at him for a beat. then two. then you’re moving, pulling the iv from your arm and shakily pushing yourself up in the bed. price is telling you to stop, reaching out to push you back down, but you slap at his hands.
“get the fuck off me!” you shout, and that takes him aback. he stops, frozen, as he watches you shift in the bed. you throw your legs over the side of it and prepare yourself to stand.
“you really shouldn’t—” he begins after he’s regained his senses, but you pay him no mind. you place your feet on the ground and start to stand. your legs wobble, almost give out, but you’re able to stand. barely.
“shut up,” you growl, stumbling forward and towards the exit. he’s moving to cut you off, and you slide him a gaze that’s sharper than a knife. “and leave me the fuck alone.”
he halts again. he seems almost scared of you— but that can’t be right. even on your best days, he would still beat you in hand-to-hand combat.
he’s not scared of your threats or your frail body. he’s scared of what he’s done to you.
just then, johnny and gaz come through the infirmary doors.
“cap, y’alright? we heard yellin’—” johnny begins, but his mouth snaps shut at the sight of you out of bed.
you’re heaving from your spot next to the bed. your legs are shaking violently, threatening to give out any second. you feel nauseous and numb.
“let’s get you back into bed,” gaz says, and he starts towards you, but you stop him as your gaze snaps to his.
“don’t come any fucking closer. any of you.”
“bonnie,” johnny murmurs. he sounds miserable, but you don’t care. don’t give a fuck about how any of them feel.
“don’t. im leaving,” you grunt out, moving a foot forward slowly. you’d be damned if you fell in front of them.
“you can’t, love. you’re in no shape to be walking.” john says, and you snarl.
“and whose fault is that?”
the men stay silent as they watch you slowly shuffle towards the foot of the bed. you’re bracing yourself to walk on your own when simon walks in.
“get back in bed,” his tone is blunt. you ignore him.
you remove your hand from the bed, move to take a step forward without support, and you begin to crumple to the floor.
simon moves forward, quick as a cat, and catches you. he lifts you into his arms bridal style, and you’re screaming hysterically. your limbs are flailing the best they can in such a battered state. you’re in fight-or-flight mode, your body betraying your desire to put up a steely front.
your palms slap against simon’s upper body and his masked face. he gives no reaction. he doesn’t say anything. the others are watching the exchange silently. the room is buzzing with tension.
“get off me!” you screech, landing a slap to simon’s cheek. “let me— let me go! let me go!” you’re gasping for breath, tears streaming down your cheeks. you’re panicking. your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest.
“put me down! get— get— off me! stop—” you sob.
the doctor rushes into the room then, yelling at the men for allowing you out of bed. you can’t make out what she’s saying over the rush of blood in your ears. you feel light-headed. you can’t breathe.
“put them down, now!” the doctor yells at simon. “they’re having a panic attack— I thought I told you four to stay away from them? they’re too vulnerable right now—” the doctor is chastising them as simon places you back in the bed.
spots are dancing in your vision. you don’t even feel it when the doctor sticks another needle into your arm. the words being exchanged above your head are muffled. it’s like you’re underwater.
john’s face comes into view, then johnny’s, then gaz’s. as your eyes start to close, you notice the only face you don’t see again is simon’s.
when you wake up again, it’s been two weeks.
the doctor had put you into a medically induced coma to allow your more serious wounds time to heal, without risking another episode. unbeknownst to you, the members of your team had stayed by your bedside almost the entire time— minus simon. he hadn’t come within ten feet of the infirmary since the day of your panic attack.
there’s fresh flowers on the bedside table. a steady beeping of the heart monitor. a fuzzy feeling in your head.
it feels like a dream, all of it does. none of it feels real as you settle into your body again. but then the hurt starts, and you remember the truth.
your family betrayed you. your lover betrayed you. they locked you up and tortured you. they didn’t believe you.
when the doctor came to your side to check your iv, she smiled.
“how’re you feeling?”
you look up at her, and it takes a moment for you to speak.
“don’t,” you begin. your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “don’t let them…in here. don’t…wanna see them.”
the doctor nods in understanding, and she doesn’t say anything else to you. she turns and walks out of the room.
the door clicks shut behind her. she lets out a sigh before turning around to face the three men.
“they don’t want to see you.” she tells them, and their expressions drop. they don’t protest, and like wounded puppies, they walk off.
no one else comes to check on you for a few hours.
you’re in and out of consciousness— can’t tell what’s real and what’s a dream. flashes of your torture come back to you. flashes of a smile. of a scarred face. of hands on your hips and—
you crack your eyes open, and the room is dark. the only light is the blinking of some of the machines. it illuminates the room enough to allow you to see a large, dark figure slip from the room. the door clicks shut so quietly it’s almost imperceptible.
that’s when you notice fresh flowers on the bedside table.
your eyes start to droop once more, and you chalk up whatever you just saw to a dream, while simon exhales heavily on the other side of the infirmary door.
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authors note:
I hope this alright! it’s one in the morning (and I’m half asleep writing this) so I apologize for the errors that are most likely present, and the sense this most likely lacks. I feel like I could write a whole book about this idea, but im cutting myself off to sleep lol.
thank you for the ask, I hope I did your idea justice. 🫶
Warnings - masturbation, nudes, praise, sexual stuff.
He’s been deployed and masturbates to a video of y’all.
Long time no see y’all, sorry I ditched 💀.
I take requests :)
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“That’s right, sweetheart.” Ghost says in his signature gruff Manchester accent as he caresses Y/N’s flushed cheek. Her eyes are screwed shut as the flash from his camera shines in her eyes, creating a glistening effect on her body as her flesh is slick with sweat. Ghosts pubic bone grazes against her clit as he thrusts back into her, she moans and her eyes roll back into her skull with pleasure. “Mmm, good girl,” Ghost says as he pushes his thumb past her plump lips and into into her mouth, rubbing the pad of his thumb around her tongue, encouraging her to suck.
“Look at the camera for me, love.” Ghost says lowly. Y/N opens her eyes as best as she can, squinting slightly from the flash above her. Lust clearly swirls within her blown out pupils, she gives the camera innocent doe eyes as she takes his cock. Ghost groans lowly as he re-watches the video.
Ghost pumps his dick faster as he begins to feel his orgasm approaching. His hushed moans and groans appear to echo in the dull space he found, away from fellow soldiers and unfortunately away from Y/N. His head lulls back and his cranium lightly bumps against the wall he’s leaning on. His eyes shut tightly, seeing specks of white amongst the pitch black of the back of his eyelids as his hearing begins to zero in on her elicit moans that sound from the speaker of his phone.
Ghost’s cock twitches from within his moist palm as a white halo of his spit and precum begins to form at the base of his dick. “Simon...please” Y/N whines within the recording as his fingers reach before him to rub teasingly slow circles on her clit in the video. Ghosts toes curl from within his combat boots as he pushes his skull deeper into the wall behind him, leaving somewhat of a dull ache.
He lets out a strained whimper as his orgasm washes over him. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his breathing quickens. Spirts of hot cum ooze from his tip, angry and red with repressed arousal. Ghosts hips buck up into the air in desperation, his heart rate quickens and the grip around his phone tightens into a deathly grip, turning his knuckles white.
He lets go of his cock, the palm of his left hand now aching and sopping with his cum. Ghosts dick twitches as he turns his attention back to the video still playing on his phone. Y/N moans lewdly from under him as he paints her torso with strings of white cum, groaning into the camera as he gives her all that he has. “Perfect girl.” Ghost says to her as he caresses her inner thigh, the camera goes blurry as he leans down to kiss her, before the video ends, leaving Ghost in silence.
Three's Company - John 'Soap' MacTavish & Simon 'Ghost' Riley
Request by @st4rv1ng-m0uth:
Well I just finished reading uou nsfw alphabet for Soap and The idea you had under the dirty secret was just amazing so I would love to request threesome with Ghost and Johnny (also I think it if they kissed in the eiffel tower position that would be just *chef's kiss*)
Oh. My. God. This request was sent to me in January. I am so sorry that you had to wait this long, but I sincerely hope this makes up for the wait! This is a bit of a beast at 7200 words, which might not seem like a lot compared to some writers, but it is to me! I really, really, really hope you like it!
Contains heavy smut elements, so minors stay away!
warnings: threesome, fem!reader/female anatomy, overstimulation, soap and ghost get FILTHY with reader, eiffel tower position, oral sex, penetrative sex, semi-homoeroticism, may contain spelling errors despite checking, i fucking got carried away
You felt the world roll with a yelp and a whoosh; the floor came up to meet you, your back slammed against the mat and you knew that it was with just enough force to leave a bruise for a good week or so. Such was the way of Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley - he never actually hurt you, but he'd beat you up just enough for you to remember the lesson. To be fair though, you suspected he was going easy on you. Or, well, easier compared to the others he usually sparred with, just a tad.
With another quick sweeping motion, he pulled you by your arm to sit you up, only to slip into position behind you and wrap you up in a grip so tight you were sure that a boa constrictor would be considered child's play in comparison; one arm wrapped around your neck in a chokehold, your arm that he grabbed twisted at an uncomfortable angle, and his legs clamped around your midsection like a beartrap.
You could only hold for a few seconds before you tapped his arm with your free hand to signal submission and he released you in an instant, letting you roll over and get back up on your feet. He stood up as well, towering over you.
"I thought you said you weren't gonna let me 'fuck you over' today," he said, and you swore you could've heard a tone of mockery in his voice. The balaclava gave you a better look at his eyes than the skull-mask usually did, but it still kept any expression on his face obscured. If he even had any expressions to show.
"Shut up," you said. "You caught me off guard is all."
"Uh-huh. Isn't the whole point of this to train so you don't get caught off guard?"
Ghost had, much to your surprise, been the one to offer to train you. Not that you weren't capable, but his argument for it was that you would need to learn to take down the best and the most dangerous soldiers that you could come across on the battlefield, and he wanted to make sure you were well trained. Just learning to take down someone his size alone could be imperative to your survival. As such, the two of you had met up every other day to spar if able, and by now you had been going for at least a couple of months of the same routine.
"Well, sometimes even the best of us get caught off guard. It's just as important to learn how to regain your footing when you lose your balance as it is to keep it," you quipped, proud of your analogy.
"Well, you failed."
You sighed, planting your hands on your hips, and stared at him for a moment. "You can't just let me have a moment, can you?"
"No. You're not here to have 'moments', you're here to train. You won't be havin' any moments if you're dead."
You rolled your eyes, but you knew he had a point. "I hate it when you're right."
"It's a burden I carry much too often." He stepped away to grab a bottle of water and handed it to you. "You got cocky. You lost the second you thought you could beat me."
"Oh wow, kill my hopes and dreams, why don't you?" you mumbled sarcastically.
"Never underestimate your opponent, and never overestimate your own abilities. A bloated ego will never do you any good. If you ask me, I'd say Sergeant MacTavish has rubbed off a bit too much on you."
You noticed that he was looking past you, over your shoulder, and you turned to see the very man mentioned leaning up against the wall with a grin on his face.
"Awae widdya now, lieutenant. I swear to you I've never rubbed anythin' off on anyone. Least of all any pretty ladies." He turned his gaze to you and gave a wink.
You'd be lying if you said Soap MacTavish didn't have an effect on you. For the most part, you considered him a good and trustworthy friend, someone who you knew you could lean on in troubled times. But he was also an incessant tease with a rugged sort of charm, a man who harmlessly liked to push buttons and limits all the same, and looked at you with a certain kind of gleam in his eyes that made you feel just the tiniest little flutter in your stomach. You couldn't let him catch you checking him out, or he'd never let you hear the end of it.
"Too busy rubbing yourself," Ghost deadpanned. breaking you out of your little moment of reverie.
Soap chuckled. "You should try it, maybe it'd help you relax."
"Now now, boys," you said from behind the lip of your water bottle, about to take a sip, "play nice."
Soap stepped away from the wall to join you and Ghost on the mat. "I always play nice, wouldn't you say, lass? LT however - he might be nice to you, but he'd shove a boot up my arse at any given moment."
You scoffed. "If this is what it feels like when he's 'nice', I don't want to know what it feels like when he plays rough."
"Might get you to stay focused for once," Ghost grumbled.
"How 'bout I join in, eh?" Soap offered. "It's always good to have some variation in your life."
"You wanna teach her how to blabber her enemies to death?"
"You know I could give some good pointers."
You couldn't help but hesitate. Getting your ass handed to you by the Ghost was rough enough, but Ghost and Soap? You knew that despite all their bickering, they were a tight and dangerous pair that garnered a lot of awe and respect from their peers. On one hand, you probably couldn't find anyone better to train you even if you tried; on the other, you weren't sure how you'd make it through a session with both of them.
You heard Ghost let out a slight sigh. "Fine." He turned to you. "You go a couple of rounds with MacTavish, I'll watch, then we switch. Stay on your toes and stay. Focused."
He didn't seem to give you any say in the matter, so you were left with little other choice but to do as you were told. You put your bottle to the side, straightened the laces on your boots and took a deep breath. "Yessir."
Soap - Johnny, as he gave you special permission to call him, which otherwise seemed to be Ghost's sole privilege - made a habit of joining you for your regular sparring sessions, and while you definitely learned some very valuable lessons, they certainly put you through the ringer. You made the mistake of thinking that maybe the sergeant would have been a bit more easygoing compared to his masked counterpart, but while he kept up the usual light-hearted humour, he and Ghost gave you very little respite. You were however making improvement, so much so that even Ghost complimented you on it, so you kept your complaining to a minimum.
You couldn't help but feel like there was something hanging in the air, though. You tried to brush it off as just good-natured competition between them, but you knew that wasn't quite it. After about two months of training with them, you started to notice some interesting behaviour to say the least.
They were usually already there when you arrived, keeping a hushed conversation that quickly ended once you entered the room. Probably some confidential stuff, you thought.
They were liberal with slower walkthroughs, one always putting their hands on you to adjust your position when grappling with the other. They're just being thorough, you thought.
They kept bantering, and you couldn't help but feel like they were showing off. For you or for each other, you couldn't tell, but they had a certain way of butting heads over what to do and how to do it better than the other. That's just the way they are, you thought.
By the end of each session, it felt like something was ready to snap, but you couldn't for the life of you put your finger on it. You found yourself waiting for something to happen, but you didn't know what, and you couldn't tell if you felt relieved or disappointed when nothing did. The more that feeling kept growing, the more that snap felt ever imminent, and it didn't seem like you could do anything but brace.
It wasn't until you happened to overhear a conversation between them that the feeling seemed to gain some sort of validity. You didn't mean to snoop, but just as you were about to step through the door, you heard Johnny mention your name, and you stopped right next to the doorway.
"We'd be going against an entire library's worth of paragraphs," you heard Ghost respond to whatever he had said.
"You keep saying that, but you still haven't said that you don't want it," he scoffed. "I'm pretty sure Price has had his fair share, and I know for a fact that Gaz has."
"Fuck's sake, Johnny."
"Listen, I'm not dumb, all right?"
"I have my doubts."
"Fuck off. Look, I'm not talking about pulling some dirty tricks or trying to persuade her into doing something she doesn't want to do. If she doesn't want anything to do with it, that's it, end of story."
"Do you realize she's in our squad? This will only serve to create unnecessary complications. We are her superiors - ever stop to think about how that'll look if anyone were to find out? Get your head out of your fucking ass."
"Of course I've thought about it! I'm aware of how fucked this is. But I also know you're as deep in it as I am." There was a moment's heavy pause and you could feel it even from where you were standing.
"We're done talking about this, Johnny."
You took this as your cue to step in and found the two of them glaring at each other, but they didn't seem to notice you until you spoke up. "Done talking about what?" you said.
It was almost as if though you had poured buckets of icy water over them with how they jolted at the sound of your voice, their heads snapped in your direction and they stared at you with such wide eyes that you thought they would pop out of their sockets. If their topic of discussion hadn't sounded so serious before you entered, you probably would've laughed.
They stayed quiet and frozen for a few more moments. "Is..." you started. "Is there something I should know?"
Johnny seemed to splutter back to reality. "No! No, no, not at all, we were just-"
"How much did you hear?" Ghost interrupted, demanding but apprehensive.
You shrugged. "Enough to know you were talking about me, but that's about it." You squinted your eyes at them. "The fuck are you guys up to that you have to be this secretive about it? Are you in trouble?"
"No," said Johnny, "no, we're not in any trouble. And neither are you, we were just... discussing something."
"Uh-huh, uh-huh. Listen, if there's anything I need to know, I'd prefer it if you just told me. Especially if the two of you are gonna keep sneaking around behind my back like this."
You had never seen them this stiff and... awkward. Like two teenage boys getting caught watching porn by their mom. Their eyes flitted between each other and you, contemplating whether to tell you and how much. They seemed to come to some silent agreement before turning to you once more.
"Not here," Ghost grumbled. "We can head to my room. It's... a bit more secluded."
"An invitation to Simon Riley's private quarters?" you tried to joke. "Wow, this must be something special."
Neither of them responded, instead Ghost just stepped by you and Johnny gestured for you to follow. Walking down the halls, that feeling in the air was heavier than ever, and you still couldn't tell what it was or if it made you excited or nervous; if it was something serious or just something that they'd built up in their heads to be bigger than it actually was.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you guys were up to something illegal," you said after walking in awkward silence for far longer than you were comfortable with. "Is this the part where you tell me you've been running an underground drug ring all this time?"
Johnny chuckled. "Not illegal, technically, just..." He gave an odd glance at you. "Maybe a bit questionable."
Ghost's room was not quite what you expected it to be. Clean and tidy, well-lit, organized. You'd half-expected there to be a row of skull-masks to be hanging neatly on the wall - one for every day of the week. Or mood. Maybe he hid them in his closet.
"All right," you said, watching him take a seat at his desk. "Are you guys gonna tell me what's up?"
The men glanced at each other once more. "We, uh," Johnny began. "There's something we've been thinking about. A... proposition, of sorts?"
Ghost groaned. "Don't call it that. We're not proposing or offering anything here, all right? We just need to get this out, clear the fuckin' air."
"Fine, don't lose yer fuckin' head. Listen, we don't expect anything off of you, or think that this is something you'd want, we just don't want you to get the wrong idea or get caught up in something you don't want to be involved in."
"This is starting to sound more and more like a drug ring after all," you muttered.
"It's not, all right, I can promise you that. It's just that... after some time, LT and I feel like you've been doing very well during practice and we're quite proud of you. But we also feel like there's something we can't quite... overlook."
You couldn't get over how they were acting. Johnny was usually such a cocky and confident man, you'd never seen him struggle to find the words he wanted to say.
"This was your fuckin' idea, Soap, you get to see it through."
"Guys-" you tried, but to no avail.
"You wouldn't be here if you didn't want it too!"
"I want you to get it out of your fuckin' system so you can shut up about it for once!"
"Go fuck yerself, you're just as involved as-"
"You're the one that has been scheming about this shit since day one, don't fuckin' pin it on me!"
"For fuck's sake!"
You honestly wished you knew what was going on, but between their arguing and your own confusion, you didn't even realize Johnny had walked up to you until he grabbed you by the wrist, pulled you to him and planted his lips on yours. You weren't quite sure what to make of this or what to focus on - his lips were far softer than you ever would've thought they'd be, and his hands, now cupping your cheeks, were far gentler than you had experienced before. He broke off just as suddenly as he'd grabbed you and you felt your head spin, gripping onto his wrists for some sort of stability.
"Whoa..." you mumbled.
"Fuckin' hell," you heard Ghost growl.
"Sorry," Johnny muttered, seemingly just as dazed as you. "I lost my cool there for a second."
You couldn't help but chuckle. You weren't sure what to make of this, but a part of you wanted to just go with it. "I mean, I didn't really mind it."
"You serious?"
"Yeah. Didn't think this was what you were going for, but it could've been worse, I guess."
His face split into a grin before he leaned in and kissed you again, more calm and controlled this time. You weren't sure how long you stood there for until you heard Ghost clearing his throat, and you flinched at the sound, blushing profusely once you remembered where you were.
"Sorry to interrupt you, lovebirds, but if this is how it's gonna go, you can just head to your own rooms."
Johnny glanced over at him. You could see the gears turning before he looked at you, planted another gentle kiss onto you lips and then turned you towards the lieutenant, placing himself behind you. He put his hands on your waist and leaned his chin against your shoulder.
"Come on now, LT. Isn't this what we came here for?"
You looked between them, watching another lazy grin appear on Johnny's face and Ghost's hands clench at the armrests on his desk-chair. Slowly, you felt it click in your head.
"This is why you guys have been acting so weird? You both have a thing for me?"
"That's one way to put it."
"So, what, you want me to choose between you or something? You guys have been having some weird competition over who gets the girl?"
Ghost stood up. "Not quite," he said. He stared at you and you couldn't quite tell if maybe there was some sort of jealousy or if he wanted to leave you be.
"It's more of a mutual desire, really," Johnny mumbled into your hair.
Ghost stepped towards you, slowly. Gently, he grabbed your chin and tilted it up and stared into your eyes. He ran his thumb along your jaw and then up to your bottom lip. "This ok?" he asked quietly.
Oh.
Oh.
It made sense now - or at least a bit more than it did before. Their weird behaviour, their conversation, the way they'd kept dancing around the point. To be fair, you would've expected the drug ring long before you'd ever thought of this.
You took a moment to think it through; this wasn't exactly something that happened every day. Just like Ghost had said earlier, this would not look good if anyone else were to find out. All three of you would end up in heaps of trouble, them possibly more than you. You knew, logically, that it was probably for the best to end it right here, to say "thanks, but no thanks", walk away and pretend like this never happened. They definitely knew this, too, but there was something about the warmth emanating from them, enveloping you; the touch, that tension in the air. That snap that had been hanging over your heads this entire time, like a rubber band pulled to its absolute limit. You knew that you should say no to this.
But how could you?
Before you even knew what you were doing, you nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it's ok."
You could tell that they both relaxed significantly, Johnny pressing himself closer to your back and squeezing at your waist as Ghost reached up and pulled his mask off. No. Simon. You'd seen him before, but it didn't make it any less palpable to see him again.
He gave you a moment to stare at his face before he leaned in and kissed you, surprisingly much gentler than the sergeant. Your heart was already pounding and your mind was racing, not knowing what to focus on; Simon's lips on yours, Johnny's tongue at your neck, their hands caressing you all over, stroking and kneading and wandering. You didn't know what to do with your own, so they wandered as well, grabbing at their shirts, at their arms, at their hair, their belts.
"Look at this, LT," Johnny spoke softly as his hands slipped in under your shirt and up to your chest, "we had nothing to worry about."
Simon hummed into your mouth, his tongue slipping in past your lips. His hand moved downwards, cupping your mound and rubbing at it, and your hips tilted back, ass grinding right into Johnny. You broke the kiss with a gasp, leaning your head back to catch your breath.
"That feel good, bonnie?" Johnny chuckled into your ear and cupped your breasts over your bra, squeezing. "Want us to keep going?"
You nodded. "Yes! Yeah, I want- keep going."
You felt a tug and looked down to see Simon unbuckling your belt. He unbuttoned your pants, opening them up and slipping a hand right down your underwear, finding a slick heat in his wake, and your mouth fell open in a soft gasp. He groaned and rubbed circles around your hole, as if taking in the sensation of your wetness.
"Fffuck me," he whispered. "She's fucking soaked."
Johnny grabbed the bottom of your shirt and pulled it up to your chest, exposing your skin and leaning over your shoulder to get a view of what his lieutenant was doing. "Give 'er here, LT."
You watched with utter surprise and fascination as Simon pulled his hand back out from your pants, fingers glistening, and held it right up to Johnny's face, who took his fingers into his mouth without an ounce of hesitation.
"How's she taste?" Simon asked.
Johnny hummed against the hand as he sucked and licked it clean before releasing it and turned his head to look you dead in the eyes. "Like a fuckin' dream."
You whimpered as Simon ran his now wet hand over your throat, then down between your breasts, over your stomach. He then grabbed onto the hem of your pants and started pulling them down, leaving you bare.
"Oh, shit," you breathed as he knelt down in front of you.
He untied and yanked your boots off before removing your pants and underwear completely. "Lift her leg up for me, will ya, Johnny?"
Johnny shifted his weight and you felt his chest at your shoulder, holding a firm grip with his arm around your waist before he scooped up one of your legs by the crook of your knee. He grinned at you and leaned in to press his lips against yours one more, far more eager and heated than he was before. It was hard for you to focus though, as you felt Simon's large hands rub up along the inside of your thighs. Before you knew it, you felt him press his face in between your legs, and at the feeling of his lips on you, you gasped, and Johnny took the chance to slip his tongue into your mouth.
You don't know how they did it, but they seemed to work in perfect tandem. Johnny's tongue stroking against yours, Simon's tongue lapping at your pussy, driving you out of your mind with pleasure. In an attempt to ground yourself, you tried to find something to hold on to - one hand made it's way to Simon's head and grabbed a tight hold on his hair and had him groan into your core. The other found Johnny's arm around your waist, gripping and digging your nails into his skin.
You thought you felt a wet drop run down your leg and you weren't sure if it was your own or Simon's making, but he gave you very little time to consider it as he slipped a calloused finger into you. You broke away from Johnny's kiss with a moan and your head fell back against his shoulder.
He chuckled. "Y'feel good, bonnie? Is your pussy all wet and nice for us?"
You couldn't do much else but nod fervently. "Yes," you moaned, "yes, I'm-!" You felt another finger push inside and your hips canted against Simon's face. "Fuck!"
"Just like that, baby," Johnny mumbled into your ear. "Look at you now, hm? Gonna watch you cum all over his face like a good fuckin' girl."
The shivers that ran through your body at his words met with the heat at the pit of your stomach from Simon's mouth and fingers and you trembled. You thought you'd shake apart, but they held onto you so tightly that they might has well have been glued to you. You felt Simon's fingers curl inside you, finding the spot that you'd always had trouble reaching on your own, and his tongue worked between your folds and then up to your clit. The volume of the moan that left you startled you, and for a brief moment you were worried that someone else would hear, but it only seemed to spur your company on. Johnny ground his crotch against your rear with another chuckle and buried his face in your neck, licking and nibbling at your jawline as Simon sucked on your clit and pumped his fingers in and out, pushing against that spot again and again and again.
"Ah, f-fuck, fuckfuckfuck," you panted, "thi-this is s-so fucki- I'm-!"
"Breathe," Johnny groaned against your skin, "breathe. You're so good, so fuckin' good to us. Cum on his face now, bonnie, go on, cum on his face and then you can cum on our cocks, yeah?"
Another wave of shivers had you quivering in his arms. Simon pressed his face further into your pussy, grunting like a man starved with his free hand gripping onto your thigh, and Johnny moaned at you further to "cum, baby, cum for us, I promise it'll feel so good." The heat in between your thighs felt like it was starting to boil, a sort of pressure getting stronger and stronger and stronger, condensing into a white-hot pinpoint of pleasure at your core, and Johnny cooed, Simon fucked his fingers into you and you squirmed between them until the pressure finally burst and you came with a cry and a gush over Simon's hand and mouth. Your legs shook as Simon worked you through your orgasm and you surely would've collapsed if wasn't for Johnny holding you up. You couldn't stop the sounds you let out, your hips twitching and shaking, the pleasure almost becoming too much as Simon still didn't break away, and you whined trying to get away from his onslaught.
"S-Simon," you whimpered, "too much, too- fuck, I can't!"
Johnny lifted you slightly and turned, just enough to move you away from the lieutenant. "Easy there, LT," he said when Simon glared at him and placed your leg back down. "Gotta pace ourselves, yeah?" He then gestured to you to lift your arms up so he could pull your shirt off, and then removed your bra only to fill his hands with your breasts.
Simon took a deep breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared at your pussy, slick and wet and hot and delicious, and licked his fingers clean before he stood up. He cupped your cheeks in his hands, leaning down to kiss you, and you could taste yourself on him. As if running on instinct, you tugged at his belt and he sighed into your mouth, staring into your eyes as you unbuckled and unbuttoned his pants.
"That what you want, sweetheart?"
You nodded, and then turned to look over your shoulder at Johnny. You arched your back, rubbing your ass against his groin and he took it as a signal to get rid of his pants as well. He grinned and made quick work of his clothes as you reached into Simon's boxers and pulled his member out. It was hot to the touch, thick and heavy in your hand, and you felt your mouth water at the sight of it.
"Go on, bonnie," Johnny said as he grabbed two handfuls of your buttcheeks and rubbed his cock between them with a sigh. "Can't wait to fuck you."
You leaned forward, bending over for them. Simon gently gathered up your hair in his hand and rubbed over your shoulder blades with the other, crossing with Johnny's hand in the middle as he rubbed at your lower back. You wrapped your fingers around the base of Simon's cock and licked a line along the length of him, and you heard him groan.
"Ain't she a pretty sight, LT?" Johnny sighed. You felt him rub the head of his member against your clit.
Simon hummed, watching you with a slack jaw as put your mouth on him. "Like a fuckin' dream," he mumbled.
You wrapped your lips around the head of him and sucked gently. You weren't sure if you'd be able to take all of him in your mouth, but damn it if you weren't going to try. You heard him breathe out a curse as you worked your hand along his shaft and bobbed your head, gently trying to coax more of him in. Johnny pressed closer against your pussy, rubbing his cock against it before he lined himself up properly. You braced yourself, trying to keep a clear head as he pushed a little bit more and more, until the glans of his head finally entered you and he easily slid inside you with a moan of near relief.
"Ah, Christ, shit, you're so fucking soft," he breathed. He pushed his hips a bit harder against you, inadvertently knocking you closer to Simon and pushing his cock deeper down your throat.
You choked for barely a second before Simon pulled back. "Easy, Johnny!"
"Sorry, sorry..."
Simon stroked your cheek and went to ask if you were ok, but you wrapped your lips around him again and the words died right on the tip of his tongue. Slowly but surely, you found a rhythm of letting Johnny's momentum push you forward and let Simon's cock sink further into your mouth and then pushing yourself back onto Johnny's. The heat was overwhelming, but addictive, and you felt the buildup in your core once more, your legs already quivering.
Simon held onto your hair, stroking your face and your neck and your shoulders, completely silent save for a few sighs. Johnny, however, seemed like he couldn't keep his mouth shut.
"Fuck, we should've done this sooner, you're fuckin' perfect, bonnie," he grunted as he fucked into you deeper and harder. "This fuckin' ass- I knew this ass was perfect the moment I saw it, baby, and this pussy, too, this pussy is heaven." He stretched you perfectly, and you didn't think you'd ever be able to find anyone that could compare to this.
Moaning against Simon, you braced your hands against his hips, doing the best you could to swallow him down, but with each thrust from Johnny, it got harder and harder to focus.
"Awh, fuckin' shit, you're fuckin' grippin' me," Johnny rambled, "yeah, you're gonna cum on this cock, lass, I know you are, I know you fuckin' are, do it, baby, do it."
Faster and harder, deeper and stronger, he thrusted and thrusted and he praised and moaned for you to cum. He reached his hand around, slipped his fingers in between your thighs to rub your clit and you shook, almost unable to make a sound as you still held Simon as far deep down your throat as you could. You could barely prepare for the next wave of pleasure that washed over you, and you came with yet another gush, and Johnny let out an almost triumphant moan.
"Fuck yes, baby, that's it. Thaaat's it, good girl." He kept going, a bit slower and a bit softer, but still enough to have you shake. "Think you can do it again, sweetie? I'm gonna need you to do that again, I wan-"
Simon suddenly reached up one hand and snatched Johnny by the mohawk and pulled him close over you, the other hand wrapped around the sergeant's throat. You were squeezed in between them, Johnny's cock pushed deeper into your pussy, and Simon's felt like it was nearly all the way down your esophagus. In a moment of shocked silence, as your eyes rolled back, Simon kissed Johnny harshly, parting with an almost punishing bite to the other man's bottom lip.
"Do you ever shut the fuck up?" he growled. He leaned in again, forcing Johnny's head to tilt as he pushed his tongue into his mouth, and broke away with another bite of his lip and a thin string of saliva hanging between them. "I think I've got just the thing, actually."
He pushed Johnny away, hard enough to have him slip out of you. He was considerably gentler with you, pulling his cock out of your mouth and cupping your cheeks as you coughed to lift your head up to give you a gentle kiss.
"You ok, sweetheart?" You nodded, the soreness in your throat not all too bad considering what you'd just had down it. Pleased, he turned you around, and you saw that Johnny had stumbled onto the bed. "How about you and I," Simon whispered in your ear as he ran his hands over your breasts, "teach him a lesson for once?"
Before you could answer, he picked you up. He walked towards the bed, sat down at the headboard and leaned back. He adjusted you on his lap, your back against his chest, and placed his knees on the inside of yours before he slowly spread them apart as Johnny watched from the foot of the bed. Johnny smirked and began to crawl towards you, but before he could reach you fully, Simon reached up and yanked his hair again.
"Easy now, pup," he growled. "Put my fuckin' cock in her pussy before you even think about doin' anythin' else."
There was only a tiny moment of stunned silence, but it was heavy nonetheless. You didn't think they'd reach a point where they actually got involved with each other, but as you watched Johnny take a deep shaky breath and his eyes widen, you found that you hoped that maybe they'd go a bit further.
Johnny swallowed nervously before reaching his hand out to grab Simon. Hesitantly, but almost mischievously, he wrapped his fingers around the member and moved his hand up and down once.
"No games, Johnny," Simon warned, and Johnny actually chuckled.
He then lined the head of Simon's cock up with your hole and held it there as you sank down on it. You gasped, having to pace yourself at the thickness of it. Simon held a gentle hand just above your mound, gently pushing you down as he still held a firm grip on Johnny's hair.
"Easy, sweetheart, no need to rush," he mumbled.
Johnny could only helplessly watch as you slowly worked the entirety of Simon's length into you, and you thought you maybe saw a single drop of drool roll from the corner of his mouth.
"So I don't get to join in on the fun anymore?" he quipped, but you could hear a slight quiver to his voice.
"I thought I told you to shut up," Simon muttered.
You shivered as you tried to adjust to his size, rolling your hips once with a moan. He was thicker than Johnny, thick enough that you felt him press against every side of your inner walls, as well as the g-spot that they'd already worked up to high sensitivity before.
"There you go." Simon tugged Johnny closer by his hair. "Now then. Why don't we put that mouth of yours to some good fuckin' use for once, huh?"
He then yanked Johnny's head down between your legs and pushed his face into your pussy, and even in his own surprise it didn't even take a second before he began working his tongue between your folds. You cried out, feeling like you still hadn't quite come down from your previous orgasm, but even if you wanted, you wouldn't have been able to get away with how Simon wrapped his arm tightly around your waist and rolled his hips up. Your head fell back and you tried to find some way to brace yourself, any way, as every brush of Johnny's tongue and every thrust of Simon's cock drove you further and further out of your mind. You thought you maybe came once more, but you couldn't be sure - every sensation seemed to melt into one and you were so high-strung that you might as well be having just one drawn-out and consistent orgasm at this point.
Simon kept Johnny's head in firm position between your legs. "How's that feel, love? Is his mouth as good on your pussy as it is at talking shit?"
Johnny groaned in what sounded like some sort of protest, but he never made any attempt at moving away. He lapped diligently at your pussy, sighing and moaning against you, licking around your hole where you were split open on Simon.
"Fuck, I-" you managed to croak out, almost forgetting how to speak. "I'm gonna- you're gonna be the death of me."
Simon let go of Johnny's hair and grabbed your legs, pulling your knees up to your chest. Johnny kept his mouth on you and you let out a whine nearing a sob as Simon began rocking his hips upward faster.
"Don't you worry, sweetheart, just relax. Breathe and relax."
In a matter of seconds, Johnny had his lips around your clit and sucked, and you cried out his name, legs shaking as he forced yet another orgasm out of you. You were sure you were losing your mind - there was no way this was actually happening, no way that you could actually feel this. You were only more and more convinced of this as Johnny continued licking, eager to get every drop.
"Fuck!" you whined. "Fuck, Johnny, Simon, I-!"
Simon pushed Johnny away, planted his feet into the mattress to adjust his angle and then pounded into you with some sort of newly found energy. Johnny wrapped his hand around his own cock, jerking it in rhythm with Simon's thrusts and leaned back down between your legs with a wide open mouth and his tongue out.
"One last time," Simon groaned. "One more, just one more."
Your legs tried to squeeze together on their own, but Simon's grip was too strong and you could do little else but grab onto whatever was near and hold as you came once more over Johnny's face, him and Simon following shortly after. With a grunt, Simon pushed himself as deep into you as he could get and you felt a sticky heat fill you up, and Johnny reared up, moaning aloud as he came all over where you and Simon were conjoined. He nearly fell over, head falling onto your stomach.
The only sound that broke the otherwise heavy silence was panting. You weren't sure if you could move or if even the slightest shift would have you break apart completely; it sure felt like it would. Simon wrapped his arms around you, planting soft kisses along your shoulder and neck. You thought Johnny might have fallen asleep where he laid, but he took a deep, deep breath and turned his head to press a few kisses around your bellybutton.
"Shit," he mumbled against you, "that was..." Neither you or Simon were able to respond, but it didn't seem to bother him as he glanced up at you with a chuckle. "I don't think anything will live up to that."
He pushed himself up to his hands and knees and crawled over you, his hips between yours and Simon's legs. He sighed almost dreamily and gave you a sweet kiss.
"We did a real number on you, huh?"
You couldn't help but laugh, still finding this whole ordeal impossible. "You think?"
"We should get her to the shower," Simon mumbled. "Clean her up."
Johnny nodded. "Sounds like a solid plan. Although I've half a mind to just lay down and knock out."
Simon leaned forward to sit up. "Shower first. Then knock out."
You whined suddenly at the movement, his cock still sitting snug inside you. The two men instantly froze, staring wide-eyed at you. "S-Sorry, it's ok, I'm just- I'm sensitive. I feel like you guys gave me a week's worth of fucking in a matter of minutes."
"Shit, we took it too far, didn't we?" Johnny said, his hands fluttering over your hips.
"No, no! I enjoyed it. A lot. But it's not like I'm particularly used to that sort of... conquest."
Simon sighed as Johnny chuckled. "I'm gonna try to be gentle, but we will need to get you to the shower nonetheless."
You nodded and the two of them looked at each other, coming to yet another one of those silent agreements that they were so good at.
"C'mere," Johnny said. "Sit up and wrap your arms around me, yeah?"
You grabbed onto his shoulder and pulled yourself up to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He wrapped his around your torso and began to lift as Simon pushed you up from beneath until he slipped out of you. You felt your legs shake once more and the cum dripping out of you as you drew in a shaky breath.
"There you go," Simon said, much softer than you'd heard him before.
He turned and stood up as Johnny scooped you up into his arms. It was like they moved in unison to look after you - Simon walking first into the bathroom to pull aside the shower curtain and turning the water on as Johnny followed him closely behind. Johnny then stepped into the shower and gently placed you down on your feet, reaching out a hand to feel the temperature of the water before he guided you in under the stream. Simon gathered up a few towels before he joined you and you couldn't help but laugh. This shower didn't seem like it was meant to hold more than one person at a time and yet they both seemed adamant to look after you.
Johnny crouched down to clean your legs and to gently wash off the fluids between them, trying not to rub too much at already overly sensitive spots. Simon scrubbed your back, gently massaging your shoulders and scratching the skin at the base of your skull. You were sure you were about to fall asleep then and there, but they made quick work of it, before they stepped out with you and dried you off with a fresh towel.
Simon grabbed you a t-shirt and a pair of boxers that Johnny helped you put on before they essentially tucked you in. They laid down on either side of you and as they settled down, you felt a new sense of calm wash over you.
"Rest up, love," Simon said. "I think we might have pushed it a bit too much after all."
"It's fine," you mumbled, feeling drowsy. "I liked it. We should do it again some time."
Johnny chuckled. "I'm sure we will."
It got quiet, and you felt yourself slip into a slumber, held closely between them, warm and snug. But just before you fell asleep, you thought you heard them speak.
"LT."
"Hm?"
"What happens next?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, is this a thing now? I know you said this was to get it out of our systems, but I honestly don't think we achieved that."
A sigh. "I know."
"So what happens next?"
"Dunno. We'll sleep on it, Johnny. Talk about it in the morning."
"Mm. Good idea. G'night, I guess."
"Night."
gn reader. platonic. comfort4hurt. my specialty >:) thank you larkin for proofreading this <3
It's been weeks since you've been formally introduced to the task force, and nothing's gone wrong per say, it just felt off.
You were a spectacular soldier, being transferred and moved around to different teams was your normal, even picking up the call sign 'nomad' from your handler. Although, your history of traveling around came with a price, you were shuffled around like a card from a deck. You desperately wanted to gain some sort of connection, friendship.
That project had been abandoned a while ago. Having decided to forgo a human companionship and any mutual emotions, you were cold, cruel even to anybody who tried to get close.
This task force seemed slightly different, but you kept your walls up, assuming you'd be out of here after some big mission. But no, time has passed and you've had slips, letting your cold, hard, facade crack. Warmth seeping through. Of course the members started to notice, slipping in a observant question here and there.
"You doing alright ?" A friendly face you'd come to know as 'Johnathan Price' had sneaked beside you right outside of the base, starting up a conversation. You mindlessly nodded to his question. "What's up?" the response had come out bluntly, like an attempt to get him off your case.
"Nothin', just wanted to check on you. Ya seem out of it." His cool blue eyes glazed over your figure, watching for clues of fatigue or such. "Have you settled in well with the rest of the team?"
That was when all the memories came flooding back, nights where all you could do was replay the interactions of teammates like hitting a rewind button. Where you could've possibly made them feign more interest before you were shipped off to some new team like a box of goodies. Nights you spent listening to someone's video essay, desperate to have the comfort of hearing someone talk to you, imagining they were speaking directly to you. how pathetic ?
Alas, it wasn't enough. you decided it was easier to block everybody out. A choice that wouldn't have been made without a lot of thought, but it seemed like the best idea to you. Shutting out anybody rather than taking another chance.
You turned, focusing your attention on the captain, and somehow, it all came spilling out.
"I, I don't know..." Your words came out in a blubbering mess, tears were quickly dropping over your cheeks as fast as you tried to wipe them up. "I've never been stationed in one place so long, and everybody is so kind. I haven't stayed this long to get to know a person this well. I want to be friends with them I just." You paused, smiling as you frantically wiped the remaining tears, "Haven't been able to do so in so long."
And price just nodded, listening to each word that you said. He caught your attention, offering his open arms as a present of comfort while you just slid in them. "Listen, it's alright. I don't think you're going anywhere as of yet, you can stay a while." He pulled back after a while, looking you in the eyes. "My team won't bite ... well maybe my Lieutenant if you get close.. but over all they're friendly people. Opening up isn't the worst thing, maybe talk to em at lunch ?"
He gave your shoulder a light punch, before moving towards the door, "C'mon, it's cold outside."
★ all works belong to @rotteddaughter , do not repost on anywhere else with or without credit, do not plagiarize. thank you !
tw: mentions of cheating and hook ups, violence, guns and terrorism (please let me know if I have forgotten anything)
Price x F!Reader, Secret Baby Trope
an: Okay this is just a small note before the chapter starts. I just wanted to warn everyone that this is my first fic, so any of my descriptions of violence may suck lol. And since I don't really have a beta reader this was just barely edited by me and Grammarly lol. But a warning for the future some characters may seem ooc since I do not have much practice writing for them. Anyways that's all I hope you all enjoy.
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Most people who have been in a relationship for multiple years think that they'll last forever. Unfortunately, that does not always happen. And y/n is one of the unlucky ones. Her boyfriend of five years slept with his boss's wife. So she broke up with him and decided to travel abroad finally.
She decided to head to England as she'd always been curious about it. When she was out and about on her sightseeing she found out about this bar everyone was raving about. So she decided that after everything that happened back in the States, she deserved a drink. While at the bar she met the most attractive man she's ever seen. They ended up chatting for a while and she decided to finally get out of her comfort zone for once. So they ended up hooking up and the man was gone the next morning. Y/n ended up leaving London the next day.
About 2 months later, she finds out about the twins. The young woman decided to keep them, as she didn't have any plans for future relationships. And she also has always wanted to have kids, so 9 months later she ends up having a boy and a girl. Their names are Daniel, or Danny as his nickname, and the girl was named Mia.
Now Y/n did end up raising the twins alone, along with the help of her friends and family. Well, she did it alone for 16 years, until the day fate brought her and Captain John Price back together.
"Danny come on! You're gonna make us late. Mom has already got the car started. " Mia was standing at the bottom of the stairs as she yelled for her twin brother. Their mutual friend's birthday was today. Shay wanted to spend it at the mall with the twins and some other people.
Danny was taking forever to get ready, his twin thought it was cause he didn't want to go. In reality, he just has a crush on Shay and wants to make sure he looks good. He sighs as he finally stops messing with his hair and quickly comes down the stairs.
Mia was waiting at the door impatiently with a small frown. She was all bundled up in her winter coat with a beanie and her gloves. It was early winter, so the temperature was freezing. Once Danny finally got his coat on they hurried to the car.
Laughing Mia beat him to the front seat and he grumbled getting in the back. Y/n watches the twins with a small smile, she shakes her head with a huff before she asks " Are you two finally ready to go? Shay might be there already. " The twins just groaned before she put the car in drive, and then they were on their way to the mall.
It didn't take long for them to get there, and as soon as their mother had parked. The twins jumped out of the car and were hurrying towards the front of the mall. Back in the car, Y/n sighs, she grabs her purse before she quickly follows after them.
The twins were talking with Shay and the other two people that were there. Standing to the side was Shay's mother. Y/n happened to be close to Grace so she decided to help watch after the 5 teens.
Grace sent Y/n a cheeky smile before she grabbed her arm. " Can't wait to feel so old following them around. I have no clue what they have planned but apparently, they've made a list of places they want to go. I've told Shay we would just follow them around. " Y/n smiles a little before looking at the group of five and she hums a little. " I don't expect anything too wild out of them. Though I do think they may spend a ton of time at the arcade." She let out a small laugh and both of the women started following the kids into the mall.
And just like what was predicted the first place they stopped was the arcade. Shay and Daniel would split off from Mia and the other two. Grace and Y/n shared a small smirk as they watched them.
The adults would wait by the front of the arcade for them. Just gossiping about everyday things, mostly what their teens were up to. At one point Mia came back and just sat next to her mom quietly. She was quite the book nerd, she brought The Hunger Games with her so she could finish her third read-through.
After some time of the teens playing games, they came back over. All of them were now ready to move on to another store. As the group was leaving the arcade a loud explosion shook the building. Chaos was now what the mall atmosphere was like. People were running, others were getting under doorways.
The teenagers had looked to the adults scared, and unsure of what to do. Grace and y/n looked at each other before they started trying to herd the kids through the crowd and to the exit. And not even five minutes later they could hear gunshots. Shay and Mia immediately started screaming. Daniel quickly grabbed onto both of them and followed after the other two teens. While the five of them headed towards a store the adults were right behind them.
As the group was almost to the store, a group of masked men came around the corner. They looked like they were in some kind of tactical gear. Y/n's eyes had widened as she saw them and as soon as they lifted their guns she pushed Grace towards the children. Daniel had turned back as he heard Grace cry out a little. And he was immediately screaming his mother's name as he watched a bullet enter her shoulder.
The woman stumbles into the store as Daniel makes his way back to her. The employees of the store were motioning people to head towards the back room. Grace and her daughter quickly made their way there with the other two teens. Mia turned around and headed toward her mother and Daniel. The three of them barely made it to the register before the men were in the front of the store.
The family of three were now hiding behind the counter. This is because as soon as the employees had seen the group of men outside the store, they rushed into the backroom and shut the door. So the three of them were stuck behind the counter until either the men found them, or someone came to save the day. Little did anyone know, a group was on their way. This group had experience with dealing with a terrorist group like this.
Task Force 141 was on their way to take out the terrorists that were now wreaking havoc upon the mall.
“Love you. You're the best.” - Fennec Fox! Female! Reader.
Pairing: Ghoap x fennec fox female reader
Content warning: fluff. Fennec fox hybrid female reader. Smut at the end.
Note: Got tired of seeing dog and cat hybrids yet no fox ones - Like c'mon guys it's THERE - Do you not see the potential-
Words: 1326
Masterlist
Credit for Dividers (And Template): @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics
Summary: You boldly said it so loud, he could have sworn you said it louder on purpose, “Love you, you're the best.”
Ghost, who had been watching the playful exchange with a mix of amusement and curiosity, was caught off guard by your sudden declaration.
His surprise and he paused. “What did you say?” he asked, his deep, velvety voice carrying a hint of scepticism.
You boldly said it so loud, he could have sworn you said it louder on purpose, “Love you, you're the best.”
Soap's eyes widened, and he stumbled over his own paws. “What did you just say?” he asked, his tone a mix of astonishment and confusion.
You said it even louder, your eyes sparkling with joy, “Love you, you're the best!” This time, it was clear as day, and the courtyard fell silent. Soap stared at you, his jaw hanging open in shock.
Kate and Price exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of surprise and something else—perhaps a flicker of hope that the darkness of your past hadn't completely stolen your capacity to form attachments.
Soap snuck extra snacks to you which he knew you liked, hoping to win your favour.
A gesture that, while small, spoke volumes of his desire to be closer to you. Treats like slow cooked chicken were greatly appreciated, especially after a long day of training.
Soap would often sit by your side, watching you devour them with delight, a soft smile playing on his lips as he listened to your happy munching sounds.
You tried Wagyu once, a rare and exquisite delicacy. The tenderness of the beef, the way it practically melted in your mouth, the 'thank you' with each bite you took of the wagyu beef. As well as, 'this tastes so good.'
Ghost looked at you while you were eating the wagyu beef he gave you as a treat, not expecting you to like it THIS much.
Not as much as you showed him when he cooked it up for you. You looked up at Ghost, your feline eyes wide with pleasure. “This is heavenly,” you murmured, your voice thick with satisfaction. The warmth of your smile seemed to light up the shadowed corners of his heart. He had never seen anyone appreciate his cooking quite like this.
Ghost's expression softened, a hint of colour rising to his cheeks. “I'm glad you like it,” he said gruffly, trying to maintain his usual composure but failing miserably.
His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of doubt or mockery, but found only sincerity.
The kitchen grew quiet once again, save for the occasional sizzle of the frying pan and the sound of your happy chewing.
“I lived in a desert. Anything you make for me will be eaten with gusto, as it should be.” You told him. “You could have given me a cicada, and I'd still eat it.”
Ghost was about to satisfy your “heat cycle” when Soap, finishing his cigarette, intrigued, asked, “What's happening here?”
You were on the king bed. Your muffled,” 'm tempted to grab my vibrator.” As you were about to leave for your bedroom in the basement, which consisted of a hanging round bed draped with black cloth.
Ghost's voice grew serious, his eyes locking onto yours, “Wait,” he said, his hand shooting out to gently grab your wrist. He pulled you back to face him, his gaze searching your eyes. “You can't just say something like that and walk away,” he said, his grip tightening slightly. “Do you mean it?”
Face first into his pecs as if god ordained it somehow, as if the lord had come down and said, “This fennec fox hybrid female reader shall know thee by the touch of her cheek to thy chest,” you nodded against him. “Yes,” you murmured, “I mean it.” The words were softer than a whisper, but the gravity of them was palpable in the room. You felt Ghost's body tense, his heart hammering against your ear. For a man who was often the epitome of stoicism, this was a revelation, a crack in the armour that you hadn't expected.
As you prepared to sleep on your hanging mattress, the house's tension grew as palpable as a sea fog. Aware your words had impacted the men, you pondered the atmosphere's shift. Then, descending footsteps reached your ears, your heart pounding from a blend of fear and anticipation.
Ghost's silhouette appeared in the doorway, his posture rigid and unyielding. “Ghost,” you whispered, noticing his eyes were as intense as a moonlit arctic night. “What is it?”
He took a step closer, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. “You said something, earlier.” His voice was a rumble of thunder, low and demanding. “Something important.”
You were wearing a nightie which left little to the imagination, the thin spaghetti straps on your shoulders the only barrier between the fabric and your bare skin. You squinted, half asleep, “I said a lot of things.” You mumble into your pillow, trying to play it cool despite the racing of your heart.
Ghost took another step, his hand reaching out to stroke your cheek, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through your body. “You said you love us.”
You turned to face him fully, the gravity of the moment weighing on your heart. “I do,” you admitted, the words spilling out of you with surprising ease. “Both of you, in my own way.”
Ghost's hand paused on your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jawline. “And what way is that?” he asked, his voice softer now, the thunder replaced with a gentle rain.
You took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of his hand against your skin. “In a way that's fierce and unconditional,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “In a way that makes me want to fight alongside you both, to keep you safe, to… to be a part of your lives.”
Soap, who had been quietly watching from the shadows, emerged into the dim light. He approached the bed, his eyes shimmering with something unreadable. “Is that right?” he asked, his voice gruff. His Scottish accent seemed to thicken in the tension-filled silence.
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yes,” you said, your voice stronger now. “I love you both.”
Soap's expression softened, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a rare smile. He reached out to you, his rough hand taking yours in a gentle grip. “And we love you too, lass,” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “In our own messed up way.”
Soap's eyes drifted to the vibrator underneath the layer of faux fur pillows filled with goose feathers.
He smirked, “Looks like we might have some competition.”
Ghost chuckled, the tension in his posture easing a fraction. “Looks like it,” he said, his gaze never leaving yours. “But I think we can manage.”
The three of you fell into a fervent embrace, a bond only forged through shared hellish ordeals. Ghost lifted you effortlessly as Soap drew your head to his for a kiss, a blend of tenderness and roughness. Their scents—Ghost's musky smoke and Soap's faint gunpowder—overwhelmed you, and you melded into their comforting warmth.
They laid you on the king-sized bed as Ghost hovered, eyes ablaze with desire mirroring yours. He seized your face, kissing you urgently with a passion built over years. His tongue explored your mouth as if new, while Soap's gentle hands roamed your body through your thin nightie, tenderly committing every curve to memory.
Their touch was like a delicate symphony playing across your skin, each caress a note resonating deep within your core.
The fabric of your nightie was peeled away, revealing your nakedness to the cool air, and their heated gazes.
Your breasts were swollen and sensitive, begging for attention, and Soap's mouth found its way to one, suckling gently, making you gasp against Ghost's insistent kiss.
This would continue on until morning. Where you are asleep in the middle of the two burly men who changed your life forever.
"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me."
(you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.)
warnings: smut; literal filth; kiiiiiinda an illicit relationship(?) but ya'll are consenting adults; power imbalance by proxy; breeding kink (slight); gendered reader; female anatomy; little substance just pure filth
notes: alt title was: when ur boss has baby fever and ur like, well damn, i guess i'm taking one for the team; this man is sooo damn fine, and Barry Sloane is a 1.88m snack (and tbh, scousers always make me a little weak in the knees)
Price looks like he smells of cigars whiskey cheap leather and hickory and i am feral.
It starts in Madrid.
(Though, if you're being honest with yourself, it really starts on a motorway outside of Dorset.)
Scotch in one hand, cigar in the other, he stands on the balcony, and gazes out at the water in the distance. Eyes fixed, crystalline, on the families below playing in the sand. A gaggle of children. Their mothers lean over the railing of the tapas below, shooing them off to find their fathers.
The sounds carry through the streets, bouncing off of the stucco. High-pitched giggles from the kids playing in the cobblestone roads. The admonishing calls of their parents. Laughter from passersby.
You watch him from the doorway. Catch the longing in his eyes; wistful and melancholic.
A family. Children.
It's not your mission—this isn't what you're here for—but there is an ache in his gaze that makes you bite your tongue, words stifled in your throat.
You've never seen your Captain look like this.
He notices you—has probably known, you don't doubt, that you were there from the start—but there is something almost painful about the way he gives himself one more moment of this, one more fleeting glance, before he has to take up the mantle of a commander, of a leader.
When he turns to you, it lingers in his eyes. A shade of mourning you can't quite understand. Can't quite reconcile about the man who, hours earlier, was barking out well done! and nice shot! when you took down an enemy operative. A bullet an inch below the eye. He clasped you on your back, grinned wide under the moustache, and it tasted of gunfire when he leaned in close.
("Mm, got 'em right in the fuckin' head!")
John Price is a man you'd never thought could feel anything except the high of the challenge, the chase. He smelled of scotch, Maduro, and gasoline. His voice was always ragged, and hoarse, from how loudly he bellowed on the battlefield, a roar that echoed in the distance.
This—
This is new. Different. It's both softer and sadder than you'd ever imagined him, and how it fits inside the man you'd known as one of the only people you could genuinely trust, is jarring. And simply put: it doesn't.
The idea of his longing fills you with a visceral ache.
(You're a good soldier. You wonder if you could—)
"Ready, then?" He asks, and digs his teeth into the cigar until it dents. The glass is placed on the dresser, empty. His lips stain the rim, and you think about bottle caps and Iceland.
You can't stop staring at him, now. Like an idiot. Like a—
Silly little girl with a crush.
You fluster. Force a nod when his brows buoy, bunching in concern. Bewilderment. You're not acting like yourself.
(You really haven't been since Reykjavik when he turned to you, and said—)
It's pushed aside when he takes one last drag, chest swelling with the inhale, and breathes out, words a plume of smoke.
"Let's get these steamin' bastards."
If Madrid started it all, then his hand on your thigh is certainly the cataclysmic finale, the end.
Well, that isn't entirely true.
It's the offer of a cigar. A little scotch.
(Maybe more than a little, really.)
Alone in a tapas in Madrid, he orders too much food for two people, and a bottle of their best scotch.
Asks, gruffly in aborted Spanish, if he can have a smoke, too.
(You end up having to translate both his Spanish and English to the befuddled waiter; the heavy accent renders his words to nothing but growled smoke.)
The mission was a success. Gaz perched on the loft across the street, the man cornered by Price, his only exit cut off by you—it was as smooth as one could go. Easy, almost. Effortless.
It should have been the first sign that things were going to unravel, quite quickly, from that point on.
Gaz declines the invitation. Laswell in your ear, well, you've earned it. You should have said no, too. Stayed in your room, ordered out, and poured over the piles of documents that will be waiting for you sooner or later. Red-tape means every moment must be noted down, each breath counted. Each step. Each choice. It's a mountain.
But Price had his face turned toward the streets when he asked. The breadcrumbs of his gaze led you to a woman holding a blue swaddle in her arms, cooing down at the lump hidden under soft cashmere. Old ladies congregated around her, faces lit up with joy.
He watched for a moment, and you saw that aching thing in his eyes when the woman peeled back the layers, showing off a ruddy-cheeked baby with a smattering of curly brown hair on his tiny head.
A catch, then, in your throat, when the words were out before you could stop them: I want to.
"...to go," you added hastily, flushing brilliantly under the lights in the hotel room. His hotel room. The one used to reconvene, to plot, to plan. The one that reeks of him—
The man you captured is held in a prison by the authorities, departing tonight under the cover of darkness. His weapons sit in the corner. Focus. You stare at them to ground yourself. "With you, that is."
Price turns, eyes finding yours when you lift your chin—automatic, magnetic: your Captain looks at you, and you offer a nod in response.
The longing is thick, palpable. It burns, and it aches, because it isn't for you. It's for some unattainable thing he's decided not to pursue.
You taste the flavour of it when he speaks, when he clears his throat, and gives a gruff good in response.
It, of course, is not good.
It's very bad.
Dangerous, even.
The attraction you feel toward Price—Captain, boss; off-limits —isn't anything new. It's not incipient, but it hasn't had a chance to take root, to hold firm. You haven't let it.
You'd felt the same swell of intrigue before; a fledgling thing that always dissipates before trouble starts. This should have been no different.
(But trouble comes quicker than you'd expect.
And you've always been rather good at lying to yourself.)
The look in his eyes. The tightness in your chest. Scotch on your tongue.
It festers when he leans over, eyes pools of cerulean, and says, want a cigar?
And now—
Now:
Your lungs are heavy with smoke that, apparently, isn't supposed to be there.
Not supposed to inhale, dove, he tells you, words rough from his own puff, and drenched in humour.
You sputter, knuckles pressed to your mouth to stop yourself from looking foolish in front of your Captain. Too late, of course. His eyes dance with mirth, lips crooked with the tang of it.
You duck your head. "Fuck, that's disgusting."
"Don't blame the cigar." He grins, easy, relaxed. The bucket hat on his head looks out of place in a tapas in Centro, but he's never felt more touchable to you when he's bathed in the mundane.
(At least it isn't the leather jacket, the beanie—)
You swallow down the acrid taste of tobacco on your tongue, sending him a sharp glance from the corner of your eye. "Who do I blame, then? The teacher?"
Price lets out a soft huff, a little chuckle under his breath, and tips his head in concession. "Yeah, alright. My fault, love."
Love. It makes your chest feel tight. Head dizzy. You can blame it on the pungent concoction of cigars and scotch, but it sits too heavy in your chest for you to pretend.
You drop your gaze to the table, to the half-eaten plate of setas al ajillo that sits in front of you as if it will somehow have an answer in the oil. That you might find god amongst the sauteed mushrooms, and he'll smack sense into your head. Don't be stupid. Don't be—
"Another?" He rasps, the word sticks to his throat.
The smoke from the cigar makes your head feel gummy. It's a balm that soothes over all the little voices in the back of your head that scream at you to stop. This is a bad idea, they say. You'll regret it in the morning.
But—
You want to impress him. Stupid. Price meets your stare when you lift your head. A smile. A nod.
He doesn't mention the way your hand trembles when you take the cigar proffered to you between a thick thumb and forefinger. He has a burn scar on his first knuckle. A round circle.
It's not the way you'd hold a cigar.
Your eyes linger for a moment on the burn, mind startlingly empty, as if refusing to partake in piecing together whatever it means, if only for his privacy. His own sense of untouchability.
Price is the core of the group. The man who everyone—even Ghost, to some extent—relies on, and absolutely respects. It's ironclad. Unshakeable.
He's the man who is always looking at you, at others, first. When something happens, his eyes are drawn to everyone else, making sure they are stable on their feet as the world around them crashes, and burns.
You know because, now, you're always watching him.
A silly little girl with a crush.
It began in Reykjavik.
A slurry of imported chemicals drafted by a man with an abhorrent agenda led you, Price, and Laswell on a chase through the city. It was close, down to the last nanoseconds. And then—
"You alright?"
Shaken. Terrified. You turn to him, and he's there, watching you. Eyes drawn tight. Taut, humourless smile pulling on the corners of his—for once—clean-shaven face.
It's hard to begin to grasp the words necessary to properly convey what you felt at that moment. Panic. Horror. Dread. Fear. They come close, but they miss that unnameable feeling of your heart leaping into your throat when the seconds ticked down to five, four, three…
Too late. Too—
And then a gunshot. A bullet in the man's head. Success. It felt too close to be considered a win. Like grasping at victory with the tips of your fingers as it fumbles from hand to hand. Narrowly snatching the win from the jowls of defeat that nipped at you.
"S-sir—"
He's there. Hand on your shoulder, firm and steady: it's the only thing that keeps you from toppling over.
"Mm, stay alert," he mumbles, eyes cutting back to the throng of agents—on loan from Norway as Iceland hadn't the means to take care of it on their own, the very same people whose pride refused to allow you any intel, almost leading to—
"Eyes, ears are everywhere."
It's the solid weight of his presence, his unmovable utilitarianism, that reinforces the liquid relief in your knees, giving it the stability needed to congeal, to harden.
Iceland was the first taste of reality. The first mission where you realised every single second mattered.
"Did good," he says under his breath, and nods at you when you turn, bewildered, to him. "Might not seem like it, but you held yourself up. Did what needed to be done. Good job."
There is a softness in his eyes, one that you can't place, but it makes your pulse race.
And now, that same something swims in his cerulean gaze, slightly misted from the scotch, but remarkably the same.
You drop your gaze again. His stare is heavy—its not oppressive, or intense, but its—
A lot. Weighed down by something that has been steadily building since you bunkered down in a frozen bivouac on the fringes of the Arctic. Each breath of plume of pure white. Nestled tight together under a single insulated blanket, sharing heat. Keeping each other from the white death looming at the edge of the door.
It sits there, now. The tendrils of frostbite in his eyes: memories of when the snow piled so high outside your door, you'd begun to fear that this little shack was going to be your icy prison.
His chest under your chin. Heat bleeding into you.
("Gotta stay warm," he'd rasped, gaze flickering to you in steady intervals. "Can't turn the heat on. They'll see us.")
In the morning after everything, he found you on the terrace overlooking the landscape, the rolling hills of white in the distance. Back in the sanctum of your hotel. The one free from tundra and sleet. From the howling winds that slammed against the shack you both holed up in for the night. Surveillance. Your first taste of it.
"You good?" He murmurs. It's a loaded question, and feels more like a test.
Still—
"I will be." A lie.
"Go on." He calls it.
You turn to him. "We—;" the words are heavy on your tongue. Blame, and anger, and— "if they shared information with us, we would have gotten to them sooner."
And then you bite your tongue, eyes darting across the barren balconies. Eyes and ears are everywhere, he'd said. Test: failed.
"Mm, yeah," he mumbles. His presence is comforting. A kinship born from ice and darkness. He leans against the railing beside you, fingers looped into the straps on his tactical vest. "Could have done a lot of things quicker."
"Why did we need to wait?"
His laugh is caustic. "Bureaucracy."
"Sounds pointless when people are waging chemical warfare on the innocent."
"Mm, you're not wrong." He adds, his breath a plume of white when he huffs. "But red tape is the line that keeps us in check. Can't go around shooting whoever looks at us funny."
"But—"
"I agree, though." His words are low, and doused in the residuum of anger from missions you've yet to experience. A chasm is carved between you. An uncrossable moor. "Fuckin' politics."
His hand is almost as heavy as the steel in his eyes when he pulls it free from the strap on his chest, and lays it on your shoulder. "Get some rest. Maybe a bloody drink if you can. They only got vodka," he spits the word out like it's blasphemous, and considering he's never too far away from a cigar in one hand, and a scotch in the other, you think, to him, it might be.
It's a dismissal. A nice chat, have a lovely day, ta. He's your Captain, a man who shares each success with everyone, but bears the weight of each failure on his own. This debacle only reinforced the notion that you can't keep operating in the strict lines given to you, but there is very little you can do to stop it.
Fuckin' politics, you think. And then—
Cacoethes.
"I mix a mean vodka cranberry," the offer is out before you can swallow it down. "I mean—it isn't scotch, but—"
He pauses by the door, hand in stasis over the handle. The silence is stifling.
"Sorry," you murmur, chastised. Embarrassed. "I didn't—I hope I didn't cross a line."
He turns his head, brows drawn together.
(You wonder if he, too, thinks of the cabin. Of the bottled water shared between you, the heavy breath that settled in the middle of the negligible space that separated you, turned toward each other to protect your vulnerable pieces from the frigid cold.)
Then, a flash of teeth. His moustache wobbles. "Sure," he murmurs. "If you can make it taste like it isn't vodka, I'll go for one. Not much of a pint, but…"
"Should have taught me how to smoke in Iceland," you say, reaching for the proffered cigar in his hands. Your eyes slide over the burns, the pock marks in his flesh that could not be self-inflicted, but you turn from them; your gaze, instead, fixed on him. "Might have kept us warm."
A rasping chuckle falls from his lips. He has a smear of ash in the corner. A dollop of oil on his beard by the seam of his mouth. "Iceland," he repeats the word, and it sounds like an old friend, filled with a touch of fondness you can't quite capture when you think back on the time spent there.
(A panic attack in the shower stall, head full of vodka and cranberries— definitely not a pint, he rasped, but still took another swallow; your eyes were fixed on the bob of his Adam's apple—and him. Run. Run. Don't look back—
Alright? His eyes are on you. On Gaz. Laswell. He makes his rounds between everyone, silently checking in. It warms you, and makes you think of the taste you caught on the rim of the water bottle. Hickory. Smoked sandalwood. Scotch. Your nose pressed tight to his chest. The heavy weight of his arm around you. Gotta get up, lo—
Love. You wonder if that's what he was going to say before he cleared his throat, and looked away from you.
A lie. Yes.
He calls it. Yeah?
No. Never. The way the amber light from the early morning sun caught the lazuli in his eyes made your heart shatter, and ever since he pulled you from the wreck years ago, you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.
A tight smile. Distant. Hidden. Always, Cap.
He relents.
You wished he pushed. Gave you a reason to spill your vodka-filled guts on the tarmac to rid yourself of this rut you'd fallen into. An endless stasis of does he, he can't, could he, he might, don't get your hopes up—
His hand is between your shoulder blades. A soft smile in your direction.
—too late.)
"Ah, Reykjavik," it's a slow burn when he speaks, heavy with smoke. Voice thick, full of static. His eyes catch yours. Price leans in close, as if he's sharing a secret; something confidential and meant only for you. The heady scent of hickory fills your nose. You roll the scotch in your glass, but taste vodka on your tongue. "Might have, but then we would've had to keep it lit while running away from the terrorists in the snow."
"I've seen you keep one lit in a hurricane, sir."
There is something coarse in the way he huffs; a gravel-filled husk of droll mirth that rumbles from his chest. His knuckles brush yours when he passes the cigar over. "Only time I ever lost one was when our heli went down in Mexico. Simon got an earful that day."
"Amazing."
The cigar is less intense when you let it fill just your mouth until the smoke is stagnant between your teeth. It's—sweet. Robust.
"You sound very impressed," he husks again, words pitched low. "But I'll have you know it was my last good one. Quite a shame."
Fingers touch again. You wonder if it's on purpose. If he, like you, can't get enough of the warmth on your skin. If it makes him think of the chill—
"It sounds like one. I don't know how you finished the mission at all, sir."
"I had a spare." He smiles, but it's taut around the edges. Then: "none of that—," he stops, clears his throat again. Lower, barely a whisper, he adds: "none of that sir stuff here. Just call me—"
"Cap?" You breathe, heart thudding in your chest. The scotch. The cigar. Maybe, it was packed with weed. A little nicotine. Something that might make your heart race, your palms sweat. Your stomach burn.
"John."
Your heart pounds, but it's off-rhythm. An irregular beat. The pattern is wrong, the crescendo stutters. It's not—
"John," his name is caught in your throat; a corrugated wobble of a breath barely recognisable as a word, but he finds it, anyway. His eyes lift, catching yours. It's heavy. Oppressive. You think of his arm on your waist, his breath in your ear—
Another tight smile. His eyes are liquid sapphires. "Yeah, love."
Love. Love. Twice, now, he slipped and uttered it.
(Lo—
Thrice, then, if you count Iceland.)
"John—," you need to stop. To put distance between yourself and this man who is wholly off-limits before the wet tip of the cigar, once clipped between those full lips, will become a crutch. Addicting.
You don't know where it starts.
The cigar in your mouth makes him groan low in his throat. Your eyes drop when he shudders. His hand on your thigh. Voice in your ear.
"Gotta stop this, love."
The first thought: he knows.
The second: he knows.
There is a chasm between them. In that paradoxical degree of separation lingers a firm, judicious no. It is resolute. Ironclad.
But the sheath is made of latex. Your hands feel the sting of the rubber bands when your fingers pluck at the bonds holding it all back.
"And if I don't want to?" Your lashes fan your cheeks, eyes peering up at him through the wisps cresting over your pupils. Tongue peaks out. A tease. "John? "
His pupils dilate in response, blown wide until pits of coal eclipse the sapphire; a black hole lined with a thin halo of blue. The hairs on his upper lip flutter when he heaves out a breath through his nose.
John's smile is tight. A fleeting thing that flickers across his face before disappearing into a hard frown. "You don't know what you're getting into, love—;" he stops himself, clears his throat. Your name falls from his lips, saturated in smoke.
You meet him. One step back, one step forward. A dance until those blues fix themselves solely on you.
Maybe, it's the scotch. You've always been more brazen with amber than clear.
His Adam's apple bounces when your hand drops, covering his. Your fingers stroke the powerful hands that hold your flesh firm between scarred fingers; nimble and dexterous despite the thickness of them.
"Then show me."
His groan tastes of tobacco and ash.
It should be awkward, and uncomfortable, but it isn't.
Price's hand curls over your waist, tucking you to his side as you lean against him, hip bumping into his thigh, hand settled on the warmth of his back.
You wonder if everyone around you can tell that you're going home with this man, your boss, and he's going to fuck you when you get there. It feels sacrilegious. Wrong.
But not even the spume of trepidation that wells inside of your gut is enough to stop you from getting this. Him.
You want it. Need it.
Your hand slips over his chest on the corner of the street. His eyes flash, caught in the light from the veranda.
Does he feel it, too, you wonder? All those moments that lead up to this? Soft words over the comm. Late nights spent pouring over coordinates and maps, reaching for something at the same time. Hands brushing. Eyes meeting over the median. Smiles shared. A world in the dead of night when everyone else had long gone to bed. You should have, too. You didn't. You stayed up as long as you could, soaking up his company.
Mornings met by the coffee maker.
No tea, it seems.
They have tea, sir.
Not the good kind.
You're just picky.
Look at this—it almost makes you ashamed to be British.
Only that?
He's untouchable—well: should be, rather; but Price is anything but. He's a constant amid many raging storms, a rock in times when the world feels like it's spiralling down toward some cataclysmic abyss and your fingers aren't quick enough to reach out and catch it.
But he is.
Always.
Your failsafe. Your security net. The only man on the planet who will rage against insurgents and terrorists, and politicians and red tape in equal measure for his team. He'll risk his neck, offer his jugular, if it means you can finish the mission.
Gaz in your head. He said something to me once… stuck to me, y'know? We get dirty, and the world stays clean.
It bludgeoned into you then just like it does now. It's the perfect iteration of exactly who Price is. He's not a hero. He doesn't pretend to be one. But if him gunning down a man on the fringes of society means that innocent people in the cities get to sleep at night without even knowing what he, and his men, sacrificed, he's content. He never asks for anything except the freedom to keep peace—however it comes about: in a hail of bullets, a fist against a man's jaw until he spits out blood and teeth and the truth, or in cuddling together on the verge of hypothermia so people in a country he has no connection to can continue to live without fear.
John is—
Well. It was inevitable, wasn't it?
They can't forge a man like him into existence, and expect you not to feel overwhelmed in his presence.
This feels inevitable.
And sure—human resources and internal affairs might have opinions about that, but it's been brewing since he pulled you from a burning wreck on the motorway (a small travesty in what could have been calamitous had you not decided to trust the SAS with an impeccable moustache, and your gut, and broke every rule in the book), and then looked you in your soot-covered face, and asked: have you considered a transfer?
Your drug enforcement days slipped into the past when he offered you a spot on his team.
And now—
Your lip is raw from the cigar burn, but the taste of scotch on your tongue soothes the ache. His hand is heavy on your waist, flesh hot to the touch like he is burning up in a fever.
A woman wanders past, the same one you saw earlier with a baby swaddled in blue, but—
Price only has eyes for you.
"C'mon, love," he husks in your ear, his breath heavy with smoke and scotch, and sending shivers racing down your spine. "Wanna come back with me?"
And you—
("I'll follow you—")
"Anywhere, John."
His hands are reverent when they brush across your skin. The heavy weight of his palms pressing against the back of your thighs makes you tremble. His rough skin feels good as it grazes yours, touch softer, more gentle than you thought he'd be.
It's a strange contrast—you'd come to expect gruffness with your Captain. His voice, his words, his practices all carry the same abrasive lilt to you, and you assumed that he'd fuck you the same way. Rough hands, brutal commands barked out.
It's none of that. It's—
His eyes peer down at you, spread out below him, and he carries the same tenderness in his eyes as when he stared at the women from before. Families. It settles inside of you. This unexpected way he handles you so gingerly makes your heart pound, and makes your core knot.
He looks at you as if you're the best thing that has ever happened to him.
And you can't be. It's impossible, isn't it? This man who'd lived many lives before you even knew how to shoot a gun, or tie your shoelaces, should not be looking at you as if you'd offered him salvation.
But he is.
You press the back of your forearm to your crown, arching your back for him. His eyes are drawn to your body, to the way you open up for him, and the darkening of his eyes makes you pant.
Your hand reaches up to his chest, palm pressed against the thick bed of unruly auburn hair that covers his pulse, and the feel of his thick body over you makes your cunt throb with need. You want him. You want him so badly that it hurts.
"This what you want, love?" He husks in your ear, beard tickling your skin. "Want me to fuck you, yeah?"
It had sprung up when you first tumbled into the room. The dance is familiar—the steps ingrained in your head, now muscle memory—but he isn't just any partner. You stood before him, unsure for the first time since you caught that aching sense of wishfulness in his eyes and knew that you wanted whatever permeated in those cerulean depths to look at you, and hold you in the same regard.
Now—
Your body is fever-hot, and he stands by the minibar, offering you scotch.
"I want you—," the words tumble out, a breathless lull in the otherwise silent room, broken only by the glass nozzle clanking against the side of the cup he set out. You've shocked him. You swallow thickly when he turns, brows lifting.
"I want you." You repeat, firmer this time.
"Are you—"
You skip the introductory waltz and immediately jump into a tango when you breathe: I want you inside me, John.
You know he aches for it. You can feel him twitching inside of you; deep and full. The head of his cock nudges against something soft in your cunt that makes you spasm around him, whimpering.
"Yes, sir…" you pant, heavy and breathless. The way you address him makes him grunt, makes his hips cant into you, the movement tinged in desperation. "Fill me up."
Price groans, rolling his hips into you. Each thrust knocks the air from your lungs until only the cloying smoke from his cigar resides inside. You're dizzy, dazed. He fucks you like he's worshipping you—each time he moves inside of you, he aims for that gummy place that has your nails digging into his sides, legs locking around his waist, caught on the bend of his thighs, as he rides you through it.
"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me…."
He tastes of smoke. Loam. Sandalwood. Butterscotch. "Please," you murmur, tongue laving over the indents of your teeth in his skin. You wish it was permanent. "It's your own fault, Captain."
"Yeah?" He grinds his cock inside of you until your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open as white-hot pleasure spools in your core. "Sounds like you need some discipline then, soldier."
Fuck —
He does it again, thrusting into you this time until he's seated in deep. You whine at the bliss flooding your core.
His hand lifts from your thigh, and you blink your eyes open, watching as his tongue sweeps across the pad. His eyes are wicked in the soft light spilling from street lights outside; bluer than the wide, open ocean.
You shiver when they drop to your cunt, spread out for him and stretched taut over his twitching cock. A frisson passes; waves crashing against the shores, frothing white.
His hand drops, thumb pressing against your clit. "Gonna cum for me?" He murmurs, a sonorous knot in the quiet room. You hear the roar of the ocean in the distance. Humid breeze flutters through the open balcony.
Anyone can hear you. Can hear how badly you want your Captain to fill your cunt, to make you see stars, and swaddles of blue—
You keen low in your throat when his thumb rubs tight circles over your throbbing clit, cock knocking against the gummy walls of your cunt. His head brushes your womb, presses there tight for a moment until your back arches in that deep-seated ache, that quiver of pleasure-pain that lacerates through your core.
"Fuck, fuck—," you whimper, needy and breathless, hips working in time with the insistent press of his thumb, working you in small, shallow circles. "Cap— Captain, please—"
"Fuck, love—," he throaty words a bitten, jagged plea that sticks, thick and molten, between his molars. You can feel him twitch within you. Feel the way he batters into that spongey nook inside of you that has the Aurora Borealis flashing behind your lids. "You're a cheeky little thing, aren't you?" He pants, bending down to press his teeth over your raw neck, already bitten and bruised, chafed by the coarse hair of his beard.
His groan rolls out of him; dredged up from deep within his chest. The rumble of pleasure, the sloppy way his hips snap into you, now, all practise and control dissociating with his desperation to get you to cum on his cock so he can fill your pussy up with cum, deep enough that it floods your womb—
"Cum for me—!" He snaps, the words chewed out and broken, punctuated by a deep grind of his cock. "Need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock, love; you want it, don't you? If you be a good girl and cum for me, I'll fill your pussy up—"
Your toes curl at the wrecked, raw tone of his voice, breaking over the end. He wants it. You feel him throb within you at just the thought.
"Yeah," you whine, that spooling coil in your belly pulling tighter and tighter with each brutal thrust, each nudge of his cock as it bludgeons inside of you. "Want you cum inside my pussy, John—"
His head tips, forehead dropping to rest on yours as his eyes roll back, fluttering with the sultry plea that drips from your cigar-singed lips.
You taste smoke when his thumb presses against you, the other sliding over your body until he has a palmful of your breast in his grasp. Each roll of his hips makes you see white; tendrils and wisps of smog fill your eyes until all you can see is a hazy blue through the curtain of snow. Fog on your breath. His words in your ear.
It pinches taut when he turns his head, beard scraping your skin, and presses his lips to your temple. Slurred words that taste of tobacco. "Need to feel you cum on my cock, love —"
Liquid bliss spumes deep when you cum—a deluge of euphoria richer than scotch, and more addictive than nicotine.
His name is a choked sob into the thick blanket of desire that weighs down on you.
He drops, his torso flat against your chest as he slots his mouth over you, tongue delving deep as he ruts into your pulsing cunt, fluttering like a heartbeat as you cum around his cock. He groans into the messy kiss—hickory and smoke and the bitter tang of scotch—and you feel him jerk within you before he pushes in as far as he can. He doesn't stop until your cunt swallows him to the base, where he sits taut against the seal of your cervix. And then you feel it. You feel him throb deep inside of you, stuffed full of his cock, and a molten spume spills out when he cums.
He's cumming inside of you, filling your pussy up—
Your cunt clenches, a soft flutter against him at the thought of it, the feeling.
His head lifts, then, and you can see the draw of his brows, the clench of his jaw, the grunts that slip out, deep and punctured, from between the grit of his teeth, and you think you could get addicted to the sight of him in bliss.
Your hands slide over the slick bulk of his back, nails raking softly over the skin as he shudders against you, heaving from exertion.
"Christ," he rasps in your ear, whiskey-timbered and heady with malt. "You're gonna make me lose my goddamn mind, love."
You tip your head back, grinning. "What is it you like to say, Cap?" You purr, fingers dancing over the indent of your teeth. "We're all a bit crazy."
You lay with your head tucked on his shoulder. His arm is bent at the elbow with his palm under his head; your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart under your skin.
It's—
Cosy. A little moment where you feel liquid and blissful, eyes lidding as you peer at his naked chest—flushed roseate, peppered with auburn that that runs all the way down to the indent of his groin—and map the dusting of rust-coloured freckles that peak through the wisps of coarse hair. It's domestic. Basking in the acrid afterglow of your illicit coupling.
Your index presses into a thick patch of hair just below his pectoral, catching the curls on the tip until they wrap around your finger. He rumbles deep in his chest, and pulls the lit cigar up to his mouth, biting it between his teeth, before dropping his hand down on yours.
Cerulean peaks through a thick breath of ashen smoke. You feel shy, suddenly. Demure. Maybe, it's the scent of sex and tobacco thick in the air, the taste of spice and scotch on your tongue, or the way his cum stains your inner thighs, leaking out of you, and drenching the sheets below. Proof, then, that you fucked your Captain.
Most people start at the bottom of the totem and work up. It was a running joke amongst your class when the physical demands of the role became too much, and the drills got harder, and harder the more you sloughed through the ropes.
All the way to the top. The easy way. On your knees, soldier, you'd pass between each other in covert secrecy, eyes fatigued but grinning wide. How easy it would be, comparatively, to just lay back and let your drill sergeant have his fill. It was all chatter. Jokes. None of it was real, and if anyone of you ever had the notion to act on it—
That has never been your goal. Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain—none of it meant anything to you until a hand appeared out of dense, black smoke, a gruff: c'mon, now, I got you following. It still doesn't. Not really. Does he know that, though? That you'd followed along dutifully behind him, not over some sense of grandeur or hero-complex, but because you admired the shape of him, the grit.
John's hand slides over yours, fingers tangling between the brackets of your own until you're locked together, palm pressed against palm.
There are years worth of things you want to say, but they dissolve in the malt still saturating your tongue.
Price's hand is rough. Scarred and weathered; aged and worn.
Your hands don't quite fit together. His brackets are too wide for your slender digits to rest without being swallowed whole by him. His fingers are the exact opposite: too wide, too thick. The seam between your knuckles aches when he slides his into the gaps. Like everything about him, this, too, is stretched taut.
Still. Still—
His hand folds over yours, devouring your palm, and suddenly all your listing axes are righted, centred. The ground you walk on is firm, solid.
It's always like that with him, you find.
His warmth bleeds into your palm.
Price shifts. His hand slips from behind his head to take hold of the cigar in his mouth. The knob of his wrist rests on your shoulder, cigar dangling between his fingers.
You wonder if this is the moment when we shouldn't have, we can't come in.
He clears his throat, always a low rasp as if he'd just gotten done screaming. Hoarse and rough. You don't think you can go back to before when you didn't know what your name sounded like falling from his lips when he cums—
"You don't know what you do to me, love."
Don't hope—
"And what is that?" You peer up at him through the wisps of auburn.
His eyes make your pulse race. A lagoon in the middle of the Arctic. A deep, endless pool of blue.
Price offers you the cigar, and bends down to press his sweaty forehead against your temple when you lean up and take it.
Scotch. Hickory. Smoke.
A motorway in Dorset. Your superiors snapping at you to leave it alone. You followed him then, and when he mumbles in your ear, words drenched in malt and petrol, you know you'll follow him even now.
"You make me want things, love. Things I shouldn't."
You catch his clear blues in yours. The cigar burns when you press it to your bottom lip, catching the taste of him on the end.
"You have no one to blame but yourself," you whisper, squeezing his too-big hand in yours. "I learned from the best, you know."
"Cheeky—"
—he takes you back to Iceland when your allotted off-time mysteriously syncs together: a fumbling romantic at heart. he has no idea what he's doing. wooing, courtship, and long-lasting were never words in his vocabulary, but he tries.
—on his phone, you catch a glimpse of what he was looking at so intently on the plane: romantic places in Iceland: romance for idiots
—it doesn't surprise you, then, when you find the article yourself that he sticks to each individual one like it's a personal mission. flowers. chocolates. "don't know what's so special about these bloody things. do you really like them?"
—it surprises you, even more, when you press your lips to cheek, murmuring, "i like you more," and see the flash of roseate flooding his cheeks.
—Gaz is firmly on team "i don't want to know" but too bad for him, he's the only one you can really tell.
"please tell me he doesn't wear The Hat... y'know...," his face looks a little ashen when he says it. You smile. "...Please. No, you can't—hey! You can't just walk away—!"
CONGRATS ON YOUR 4K POOKIE I’M SO GLAD FOR YOU, YOU DESERVE THE WORLD 🐦⬛🐦⬛🐦⬛
can i pretty please request roach x gn!reader with a fluff prompt “god, i’m so glad you’re alright”, after him and ghost survive “loose ends”, because they were warned in time that they cannot trust shepherd. THANK YOU AND CONGRATS AGAIN, MWAHHH
- 🐇
STILL STANDING (Roach x GN!Reader) — 4K CELEBRATION
[WARNINGS; talks about death, life affirming kisses, roach is selectively mute, fluff.]
IT WAS THE last second. It was the very last second when Roach and Ghost had heard Price’s panicked shouts through the radio, to not trust Shepherd, to go somewhere else, that they will meet again. Ghost and Roach had exchanged panicked glances the DSM in Roach’s hands when at the last second, they turned around in went deep into the woods, a completely different direction than where the chopper with Shepherd was—anything to survive that.
All Roach could think about was you and others. Ghost and Roach had cut all contact, knowing Shepherd’s men would canvas the surrounding areas for a couple of days, weeks at most; they managed to find an extremely rundown medium sized shed, one that was hidden by brush and trees. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to shelter the two from the natural elements.
Combining Ghost and Roach’s wilderness survival skills, they were able to scrounge up food when they ran out of MREs. It has to be day six when he begins to think about you again—wondering, hoping you were good they got away.
That leads him to dread another possibility; would Shepherd go after you next? Would he be found, only to be let know you’re rotting in a pool of your own blood somewhere? There’s too much that would be left unsaid between you two, not enough fucking time.
When Roach approached Ghost with his predicament, rapidly signing his thoughts—way too fast for Ghost to understand. “I— wha— alright, slow down, will ya? Can barely understand you.” Ghost says, putting his hands up as if to calm him.
Like anything could calm him; not when he had a nightmare about finding you cold and dead.
Roach takes in a slow breath as he forces his hands to slow down into more concise sentences so the other masked man can understand him. “When will we be out of here, Lieutenant?” Roach signs, watching how Ghost’s eyes track the movements of his hands and fingers. Ghost crosses his arms, his eyes flickering up to Roach’s. “I’m not too sure, I don’t think too much longer. Why?”
Roach signs your name and that’s all it takes for it to register in Ghost’s head, his eyebrows raising above the sunglasses he’s wearing. “Oh, you’re worried about them, are ya?” Ghost hums. “I’m sure they’re fine, we’ll try to contact ‘em tomorrow.” Roach let’s out a huff of relief and lazily signs thank you before he sits down on the wooden floor of the shed next to some of his gear.
Roach doesn’t sleep much that night, ranging from the fact they’re going to attempt to make contact again and the gnawing worry in his stomach; as well as the fact they’re still sleeping in shifts just in case. Roach is awoken by Ghost grabbing his shoulder and shaking him awake, his voice urging for him to wake up. Roach groggily sits up whilst Ghost stupidly tries to tell him what he has to say right off the bat, causing Roach to just stare at him with exhausted eyes.
Ghost lets out a sigh. “Roach.” He utters, waiting for Roach to give him a sign he is processing things. Roach takes a second before nodding, running his fingers through his hair. His helmet and goggles are by his side which Roach grabs before adjusting the tan mask on his face. “I made contact, they’re fine.” Ghost murmurs, making Roach light up, his eyebrows raising. He begins to rapidly sign, making Ghost chuckle. “Calm down, will ya? We’re meeting them 2 klicks north from here, so we can regroup.”
Roach wastes no time, quickly putting on his helmet and goggles, clicking the strap. He adjusts the goggles and the man stands up so quickly, he’s dizzy. “Woah there—“ Ghost grabs his shoulder to steady the man, but Roach quickly begins to gather his things, reorganizing what’s needed in his bag. The excitement and nervousness beneath his skin threatened to burst with every moment, his fingers trembling. Roach knows he needs to feel you under his fingers to properly process you’re genuinely okay.
Ghost packs his stuff as well, and they work together to make it look like no one was in the shed in the first place. They leave the shed with their guns in hand, slowly making their way through the thick forest towards the location. Roach is deep in thought as they begin their journey; are you as relieved as he is? He hopes so, but on the other hand, he doesn’t want you to be so worried over him. Roach keeps reminding himself to sign slowly for you, because he knows the second he sees you, he won’t be able to properly sign.
His heart is pounding in his chest as Ghost utters that they’re close, that they should be able to spot a vehicle soon. A few more minutes of walking and they hear shuffling of leaves. Roach quickly turns and aims his rifle—it’s you. He nearly drops his rifle, a smile widening under his mask. You’re running towards him which does actually prompt him to drop his rifle—his bootcamp instructors are screaming at him in his head—but he starts running towards you as well. You run right into him, nearly toppling him over with your hug, your arms wrapping tightly around him. Roach’s hands scramble to grab onto your gear, stumbling around as you sniffle, holding onto him.
Roach lets out a shuddery breath, relief rolling off of him in waves. His tense shoulders relax once he finally has you in his arms. You pull your head away enough to look at him in the eyes, tears in your own. “God, I’m so glad you’re alright.” Your voice cracks as you express your relief. Roach’s breath hitches in his throat and he lets go of you, shakily ripping his helmet off, dropping it in the sticks and leaves to the side. He raises his goggles to sit on his forehead and he rips his mask down before he cups your cheeks and presses a desperate kiss against your lips which you return. You both know you’ll equally be embarrassed about this, kissing so needily in front of the others, but it’s needed—you both needed it.
