So if you took one of the guys home and you had a small dog, I think that...
John would refuse to let the dog out of his arms. He picked it up the very first time he met it, and seeing such a burly man holding the tiny fur-ball was almost too cute to handle. But it became a habit, your dog knew that it wouldn't have to worry about walking around if Price was over. And if you are in his arms instead, the pitiful ankle-height pup whines and paws at his leg until he caves. and it works every time
Kyle is so protective of the pup. Of course he's reasonably protective over you too, but the dog can't even go outside without Kyle following it. He has to stand close to it outdoors because "what if a hawk swoops down and grabs the dog". You have no doubt in your mind that he'd fistfight a bird or any animal that came for the dog. If Kyle isn't home during a thunderstorm, he calls and makes sure that you're taking care of the baby. You feel like he's one step away from wrapping it up in bubble wrap, or investing in a baby carrier for the dog.
Once again, Johnny doesn't like dogs. Can't stand them, regardless of size. So when you bring him to your place for the first time and a dog barely the size of one of his boots tries to climb his leg, he's just a little less than thrilled. He refuses to be endeared to the tiny terror on four legs... Even when it brings over its favorite toy, its tail a blur behind it. Or when it tries to follow him everywhere, tiny legs moving as fast as they can. But you do see him cave when the dog rolls onto its back for belly rubs...
Whenever he has the time, Simon likes to go hunting. So he got a little excited when he found out that you have a dog. What would be better than having a canine companion to hunt with? But alas, the dog in question is a pipsqueak that can barely hunt its own toys. Nevertheless, Simon invites you on the next hunting trip, and insists you bring the dog. When you get to the grounds he's waiting there, decked out in his gear... And he has a coyote vest for the dog. Size be damned, he's getting his hunting dog.
Phillip loves big dogs, so your little dog doesn't amuse him at first. But unlike Johnny, Phil warms up to the pup a lot faster. If the dog wasn't allowed on the bed before... Well, it is now. Phil will help it up and let it circle and flop down close to you two. If he's home after a particularly intense operation or a stressful meeting, you're most likely to find him curled up on the bed... With the dog curled up in the bend of his knee. You may or may not have an entire folder dedicated to the dog snuggling up to him whenever it can.
König grew up around cats, so a small dog is kinda similar... Right? Poor guy doesn't realize that dogs can't take falls as well as cats, that they don't land on their feet. So when he's holding the dog one day, keeping it cradled in one arm, he doesn't think twice. You ask him to come into the living room, so he proceeds to drop the dog onto the kitchen floor. When the pup lands like a furry sack of potatoes instead of righting itself right away, yelping in the process, he feels horrible. Apologizes after he's certain the dog is okay (it was just startled), and makes sure to spoil it with treats and new toys.
little sneak peek of the next chapter of Staying Still
“Ugh. I’m so jealous.”
“You could get laid anytime you want,” You remind Olivia, arching an eyebrow. She sighs.
“I know but…” she doesn’t finish her sentence, doesn’t have to. You know who her wet dreams are about. “How was it?”
“Fine.” You type your password into the desktop and wait for the screen to load. “Fun. He wanted to go again but I was tired.”
“Uh huh.” She gives you a knowing look. Olivia and Daisy have this access to you that no one else does, and sometimes it really chafes. You glare.
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to sleep in your own bed, alone.”
“How would you know? It’s not like you spend the night anywhere. Or let anyone spend the night with you.” You clench your teeth, enamel grinding in the back of your mouth.
“Sounds like a perfect arrangement to me.” Doctor Andrews saunters over to the two of you, hip coming to rest of the corner of the desk. His eyes sweep your body. You smile.
“See?” You’re just about to launch into your usual spiel about how it’s unfair that men can free-fall through sexual encounters and no one bats an eye but it’s a sin if you do it, when you feel a presence looming behind you.
“Andrews.” You don’t have to turn around. You know that voice. You have it memorized. You know it so well it visits you in your dreams.
The second year resident straightens, snaps to attention.
“Doctor Price.”
“You caught up on charting?” He shakes his head. Doctor Price gradually enters your line of sight, and you try to steady your pulse. Your breathing. “Better get to it then.” Keller is gone as soon the last syllable leaves Price’s mouth and you sigh, turning in your chair with a full pout.
“You scared away my ride.” He raises an eyebrow, unamused.
“You should probably spend more time focusing on your patients instead of extracurricular activities.” Liv grimaces. The blood in your cheeks turns hot.
“Extracurricular activities. What are you, my dad?” You scoff, already locking the computer so you can get up, get away from here. Get away from him, and his never ending disappointment and scorn.
“No princess. If I were, you’d have learned to behave by now.” Liv’s eyes go as round as the moon, her shock so plainly evident she has to turn away. Meanwhile, you’ve turned to ice. Frozen. Paralyzed. He smiles. It’s small, and calculating, and you can’t conjure up any retort in the time it takes him to knock his knuckles on the top of the counter and walk away without another word.
Soap- who nearly loses it when something goes wrong and you let out a scottish curse, while Price is staring like a disappointed dad (you had learned the old curse from soap but didn't know exactly what it meant)
Ghost- who disagrees firmly when you declare that he is 'black cat' energy
Soap- Is your 'go to' person in a social setting to watch your drink
Ghost- on free days will play the part of the overprotective parent. If your out late you will find him waiting up for your safe return
Is also the type if you feel unsafe, one phone call is all it takes and he's already on his way ( Hell, just between the two of you guys, you probably have some ''normal phrase''/coded phrase that you could say if you're in a tight spot/cant speak freely. )
Price - who in his spare time like to just enjoy things with you. Sunny sunday mornings, just the two of you, or chilling on a shore with a couple of beers talking about nothing
Roach- who would be the 'little brother' of the group. Wrestling, rough housing, and tickling in the common area
He likes to watch you bake and will do his best to assist you, but only if he gets to lick the spatula and bowl after
Gaz- who is an actual wizard on Mario Kart and beats you every time
Ghost- is the one to be man enough and brave enough to take care of a huge spider when nobody else will
Ghost- who would absolutely give you extra training and self defence tips if he felt you could need them
And if you have hearing loss from a mission gone wrong, they would absolutely help you with sign language and keep their masks off so you can better read their lips
PT.7 - How Some of The COD Characters React When You Call Them “Sir” as a Joke…And Immediately Regret It
CW: Suggestive flirting, teasing, power dynamics, possessive behavior, commanding tones, and workplace tension.
Featuring: John Price, Simon “Ghost” Riley, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, König, Alejandro Vargas, Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra, Alex Keller, Frank Woods, Alex Mason, Russell Adler, and Phillip Graves.
It was supposed to be a joke.
A sarcastic little “Yes, sir.”
Nothing serious.
Unfortunately, you severely underestimated what that particular word would do to some of them.
And even worse?
They noticed what their reaction did to you.
John Price
You say it after Price tells you—for the third time—to sit down and let your injury heal.
“Yes, sir.”
Pure sarcasm.
Except Price stops halfway through lifting his coffee.
Slowly, his eyes move to you.
You immediately know you’ve made a mistake.
“What was that?”
You try to brush it off. “Nothing.”
Price sets his mug down.
“No, love. Sounded like you finally learned how to follow an order.”
The bastard deliberately lowers his voice on order.
Your face warms.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
Price leans back in his chair, looking entirely too satisfied.
“Interesting.”
“Don’t.”
“Didn’t do anything.”
His gaze drops briefly to your mouth.
“Yet.”
For the rest of the day, every instruction suddenly includes an unnecessary:
“Understood?”
You refuse to say sir again.
Price appears extremely entertained by your new commitment to insubordination.
Simon “Ghost” Riley
Ghost tells you to stay behind him while clearing a hallway.
You mutter:
“Yes, sir.”
His head turns.
Slowly.
Even through the mask, you can feel the stare.
You immediately add, “That was sarcasm.”
“Was it?”
His voice comes through your earpiece, deep and quiet enough to make your stomach flip.
You hate that he hears the tiny pause before you answer.
“Yes.”
Ghost faces forward again.
“Right.”
Nothing happens for nearly twenty minutes.
You begin thinking you got away with it.
Then his voice suddenly enters your private comm.
“Move left.”
You obey.
“Closer.”
You move.
“Good.”
A beat of silence.
Then:
“See? Knew you could follow orders.”
You nearly walk directly into a wall.
Ghost’s quiet laugh comes through your earpiece.
Later, once you’re back at base, he catches you alone.
“Go on.”
You blink. “What?”
His head tilts.
“Call me sir again.”
You absolutely refuse.
“Smart.”
He steps closer.
“Was starting to think you liked getting yourself into trouble.”
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
Johnny asks you to hand him a magazine.
You dramatically salute.
“Yes, sir.”
Soap freezes.
Then the slowest, most dangerous grin spreads across his face.
“Oh?”
You immediately regret everything.
“No.”
“Aye, I liked that.”
“It was a joke.”
“Say it again.”
“Absolutely not.”
Soap follows you across the safehouse.
“Go on.”
“No.”
“Just once.”
“Johnny.”
His grin widens.
“Could say it like that too.”
You threaten him.
He is delighted.
Eventually, you make the mistake of saying, “Can you please be serious?”
Soap steps closer, suddenly dropping the playful tone entirely.
“Want me serious?”
His voice goes low.
You forget what you were going to say.
He notices immediately.
“Aye,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
He spends the next week trying to earn another sir out of you.
Mostly by being completely insufferable.
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
Gaz tells you to stop touching evidence before it’s processed.
You raise both hands.
“Whatever you say, sir.”
He laughs.
Then pauses.
Looks at you.
Looks away.
You narrow your eyes.
“Did you just—”
“No.”
“You liked that.”
“I absolutely did not.”
He definitely did.
Gaz manages to act normal for the next hour, which almost convinces you that you imagined it.
Then you’re alone sorting equipment when he casually says:
“Pass me that.”
You hand it over.
“See? Much better.”
You stare at him.
Gaz smiles innocently.
“What?”
“You’re trying to make me say it again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You deliberately lean closer.
“Yes, sir.”
His smile disappears for half a second.
Victory.
Then Gaz steps closer until your back touches the workbench.
“Careful.”
His voice turns quiet.
“You’re starting something you might not win.”
Suddenly this stopped being funny.
Mostly.
König
König asks you to please stop climbing onto a storage crate because you’re going to fall.
You roll your eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
Silence.
You glance over.
König is staring at you.
Completely motionless.
“…König?”
“Why did you call me that?”
“It was a joke.”
“Oh.”
He looks away.
His ears are red.
You immediately become fascinated.
“Did you like it?”
“No.”
The answer comes far too quickly.
You grin.
“König.”
“No.”
“Sir?”
He practically chokes.
“Please stop.”
But there’s something about the way his voice drops that tells you he doesn’t entirely mean it.
Later, he helps you down from the same crate, enormous hands settling around your waist.
“You should listen when I tell you something is unsafe.”
You smile.
“Yes, sir.”
His grip tightens reflexively.
You both notice.
König very carefully puts you down and walks away.
He does not speak to you for ten minutes.
Alejandro Vargas
Alejandro tells you to wait while he checks the street ahead.
You give him a dramatic salute.
“Yes, sir.”
He stops dead.
Turns around.
And smiles.
Oh no.
“Say that again, cariño.”
“No.”
“You said it very confidently the first time.”
“It was sarcasm.”
Alejandro walks back toward you.
“And yet it sounded so beautiful.”
You take a step backward.
He takes one forward.
“Alejandro.”
“Yes?”
“Stop.”
His smile only grows.
“You started this.”
For the rest of the mission, Alejandro suddenly becomes very fond of giving you instructions.
“Stay close.”
“Watch the door.”
“Come here.”
Every single time, he glances at you afterward like he’s waiting.
You refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Until later, when he catches you staring and quietly asks:
“Something you need?”
You mutter, “No, sir.”
Alejandro looks downright victorious.
“Ah. There it is.”
Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra
Rudy reminds you to put your seat belt on.
You sigh dramatically.
“Yes, sir.”
He pauses.
His expression barely changes.
But the faint flush climbing his neck gives him away.
You stare.
“Rudy?”
“Yes?”
“You liked that.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Which might be convincing if he weren’t suddenly extremely interested in the dashboard.
You spend the next several hours teasing him.
Every harmless instruction gets an exaggerated:
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
Eventually, Rudy pulls you aside.
Very gently.
Very calmly.
He leans close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
“You should be careful teasing people, amor.”
The softness of his voice somehow makes it worse.
“Why?”
His hand settles lightly at your waist.
“Because eventually someone might tease you back.”
You stop calling him sir for the rest of the night.
Mostly because you’re trying to recover.
Alex Keller
Alex tells you to wait while he grabs the keys.
You lean against the vehicle.
“Yes, sir.”
He stops.
Slowly turns around.
“Well.”
You immediately laugh.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Alex walks back toward you instead of getting the keys.
“You know, most people just say okay.”
“Most people are boring.”
“True.”
He places one hand against the vehicle beside you.
“But most people also don’t say things like that and then look surprised when someone reacts.”
You blink.
“I didn’t look surprised.”
“You did.”
His grin becomes smug.
“Little bit flustered too.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He finally steps away.
“Stay here.”
Then, deliberately:
“That’s an order.”
Your expression betrays you again.
Alex laughs the entire walk to the building.
Frank Woods
Woods tells you to stop messing with something that is very clearly labeled DO NOT TOUCH.
You look directly at him while touching it again.
“Yes, sir.”
Woods stares.
“What the hell did you just call me?”
You start laughing.
“It was a joke.”
“Better be.”
Except his ears are slightly red.
You see it.
He sees you see it.
“Don’t.”
“You liked it.”
“Shut up.”
“You did.”
Woods points at you.
“Keep talking and you’re cleaning every weapon in this building.”
You grin.
“Yes, sir.”
Woods closes his eyes.
Mason quietly walks out of the room before he gets caught in the blast radius.
Later, Woods corners you in the hallway.
“You think you’re real funny.”
“A little.”
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“Keep pushing your luck.”
You smile sweetly.
“Yes—”
“Don’t you dare.”
Alex Mason
Mason asks you to stay with him while he checks something ahead.
You jokingly reply:
“Yes, sir.”
He pauses.
There’s no dramatic reaction.
No teasing.
Just a look.
A very specific look.
Suddenly you’re the one uncomfortable.
“What?”
Mason shakes his head.
“Nothing.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Wasn’t.”
“You were.”
He turns away, clearly hiding a smile.
Later, when you’re alone, Mason quietly tells you:
“Come here.”
You do.
His eyebrows lift.
“That easy?”
You realize what he’s doing.
“Oh, screw you.”
Mason laughs.
“You’re the one who called me sir.”
“As a joke.”
His fingers close gently around your wrist.
“Sure.”
He says it so calmly that somehow it’s ten times worse than if he’d openly flirted.
Russell Adler
Of all the people you could have chosen to joke with—
you choose Adler.
He tells you to close the door behind you.
You sarcastically reply:
“Yes, sir.”
Adler stops writing.
Slowly raises his eyes.
You immediately reconsider every decision that brought you here.
“Something amusing?”
“No.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m generally delightful.”
Adler leans back.
“Try again.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Close the door.”
Oh.
You do it.
His gaze remains fixed on you.
“Anything else?”
You refuse to answer.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“That’s what I thought.”
Later, he deliberately hands you a file.
“Read it.”
You narrow your eyes.
Adler takes a drag from his cigarette.
“Problem?”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I enjoy useful information.”
His gaze moves over you.
“And apparently I just received some.”
You never jokingly call Adler anything again.
Lesson learned.
Phillip Graves
Graves gives you an order during a briefing.
You lean back in your chair.
“Yes, sir.”
He stops talking.
Everyone notices.
Graves slowly turns toward you.
“Well, sweetheart.”
Ghost immediately mutters:
“Don’t.”
Graves ignores him.
“Didn’t know we were being so formal today.”
“It was sarcasm.”
“Mm-hm.”
He spends the rest of the briefing finding excuses to address you directly.
“Check that map.”
“Verify the route.”
“Eyes up here.”
Eventually you snap:
“Do you need something?”
Graves smiles.
“I’m waiting.”
You know exactly what he wants.
“Not happening.”
He leans against the table.
“Shame. Sounded real nice.”
Later, you catch him alone and make the catastrophic decision to whisper:
“Yes, sir.”
Just to prove you’re not intimidated.
Graves’ smile disappears.
His eyes darken.
He steps closer.
“Well.”
His voice drops into that lazy Southern drawl.
“Now you’re just playing with fire, sweetheart.”
You decide you have officially taken the joke far enough.
Graves strongly disagrees.
The Team Dynamic
It happens once during a group briefing.
Price tells you to stop interrupting.
Without thinking, you answer:
“Yes, sir.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Soap’s head snaps toward you.
Gaz covers his mouth.
Alejandro looks delighted.
Graves actually leans forward.
König suddenly finds the floor extremely interesting.
Ghost looks like he is contemplating several things that should not happen in a briefing room.
Price slowly raises an eyebrow.
And you realize—
Oh.
You clear your throat.
“That was sarcastic.”
Woods immediately says:
“Bullshit.”
Soap starts laughing.
Alejandro asks whether you take requests.
Graves volunteers to test the theory.
Gaz tells everyone to act like adults.
Nobody does.
Ghost waits until the room finally settles before leaning toward you and murmuring quietly enough that only you can hear:
“Careful throwing words like that around.”
You glance at him.
“Why?”
His eyes hold yours.
“Someone might decide to make you mean it.”
You never use sir sarcastically at base again.
At least not without knowing exactly what you’re doing.
Operation Black Veil by Livi | Read more on Freeroam
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
Thinking about prices daughter who tears up whenever she looks at her dad...
You have no idea why it happened, only that one day your little girl decided the sight of her dad was the saddest thing on earth. Her little face would scrunch up in distress, and she'd start wailing, refusing to talk to anyone besides yelling "i don't wanna!!! No!! No i don't want to!!!"
You could tell how hard it was for John. How he'd try to comfort her and read to her and play dinosaurs.
"Pumpkin, come here," you call her one night before dinner. While price is in the kitchen, you sit her on one knee and ask "what's wrong with dad? Did something happen?"
"His....his beard." Your sweet girl mumbled, clutching her blankie tight.
"Uh. What about his beard?"
"It's so ugly!" Her yell makes you flinch back. Teary eyed, now that the truth is spilled your daughter continues "I don't wanna look like him!! I don't wanna! Nooooo!!!"
"Okay, okay, baby." You soothe, pick up her blanket she dropped on the floor "you don't have to. Why do you think you're gonna look like him?"
"Mmm...uncle kyle said I'll look like you and papa when I get big..." she whispers into the blanket, cheeks red from all the crying "I don't want an ugly beard when I look like papa...."
What.
Your daughter spent literal days sobbing her eyes out...because she thought she'd grow a beard like price. Your little one, who is absolutely enamoured by her father. Horrified by that ugly beard.
....you sneakily pull out your phone and hit record. The guys are will love this.
your husband lifts his gaze slowly from the newspaper he was reading.
"fun?" he indulges you, tilting his head slightly to search your face. you suggested something without a description intentionally to make him ask for an elaboration, meaning what you're about to tell him will either be very intriguing, or the complete opposite. he searches your features in an attempt to determine which it'll be. "what kind of fun?"
you pause to make him squirm in anticipation. "i was thinking," you murmur, tracing your finger along the couch's lines with your fingertip, a sign of nervousness. "we could try… being available to each other. like whenever one of us wants-" your face goes warm, "sex."
the newspaper lowers down to his lap so your husband can stare at you intently, but he doesn't move otherwise. he's seated with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his legs apart in a lazy manspread, looking way too composed for what you just suggested. your body is so tense right now that you feel the urge to take a cold shower before the conversation continues. why isn't he saying anything?
"available," he echoes your choice of words. "as in free use."
you nod, trying not to squirm in your seat. "mhm."
he hums, tongue running over the inside of his cheek, and his eyes drag over your body as if he's already imagining all the different ways he can catch you off guard and ruin you. just as you suggested.
"sweetheart," he murmurs quietly, folding the paper and setting it aside, "do you even know what you're agreeing to?"
you shrug, a guileless glint in your wide eyes. you couldn't seriously be asking him this. you, who cries within the first ten minutes of him fucking you and tries to crawl away from him when he's pounding into you, wants to be free use for him, constantly? "i trust you. there... shouldn't be any issues."
he leans back in his chair and lets a silence pass once more. he seems to be considering it. the longer he goes without talking the more you squirm. he lays a cheek in his palm, and continues. "and why do you want to be free use for me?"
your eyes widen and your lips press together. you're nervous but trying not to show it. "it's not just me, you know. both of us are available for each other. i just wanted to suggest it because it's been on my mind a while."
"mm. no other reason?"
you hesitate a second too long, and he notices immediately. his eyes narrow ever so slightly. "well," you fidget, toying with a thread on your shirt to break eye contact just long enough so you don't explode. "i just thought it might be exciting."
"exciting... how?"
you puff out a soft breath and try to play it off. "i dunno… like, getting dragged into a public washroom while we're out grocery shopping. or, like… in the car. pulling it over so we can go to the backseat. or while i'm doing laundry."
"so you mean you want me to be so desperate i can't wait and have to have you. right then, right there."
you fidget again, but nod. "mhm."
he laughs once under his breath. "that's cute. so if you're half asleep," he says, "and i want to wake you up with my cock inside you, you won't mind? or if we're on a hike and you're in one of those pairs of leggings i really like, i can put you up against a tree?"
you nod, but look away bashfully. "i said whenever."
he hums and looks away for a moment in an attempt to stay calm while he processes. then he looks back at you, tutting with a pitying look on his face. like you're a lamb up for the slaughter.
"you don't know what you just agreed to," he says affectionately, like he's sorry for you.
you frown, feeling like he's underestimating you. "yes, i do."
he smiles. "you really don't."
-
the first time he tries out your new agreement is when you're brushing your teeth with him the next morning. you're standing at the sink in just one of his old t-shirts, groggy, hair messy, toothbrush hanging from the corner of your mouth as you blink blearily at your own reflection. he's behind you, pretending to brush his teeth too, but he's just looking at you.
your thighs are bare. the shirt rides up when you lean forward to spit into the sink, and he can see the crease where the back of your thighs meet your plush ass. he's entranced by the quiet way you operate when you're still half asleep and unaware of how good you look.
he swishes some water in his mouth and spits, setting his toothbrush back in the holder while watching you. you didn't notice he was ogling until you look up to meet his gaze in the mirror reflection to see him reaching around to pull you flush against his chest, lifting his hands under your shirt from behind to cup your tits. you don't wear a bra around the house, much to his convenience.
"just trying something fun," he murmurs into the curve of your neck, kissing the soft skin there. you tip your head a little, a pleasant feeling washing over your body as his thumbs roll over your perked nipples. he then wraps his hand around your throat to tip your head back. "aren't you so pretty?" he coos, one hand toying with your breast while the other gives your throat a light squeeze. it does nothing for your sanity. your brain might as well be slipping out of your ears.
you try to respond, but all that slips out is a helpless little whimper, the toothbrush still dangling from your lips.
"you're already shaking," he says softly, letting go of your throat only to glide his hand down the front of your shirt, past your navel, and into the waistband of your thin cotton panties. "and it's not even been a minute since i started. why're you acting like some helpless little virgin?"
you slip the toothbrush out of your mouth and drop it in the holder, using both hands to hold his wrist to keep yourself steady. "you're being mean," you breathe, embarrassed by how quickly he's unraveled you.
he hums, slipping his fingers inside your tight pussy to find you warm and wet. your hips jolt, but you don't move away. "i'm doing what you asked of me," he corrects you, his tone patient. "you said 'whenever,' remember?" he begins to lift up your shirt and tosses it onto the counter beside you, and your panties come off right after. then he pushes you forward so you're bent over onto the smooth marble in front of you.
he leans over your back, palm pressing down gently between your shoulder blades to keep you in place. "you know what your problem is," he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, "you get way too ahead of yourself. then you ask for things you're not ready for."
"baby please," you whine, grinding your hips back, only for him to pull away. he's teasing you. you look back at him with frustration, wanting friction against your sopping core, but he's not allowing it.
you feel him hook a hand under your knee to prop your leg up on the edge of the sink for a better angle, and he tuts at how messy your little pussy is so soon. he spreads you as much as you can go, then nudges his clothed bulge against your core, listening to your breath hitch and breathy pants to leave your mouth. "hmmh... that spot... do that again,"
he hushes you patronizingly, tugging his pj pants just low enough for his cock to be free. you're completely bare in contrast. with a hand pinning you down and the blunt press of his cock between your thighs, he slowly, maddeningly starts to slip it inside with a purposeful roll of his hips, and the stretch immediately hits you. you feel so full with just the first few inches of his fat cock in you.
your mouth opens around a silent moan, eyes rolling back. your grip on the counter tightens while he rocks into you steadily, holding you firmly while his gaze flits from your hole sucking him in and the lewd look on your face in the mirror.
"you wanted this. look at yourself. look how pretty you are when you're being used."
you try. you really do. your eyes flutter open just long enough to catch sight of your own flushed, wrecked reflection, your hair a mess, mouth parted, as he slowly fills you up to the brink, tip kissing your womb. his hand gathers a fistful of your hair to tip your head up.
your head spins as he thrusts into you roughly, flesh slapping against flesh making nasty sounds that echo off the bathroom walls. "y-you're... haaa gonna be late f'work," you moan as he fucks into you deep and rough, his thick cock curving just right inside you to keep bumping against your sweet spots.
"shit... y'wanna talk about that now?" he tugs your hair a little to make you squeal, using it to keep you in place like it's a handle. "i'll grab breakfast on the way there," he says into your skin. "this is more important."
you reach behind blindly because you're desperate to feel your husband or hold him, but he pushes you back down, then leans down to push his chest flush against your back, his skin hot against yours. he nudges his cock deeper in you at the new angle, moving a bulky arm to wrap around your neck and fuck you in a chokehold.
he groans against your ear, rutting harder now, his rhythm starting to lose control while your back arches for him, trying to take more even though you're so full. his hips snap forward with more force and he chuckles into your ear when you let out a garbled, " 'm gonna cum..." followed by a loud mewl. he groans, slamming into that one spot that gets you to tighten up around him each time his mushroom tip gives it a kiss.
"hmm, ask nicely, sweetheart," he nips your ear and bottoms out with an obscenely wet squelch. "mmmm.... c-can i... fuck, c-cum? please, 'm gonna..." your eyes screw shut and your pussy gushes around his thick shaft, leaving your thighs slick and shaky.
he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep inside you so his cum can shoot as deep inside you as he can. he doesn't pull out right away. arms wrapped around your middle, nose pressed into your hair like he's anchoring himself.
"god," he mumbles, still pumping you full, and there's now a creamy ring where his cock enters your cunt. "filled your little pussy all up, didn't i? now i'll feel bad leaving you like this."
you're too wrecked to answer, slumped forward against the sink, letting him hold you up. he reaches for a washcloth by the towel rack and dampens it so he can clean you up, giving you little kisses the whole time while you cling onto him. he keeps praising you, too. "did s'good for me, pretty baby."
he leaves you with a soft peck on your cheek. "ill see you later tonight..."
-
it doesn't stop after that morning in the bathroom. that was just his warm up, after all; his first taste of what you gave him. the second the floodgates opened, there was no closing them. poor you.
there's the time in the gym changeroom, right after your shared workout ends. you're both sore and sweaty, and you duck into the locker room so you can grab your stuff and head home with him to shower. however, the second he sees your flushed skin and damp chest through your sports bra, he doesn't hesitate to tug you into one of the showers and sit down on the bench, tearing off your clothes and tugging you into his lap.
he'll stuff your panties in your mouth so your moans are muffled, and fucks up into you hard and fast with no shame, even as he hears people talking and shuffling about behind the flimsy shower curtain. "you're gonna make a mess on me, aren't you?" he murmurs against your ear. "you like knowing someone could walk in right now and see you like this? my sweet girl, cockdrunk in a gym shower?"
he makes you cum on his cock, stuffs you full of his seed and leaves with you once the coast is mostly clear.
next was the hike. you're halfway up the steep trail with him, on a quick break on the grass off the main path. you'd just bent over a little to re-tie your laces since your boots had been far too tight, when he'd come up behind you, grinding against you and palming your ass through your leggings in broad daylight.
"shouldn't bend over in front of me unless you want me to do somethin' to you," he mutters, voice low and warm at your ear as he presses himself closer, fingers kneading into the backs of your thighs.
he doesn't give you a second to argue before he's guiding you face first to a tree and dropping to his knees. he pulls your leggings down just enough to get what he wants, and the air hits your slick folds pleasantly. you whimper, bracing yourself as he spreads your ass to have your pussy fully presented to him.
"gonna be quick," he whispers, "just a little taste." he mumbles, before shoving his face right into your cunt.
you gasp loudly and your hands shoot up to brace against the tree bark right in front of you and dig into the wood. you tremble and let out a shaky breath when he licks a slow, nasty stripe from your pussy up to your clit, shaking his tongue a little so it slobbers over every inch of your drooling pussy lips, occasionally prodding your hole.
his hands are firm on your thighs to spread you open wider, dragging your hips back toward his mouth while he eats you out filthy and sloppy. his nose nudges your clit, tongue flicking in and out of you, then slipping deep inside.
you bite your lip and your eyes, wide and panicked, glance toward the trail. anyone could walk by since you're not that far off the path, hidden, but not well. if someone wandered off long enough, they'd find the two of you.
"god," he moans into you, closing his mouth around your pussy lips and sucking gently, then going back to make out with your pussy. "taste so fuckin' good, babe. made for me." your orgasm hits so fast that you barely have time to warn him, pushing back against him so you cream right into his mouth.
-
you intended to have one wholesome weekend without your man ravaging you on any available surface in the vicinity. a family gathering that your parents are hosting. you enter the countryside house with your husband's hand on the small of your back to guide you inside, smiling politely as your relatives greet you both with warm hugs and laughter. everyone is in a good mood, sipping drinks, chewing on appetizers. there's music playing, and scents drifting from the kitchen.
he lasts about twenty minutes into the evening before he leans down to whisper filth into your ear while everyone else is distracted in the dining room. "you keep looking up at me like that and you're not leaving this place without my cum dripping down your thighs."
you stiffen, body heating up with arousal instantly, even as your face stays composed for the sake of your family standing two feet away. your husband knows exactly what he's doing. he brushes his lips just under your ear again, letting his breath brush over your skin while his palm subtly slides down to squeeze your ass through your dress, making you yelp.
he's all over you most of the evening. hands holding your hips from behind, cupping your ass, arms around your waist, smelling your hair... blatant public displays of affection. he keeps whispering things. "you're dripping through this dress," he murmurs while you're getting drinks in the kitchen. "do you even know what you look like right now?"
you try to push him away, but he's already behind you, brushing your hair over your shoulder as if he's helping, just to kiss the back of your neck. he's all over you right up until you take a break to get away from the party for a bit before dinner. you choose your childhood bedroom as an escape, needing one second away from him before he decides to finger you at the dinner table or fuck you in one of the bathrooms, but he follows you shortly after.
you just entered your old room, not realizing the door didn't click shut behind you. you make it two steps before he grabs you and pins you down onto your back in your old twin bed.
you jolt. "baby! where did you- what are you- "
"shhh," he murmurs, lips already brushing your neck. "just missed you. five minutes."
your body reacts before your brain can catch up. you tip your head to the side for him, breath catching as he kisses behind your ear and tugs the straps of your dress down your shoulders and pushing it under your tits so he can cup your bare mounds. his thumbs brush over your nipples until they stiffen under his touch, and he groans at your soft whines, pinching and rubbing them with his fingers while he kisses down to your chest, laving his tongue over the swollen peaks. he's practically slobbering on them, one bulky hand playing with one while his mouth works on the other, sucking sharply and then releasing with a wet pop.
he drags your panties down and off your ankles, spreading you into a shameful position to get a good look at you.
"fuck, look at this mess," he thumbs over your pussy with light pressure, teasing you. "this for me?" you whimper a soft yes, causing him to chuckle softly. he leans over you again, playing with your hole while his other hand wraps around his cock to stroke it slow and firm from tip to base, aligning himself with your hole. he doesn't make it easy for you and put it in straight away, instead tapping his cock against your folds and listening to the nasty little squelches that come from you. he slides it up and down, delaying your pleasure to make you desperate.
you gasp and mewl, thighs already lifting for him as he lines up and starts to press in slowly. your body clutches around him immediately, the stretch making your head spin. "ohhh my- fuck," he groans, pushing in all the way until he bottoms out. "tight as ever. made to be fucked in."
you moan breathlessly and tip your head back, letting him start to plow into you. he doesn't waste any time in putting one leg up over his shoulder and thrusting so deep that his balls squish against the curve of your ass and his shaft forms a faint print in your belly from how huge he is. your head lolls back with each of his deep, grinding strokes.
"look at you," he whispers, eyes trained on your filthy expression. "getting ruined in your childhood room. all the innocent memories, corrupted by this one." he mocks you while fucking into you harder. you moan loudly, hands fisting at the sheets, then clawing his biceps, then running down his torso. you have no idea what to do with yourself right now. he's fucking you into oblivion and now you're completely out of it.
"bet your parents think you're still their good little girl," he pants, rocking into you, stretching you out with his fat shaft with every drag. you can feel every vein and the exact angle in which his cock curves inside you. "they don't know you're upstairs getting your pussy wrecked like this."
"please what?" he taunts, slowing his thrusts to an unbearable pace. "please fuck me harder?" he punctuates the question with a sharp thrust so deep inside you your vision swims. "or please fill me up in my little princess bed?" he coos, grinding his pelvis against yours. your mouth falls open in a silent scream as a particularly deep thrust hits your sweet spot, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine while your back arches off the bed, pressing your heaving tits more firmly against his chest. you can basically feel his heartbeat against yours, thudding in time with his sloppy thrusts.
" 'm gonna cum inside you," he grits, pounding into you hard, cock scraping against your plushy walls and the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every inward thrust. "goddamn, look at me. want you to -haa- remember this." your nails scrape his back. you're crying out softly, trying to stay quiet, but you're so close. you clamp down on him so hard when it hits that he chokes on a groan, hips stuttering as he starts spilling into you with a harsh jerk of his body.
his cock jerks and pulses as he hilts inside you, the thick head flaring inside you as he releases ropes of hot cum pumps into your greedy cunt, your womb quickly filling to the brim.
within seconds, excess semen is already bubbling out around his shaft, dripping down onto the sheets beneath your ass. your pussy clenches and ripples, desperately trying to milk every last drop of him, and he continues rocking his cock inside you as he cums, fingers moving to play with your clit, and you cum shortly after, gushing around his cock and adding to the mess on the bed.
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the nickname had started with simon first. passing you in the hallway, hand falling on your lower back as he squeezed past you, greeting you with a good morning and “s’cuse me sweetheart, just gettin’ past”
he’d say it when catching you working out in the gym, complimenting you on your form with a hidden “nice form, sweet girl, keep those legs apart”. somehow he’d find his way behind you, pressing his body against you. you never knew how he ended up there.
then it spread to soap, with a little more enthusiasm. greeting you in the hallways, calling the name out loud enough to get the attention of everyone. “what’s our sweet girl been up ta’?”, “anything new goin’ on, sweet girl?”
you couldn’t lie, it turned you the fuck on. especially when simon said it with his low voice, creeping up behind you and rasping it in your ear. soap almost made a humiliation ritual out of it, causing you to run to a private area to play with yourself— thinking of the two having their way with you, all while calling you “sweet girl”.
it was even worse when gaz got to it. he spoke it with such love, smiling with that natural charm he had. “hey there, sweet girl,” smirking as usual. during gun training one day he had your panties soaked from all the praising and pet-names. and you think he knew it.
price catching on is the cherry on the fucking cake. he just knows how to use it in a way that his boy’s don’t. “what’re ya’ doin’ there sweet girl?” “sure you can handle all that?” “need some help there, sweet thing?”
it got so bad you knew it had to be a running joke! something they were all in on. but it wasn’t, you really just were their sweet girl <3
i wrote this at like 3am bc i wanted to do some sfw stuff but ended up being SLIGHTLY smutty bc… phew. anyways !! asks are open !!
