back on my Simon Riley is scared of hospitals bull shit instead of the nikprice week blurb.
anyway, this idea. Simon scared of being in hospital. Hates the whole shebang. Really only stays unless it's Price seated next to him, making sure the Lieutenant has nowhere else to go. Practically ordered to "lie still and let them take care of you, Riley."
Still, the moment he gets an opportunity he'll flee. Quiet and cold. Like a ghost on the wind. Price knows where to find him, his usual hiding spots, most frequented being Price's flat itself. Price never makes him go back. Just makes sure he rests.
Another brutal mission. Another brutal hospital visit for Simon. This time Garrick's on the bed next to him—nasty concussion and broken arm that have left him unconscious for about a day.
Price expects an empty bed when he's finally out of the meeting with command. Instead he finds all six-foot-four of his lieutenant hunched over Kyle's side, Kyle's good arm slung around him, face tucked into Simon's shoulder, whole body shaking.
He doesn't move. Not for a long moment.
He watches Simon ease Kyle back down, murmur something low, tuck the sheet in with more care than Price has ever seen him give anything, himself included. Watches him sit back on the edge of his own bed, back to the door, one hand fisted in the sheet.
Price steps forward, slow. Waits until Simon's head tilts, just barely, a sign he's been noticed, before he lets his hand settle on the nape of his neck. Thumb brushing through the short hair there.
"Everything alright, son?"
He keeps his voice down. Simon's shoulders lift in a shrug. Then his head nods. Then it shakes, contradicting itself entirely, and Price sees the exhaustion in every motion.
"He woke up confused. I didn't know where you were, so I just—" Simon's head drops into his hands.
Price squeezes the back of his neck, gentle. "You stayed."
A sob breaks out of Simon's chest, quiet and strangled, like he fights the way it tears itself free. Price lowers himself onto the bed, Simon folds into him, near boneless, in a way he never does, not even half-asleep, not even concussed himself.
"Shhh." He keeps a hand moving slowly between Simon's shoulder blades. "He's alright. You did good. Easy, now."
He doesn't say anything else. There's nothing else to say, now at least, and Simon's never been one who needs the words.
It takes a while for the shaking to run its course. When it does, Simon peels off him and lies back down facing Kyle, watching the rise and fall of his chest like he's convinced without him watching it may stop, until sleep finally wins the fight. Price stays where he is, seated on the edge of the bed between the two of them, until his own eyes start to lose the fight.
Even then, he only gets up for a lukewarm cup of coffee.
For safety and liability reasons, omega/alpha pairing are only very rarely seen in the porn industry, most often only appearing in "home" videos. There's just too much risk of the actors' instincts feeding off one another and professional studios don't ant to have to deal with that. Most often, you'll find alpha/beta or omega/beta pairing.
Cue Beta!Gaz who his just starting in the industry after a bit of convincing by Ghost and Soap. The Alpha porn start and his beta manager kept insisting it would be a crime not to let the world see such a pretty cock.
Gaz already did a couple of shoots with Ghost by now, even one with the infamous alpha duo, Price and Nikolai, but today was his first time shooting with an omega co-start and assuming the dominant role.
Turns out Gaz is such a good fuck that the poor omega ended up going into a spontanius heat in the middle of the shoot.
Now people are debating considering Gaz as an "alpha" for the sake of everyone’s safety and mental health, while Soap keeps getting swamped with calls from overly eager Omegas wanting the new Beta for a colab...
This one is a bit mhe in my opinion. Just something for you to munch on while I do Art Fight....
"Jesus christ! König stop it's not gonna... oh my god..."
You clutched at the mans broad shoulders. Cunt split open by just the tip of his cock. You said you'd try. You would give it your best effort. But that thing was a monster. It would tear you in two before he even got it all the way in.
König whined, tucking his head into your neck as he rocked the sliver of cock he had fit inside you just a little deeper.
"Schatzi... bitte... please. Just a little more... you are so tight..."
He sounded so needy. You had never heard the man so needy. You would have loved to let him fuck you silly, but it wasn't happening.
Your fingers carded through his hair gently. Shushing his desperate sobs. Running your free hand down his heaving chest to rest on his hip. Stopping him from pushing any further in.
"If you're gentle, and really good for me, you can jerk off like this. You think you can do that, love?"
He nodded, drooling onto your collarbone as he reached down to grip his cock. large hand easily covering what hadn't been shoved in your poor cunt.
It stung, but listening to him whimper like this was worth it. The fat tip of his cock throbbing inside you. His breathing hot and heavy against your chest. Needy lips finding your tits and latching onto your nipple like a life line.
You continued to pet his hair. Breathing through the stretch while he pleased himself. It didn't take long. The vice your cunt had around the tip of his cock was making his brain melt. Only a few eager strokes later and he was jerking forward. Ignoring your pained hiss as he spilled inside you.
"Danke... Danke..."
Before he had the chance to go limp on top of you, a harsh tug to his hair drew his attention.
"You'll clean up for me, won't you, sweet boy? Make me feel good, yeah?"
The dazed way he looked up at you was gorgeous. Eyes wet with tears and glazed over. Lips parted and drooling. Giving you a slow nod before he pulled out and shuffled lower to lap at your poor sensitive cunt.
Price's eyes met no recognition in the dark pits that stared back at him, no traces of the man he had known for half of his life, of the man he has fought with for so many years, of the man he had loved.
Instead, he found hatred. A fury like Price had rarely witnessed.
This man had the face of his best friend, but the eyes were all wrong. Long gone was the kindness and gentle mischief that once lived inside them.
Price remembered the crash. The deafening sound of a rocket hitting Nik's helo, the way his heart had stopped beating as he had watched the bird fall from the sky, the shattering inside of his soul as he saw the explosion from behind the short hill.
There had been no time, then, to go retrieve his remains. Too risky, too dangerous, not worth putting someone else's life at risk.
Just like that, his other half had been ripped away from him. A fate they had both known would come, probably sooner than later. It still teared him apart anyway.
And now here he was, in their enemy's colors, scarred skin, hair longer, face half masked. Wrong. This was all wrong.
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.
Ghost shoves you in the back of the truck, and you don't have a second to react before Soap and Kyle box you in. They've got you pinned down on both sides, heavy thighs slung over yours and Soap's big arm wrapped around your throat, cutting off your air and you can't thrash loose, not when it's two of them tag-teaming you and when you try to snarl, Kyle shoves three fingers in your mouth, thick enough to make you choke, and while you're trying to breath, blink past your streaming eyes, he gets your pants open with his other hand and then Soap's shoving past the elastic of your panties, and then his fingers slide into your cunt, where you're already so slick and hot and then he sticks his tongue in your ear at the same time he grinds the heel of his hand against your clit, hard.
"Motherfucker-" you try to say, but Kyle's got his hand inside your jacket now, gives you a pinch on the tit through your compression bra right as Soap works his fingers in so good, and you're writhing between both of them, slicked up and furious and overheated, not enough air and that's just making you hotter-
Ghost's big arm reaches back from the front of the truck, swimming in your blurry vision, and then Johnny pulls his fingers out and you whine, clench down so empty and then Ghost, oh christ, Ghost's spitting in Soap's hand and you try to squirm away, say "No, no-" but Kyle's got his tongue in your mouth, pinches your nose shut so you're not getting any air at all, and then Soap's sliding the slicked up mess on his fingers back into your cunt, and you can squirm all you want but you can't get away and in a second you're going to have the fat head of Kyle's cock notching at you, thick and burning and sliding into you so inescapable while Soap licks at the sweat and the tears on your face-
"Boys," rumbles Price from the driver's seat, and you catch his burning gaze in the mirror, along with your own choked, teary reflection, red-faced and wet. "Don't tease your sister. Can't you see she needs her brothers to look after her?"
Cw: icky faucet between fem!reader x dad!Price x brother!Soap, fingering, praise, cunillingus
Also HAPPY BIRTHDAY @total-killer-brainrot
🎂🎁🎉🥳
-
Imagine coming to your tired dad to comfort him while he's working on reports. He's sitting on the couch in the common room, eyes focused intently on his boring ass papers while you come sit down next to him and throw you legs over his lap. He grunts, flashing a smile before refocusing on his work.
After a few minutes he sets down the files on the couch next to him and reach over, grabbing the folded up blanket hanging off the back of the couch and throws it across your body. Your giggle welcomes him just like the warmth of the blanket does your body, and squish up to his side.
He returns to his work while one hand slides over his thigh, remaining there until he gets bored and subconsciously decides to explore. At first, his fingers dip beneath the leg of your shorts, teasing the skin there and making you self conscious of every other touch that follows.
Now his hand has found its way under your waistband and inside your panties. He coaxes you to get wet as soon as he touches your needy little clit. His eyes flick over as soon as you let out a soft moan, as if youre a bump in his schedule, he hushes you,
"Be a good girl and don't get yourself caught, little one. Wouldn't want your brothers to find out you've been naughty without them."
That causes you to bite you lip and nod obediently. He goes back to the reports while slowly teasing you with his rough calloused fingers, hushing you everytime a whimper squeaks from your mouth.
Finally- FINALLY- he drags his fingers through your overfilling wetness and pushes two of his thickest fingers inside you. A long, uncontrollable whine releases from your throat, mouth widening to an open O shape before you clamp a hand over it.
A disappointed look shoots your way from your dad and you immediately reel in your sounds. His thick fingers pump and tease for what feels like forever, occasionally brushing the heel of his hand over his pulsating clit, earning him a muffled whimper. A low chuckle escapes him when he notices the drool beginning to leak from your mouth, eyes half closed as you tried not to cum too soon.
"Dad, please.." you gasp out just as he starts really moving his fingers, the slap of his palm against your pussy and the lewd wet noises reverberate in the common room. It doesnt seem like he cares that much anymore, eyes scattered from his reports to his beautiful, needy little daughter desperately rocking her hips into his touch and spreading her legs wide.
Whether it is that he doesnt care about the reports at the moment or the fact everyone within the room and hallway can hear what youre doing with your dad is unclear. Maybe its both.
"Please please please- I'm gonna cum all over your fingers- please!" You cry, your moans cutting through the silence in the base. Your eyes roll back in your head as it falls back on his shoulder and you scream as you gush.
Your pussy pulses like a thumping overexerted heart, your juices squelching as Price helps you lovingly through your orgasm. He cuddles you up in his arms and presses a kiss to your head, chest against your back and your limp, shaking legs spread wide over his lap.
Thats when the blanket is pushes up and suddenly a tongue is rampantly slurping up your wet pussy. Overstimulated moans leave you as your legs end up over the shoulders of the Scot and your fingers run through a familiar mohawk.
"Fuuuck. Have you tasted this cunnie, dad?" The words come out rough, your brother too enraptured in eating out your sweet oversensitive flesh. His eyes peek up for a second, taking in your lazy, pleasured filled face.
You could fall asleep beneath their hands. You have before.
cw: 18+ lazy ahh horny ahh smut. heatwave. Ghoap. sweaty nasty horny dog, but honestly normal, sex. smidge of possessiveness but they're so down bad it's disgusting and I hate them. it's a comedy. I can't. Idk wtv. I hate them (affectionate)
The sheets are kicked down, pooled at their feet in an attempt to fight the heat of the room. Two fans blowing towards them.
The heat would make any normal, reasonable man avoid any semblance of contact with another. Lucky for Soap's aching cock, Ghost is far from a normal man.
Soap's hands knead the meat of Ghost's ass, grabbing hold of his hips and pressing himself flush to Ghost.
It's disgusting, Soap thinks. Or he at least should be disgusted by the sweat, pre-come, and saliva coating their bodies. But instead he drags is tongue over the dip between Ghost's shoulder and neck. Leaning forward so his hand can snake up Ghost's body and squeeze his chest.
Ghost arches, little groans and huffs panted out into the room. "Johnnnyyyyy..."
"Ye ever been north?" Soap grunts in his ear, breath as hot as the air around them.
"Fuckin'—no... hnng—why'd you—"
Soap thrusts his hips forward once. Ghost gasps in a breath.
"I should take ye. Far up. Mey—fuck—family went once. Ma loves finding pretty places."
Ghost groans, reaching back to grab Soap's hip. "Later, Johnny. Later."
Soap's thrusts slow—shallow things that don't give Ghost a moment to breathe. "Take ye up." Thrust. "Nice and cool." Thrust. "Get a room somewhere by the ocean. Chilly breeze."
Ghost groans. "Not the best bedroom talk, Johnny."
Soap laughs, then pulls out quick. Ghost whines out, then shouts as he's flipped.
"Fuck! Soap!" Soap impales him again, driving against that sweet spot inside him.
He thrusts between every word. Like he'll imprint his claim on Ghost from the inside out. "Keep you locked up. Where no one can find you."
"Please. Please, Johnny." Ghost doesn't even know what he's responding to. Just the babbles that he knows will be rewarded.
Soap nips and kisses at Ghost's neck, pressed chest to sweaty chest. "Ye'd like that, being kept and fed and yer hole open and ready fer me."
Ghost cries out, mouth open to the air. Soap's mouth finds his. And his tongue presses against Ghost's and Ghost's fights back for only a moment.
Soap's cock throbs at that—the way Ghost makes him earn it. Makes him take it every time.
A few more hard thrusts sends Ghost over the edge. body clenching down around Soap. Sparks in the darkness of his squeezed shut eyes.
"Don't stop—ah fuck mmm—Johnny don't stop."
Soap's thrusts turn animalistic. "Ah've got ye, ah've got ye" on repeat until he finally, finally spills hot into Ghost.
He collapses forward onto Ghost's chest. Pressing kisses into Ghost's neck over a bruise that's already blooming.
"Mmm, hot—" Ghost mumbles, arms splayed to the side.
"Aye. it was." Soap nips Ghost neck.
"No. It's bloody hot. Get off me."
Soap laughs and rolls to the side, splaying starfished next to him. His hand finds Ghost's and brings his hand up between their heads.
Soap stares at the gold band around Ghost's finger, gleaming with sweat in the afternoon sun. His eyes drift up. Find Ghost's face. Cheeks red and flushed. Still panting lightly. Lips parted just so.
"Ah'm serious." Soap says quietly. "Let's go. Fer a while. Take off and just... be."
The smallest upwards tilt of Ghost's lips. "Want a honeymoon, Johnny?"
Soap can't help but smile. He kisses the back of Ghost's hand. "Aye. Ah do."
Ghost turns his head. Maple browns meeting blues like the ocean at dawn. Once there was a time Ghost would have been drowning there, consumed in their rough waves. Now, he finds their never ending depths—the fury and passion and somewhere, for him, ease—wrap him gently. Despite the heat, despite the tears, and sweat, and Soap's cum leaking from him onto the sheets, he feels entirely, completely, at peace.
summary: once simon finds out you're sick, he takes care of you.
tags: depictions of sickness, including fever; depictions of medication; soft!simon; sick-fic for self-indulgence.
a/n: no, i'm totally not sick
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
“L.t.?” You croak, as the door to your shared barracks shuts softly.
Footfalls enter the room, somehow quiet and heavy at the same time. Your lieutenant’s large frame comes into view, the harsh line of his shoulders softened by a black hoodie.
He's wearing the simple balaclava, the one without the skull sewn to the front.
Simon's quick to approach your bed where you've buried yourself beneath piles of blankets. He crouches, one knee connecting to the linoleum floor, his eyes level with yours.
You blink sluggishly, vision blurred around the edges. You've kept the blinds closed and the bedside lamp on, the edges of the window outlined by morning light; Simon's frame is washed in an orange glow.
“Hey, L.t.,” you mumble, too tired to smile.
A cough builds at the back of your throat, and you dread the inevitable pain that'll spear through your temples when you're forced to let it loose.
Simon's fingers gently touch your hairline, smoothing back sweaty strands of hair.
“Sergeant,” he says, “was wondering where you were during training.”
Simon doesn't look very surprised by the state he's found you in; brown eyes rove across your face, taking in your dark circles and sickened complexion.
“I got my sick note, L.t.” You sigh wearily, pushing a hand out of your bundle of blankets to point at the bedside table.
A folded note lies on the edge, and Simon can easily make out the typed text of a doctor's recommendation for rest.
He chuckles, the sound dark and barely audible. “Don't need a chit to tell me you're sick, Love.”
“Just thought you should know—”
The cough travels up your throat and you turn your face into your pillow, face scrunching in discomfort as you expel a bark of phlegm and sick air into the fabric. Pain travels through your temples like nails to your skull.
A hand falls to the curve of your shoulder, steady as your body rocks.
Once the cough dissipates, you grumble. "I feel so gross."
Simon's head tilts to the side as he regards you. His hand leaves your shoulder to press against your forehead, knuckles grazing your sweat-slick skin.
“You're runnin’ a temp.”
“Can't get it down.”
“I can help with that.”
Simon stands to his feet, hands curling around the top of your blankets to peel them back. You recoil from the cold that flushes down your body, goosebumps scattering down your flesh.
“S-Simon!”
Simon curls his arms underneath you, lifting you from the mattress you've tried to burrow into. Your hands move to clasp behind his neck, and you can't bring yourself to feel embarrassed—not when his warmth soaks into your skin like a heated blanket. It makes you want to bury your face into his neck and sleep, breathing in his scent of cigarette smoke and clary soap.
“Gonna put you in the shower, Love,” Simon tells you as he brings you into the small bathroom. The tiny window in the upper corner of the room is open, chilling the air.
You almost whine as Simon settles you on the closed toilet lid, the plastic cold enough to seep through your pajama pants.
“A hot shower?” You ask, already knowing that it won't be.
Simon doesn't answer, instead turning the handle all the way to the cold side. Water rushes from the showerhead, sounding like a thousand little beads hitting the tiled floor.
“Right,” he huffs, “you get in while I fix you some proper medicine.”
Your cheeks heat sheepishly. Of course he'd notice that the only medicine that had been scattered across your bedside table were blister sheets of paracetamol.
Simon points at the shower, body halfway through the door. “Get in. That's an order.”
The bathroom door closes.
*******
Your teeth aren't chattering anymore as you climb back into bed, nor is your skin glistening with sweat. You still feel like you got rammed by an armoured vehicle, but at least you're clean, internal temperature no longer fluctuationing between boiling hot and freezing cold.
But there's still a horrible ache in your nose from your blocked sinuses, and a tightness in your chest. Exhaustion, despite being in bed for a long time, still clings to you like a second shadow.
Settled snugly under the covers, your weighted gaze slides to your bedside table; your heart kicks against your ribs.
All the blister sheets have been tidied up, the empty ones nowhere to be seen. Your glass of water has been refilled, and there's a cup of steaming tea placed on a coaster that you've definitely seen on Simon's desk before.
Pushing yourself upright against the headboard, you can't help but smile a little stupidly as you grab the cup of tea.
The porcelain is warm against your hands, and you note that he's prepared it the exact way you like, only he's added a slice of lemon and some honey. The smell is faint to your clogged-up nose, but still strong enough to send your stomach somersaulting.
“Thanks, Simon,” you murmur beneath your breath, lips brushing the rim of the cup.
*******
It's much later when you wake up. If you had to guess, it's some time in the afternoon.
Simon flits inside the room like a shadow, dropping something off on his desk—probably reports—before looming over your bedside.
He taps a gloved finger to your forehead. “Rise and shine, Sergeant.”
Groaning, your face twists, muscles protesting as you stretch like a cat woth your arms above your head, curled fists pushing at the headboard.
“C'mon," Simon mutters. "Got you some nasal spray and tablets for all the mucus in your throat.”
You squint at Simon, suddenly finding all of this rather comedic. Here is your lieutenant, intimidating in all his mysterious allure and grizzly Manchester accent, telling you to take your medicine like a grumpy nurse.
The laugh in your chest morphs into a cough, and you press your mouth to the inside of your elbow as your lungs rattle.
“Bossy, you are,” you rasp, nonetheless complying with his orders and sitting up straight.
“Better I boss you around then leave you to rot like a corpse.”
“Very thoughtful, L.t.”
The stare you're given is less than impressed. Simon hands you the glass of water, along with two tablets cupped in his palm.
You take both, tipping your head back as you swallow down the tablets with a large gulp of water. Nearly gagging, you let Simon take the glass away from you as your hand settles at your sternum.
“Bloody hell, that's horrible,” you mutter, bringing the back of your other hand to your lips. A bitter taste lingers on your tongue.
“Don't whinge, Sergeant,” Simon scoffs.
You send him a glare as he violently shakes the small bottle of nasal spray. You frown at it, anticipating the uncomfortable burn in your nostrils.
A knuckle taps the underside of your chin, and you diligently tilt your head up. Your eyes flutter closed as Simon pumps a spritz of medicine into each nostril.
You pull back, grimacing as you sniffle, nose stinging. “Horrible, horrible, horrible.”
“Bit dramatic, Sunshine.”
“Reasonable, actually. Stuff's vile.”
“You'll live.”
*******
You breathe shallowly through your nose, eyes closed as tiredness lures you closer to sleep.
Your nasal passages aren't completely open yet, and each inhale still carries a faint whistle, but at least you're not drooling onto your pillow from an open mouth.
That would be a little embarrassing, seeing as Simon sits in a chair next to your bed. His chin is pillowed by his folded arms, which rest on the edge of the mattress; brown eyes are dropped to half-lid.
His fingers card across your scalp, moving over the side of your head in a repetitive pattern. Occasionally, his index finger traces a crescent over your ear.
Warmth leaks into your heart like a tipped can of paint. “Thanks for taking care of me, Simon,” you whisper.
You hear him breathe out, air feathering out across your nose and cheeks. Your stomach flips, knowing that he's pulled off his balaclava.
“Anytime, Love,” Simon whispers back, gruff voice turned to something gentle.
You fall asleep just as the crickets begin to chirp outside.
John wasn't stupid, it wasn't hard to tell your strange schedule had been caused by your sleep patterns or rather a lack thereof. Plus, if the bags under your eyes were enough to go off of and the constant yawns hidden between conversations.. you desperately needed some sleep.
He didn't know when it started exactly, or when he even started trying to help you. All he remembers is that one day he brewed an extra cup, delivered in to you before bed and by morning he had to come and wake you up personally from your deep slumber. And that worked for a while, enough that he gave you a box of the tea he used since you were convinced you had been bothering him this entire time.
Until it wasnt enough and he found you wandering around base past midnight, welding mask still on, and a heavy weight on your shoulders. He steered you back to your room, made sure you changed into some comfortable clothes, and ordered you to go to bed… just to find you sleepy by the next morning.
You got your work done to be fair, worked extra hard despite your constant yawns to get each and every new prototype out. But.. it didn't help that your sleep problems were caused by that too. He couldnt even count anymore how many times he found you up working on some new idea, muttering to yourself up until you fall asleep head flat on your desk. Not to mention the energy drinks you keep managing to hide between your tools. He had to draw his line when you walked into the rec room looking for your gloves.. hands covered in plasters and bandages.
“I know you’re tired because you’ve never slipped up this much.” He says, voice a little too firm for your liking but when you look at Kyle for help he quickly looks away, suddenly interested in the remote control.
“I accidentally brushed against a tool, it’s just some light burns I promise.” You try to argue, tucking your injured hands into the gloves you thankfully spotted on the back of the couch.
“You think i believe that?” He scoffs, crossing his arms firmly over his chest, as he narrows his eyes at you. “If you don't sleep properly in the next few days, i’m locking the door to your lab.”
You blink, and then smile a little, sure he must be joking. “I mean, i’ll try but you know i need to work.”
He doesnt even twitch, and you turn your head again, making eye contact with Soap whose also been no help until now when he grimaces. He’s not joking then.
“Alright- okay! I promise i’ll get some good sleep.”
You get banned not even after two days when he finds you sluggishly trying to weld at four am. A lock is soon secured on the doors to your lab and even your poor snack stash is left inside with it. Even when you plead with him, he just shrugs his shoulders. “Just fix your schedule and you can go back in.”
It didn't help that you were still a little terrified of him, and the team in general. You were close to Gaz, that much was obvious, but you seemed lost in your head a lot of the time compared to the soldiers. So you hadn't complained more than that, and he heard from Kyle that you had been making a conscious effort to try and get proper sleep, even visiting the infirmary. Still, it’d been a week since and if anything you look even more tired than before.
“What are you doing?” Kyle stops you on your third lap around base, the sun set and soon the clock will strike closer to midnight. John had sent him after you since you seemed far more comfortable around him than the rest of them. You swallow nervously, looking around but no one is here to save you now.
“I- i’m trying! I swear i am, i just..” You fiddle with the edge of your gloves, shoulders jumping at a closed door a corridor down. “I cant do it.. please I dont want to be kicked me from the team.” The look on your face is of pure misery and you step closer to let your head hang low,
“Kick you from the team? Who told you that?”
“Um.. Lieutenant Ghost did.”
Kyle mentally makes a note to tell off Ghost for scaring you of all people, even if he suppose it probably was a good way to make you take your health seriously. Until.. it got to the point you stressed too much over it
“No one’s getting kicked from the team for a lack of sleep.” He sighs before he pats your back, forcing you to start walking alongside him all the way towards the rec room. You’ve been avoiding it recently, mainly because you probably think John will catch you not sleeping. He just wants to see you taking care of yourself, that's all. “Stay here until you feel tired, okay? I’ll help you tomorrow.”
—
Contrary to his reassurance, the anxiety only eats at you more. There was nothing to fill your hands in the lab nor anything to distract you from the possibility of disappointing him. You were still beating yourself up about it when he stops by your room, knocking on the door.
Both Price and Kyle stand on the other side, to your horror and you immediately freeze up.
“You got some time to spare? We need to go pick up some things, could use the extra hands.” Of course you nod immediately, letting them lead you to his car. It’s cold out but he’s got heated seats which make you let out a soft sigh, staring out the window at how the moon shines above the city.
You’re in the backseat on your own whilst Kyle sits upfront, chatting with the Captain about one thing or the other.
“Oh— Captain, they said the drive might be longer because of a diversion.”
“How long?”
“An hour or two. Then actually packing it in will take a while aswell.”
For some reason that stuck out to you more than usual, even though it really shouldn't. It was kind of boring sitting at the back with nothing to do, even the music was slow and quiet, perfect for the late evening. There wasn't much else to do but stare out that window, and knowing you’d be here for at leadt an hour more. Well…
“I think they’re out.” John nudges Kyle, who is getting tired himself, to look back and check. Surely enough, you had fallen asleep easily against the door, cheek pressing into the seatbelt and body snuggled up.
John takes a turn or two more before finally stopping outside base again, having gone in a circle that only lasted half an hour really.
“Like a light.” Kyle chuckles, sliding out his seat and carefully towards your door. “Easy, i’ve got ya.” He hums, scooping you into his arms as you melt into them, too tired to care.
They had noticed it a month or so ago, when they took you out to analyse some weapons found and you fell asleep in the traffic on the wayback. Not to mention the countless other times over the years, silently dozing off without many knowing.
They take you back to your room, the soft scent of essential oils filling the air that Soap and Ghost had done while you were gone. You settle into the clean pillows, aswell as the hot water bottle tucked beneath the duvets too.
“Not even nine pm.” Johnny mutters, taking his phone out to get a picture else you try and argue against it tomorrow.
“Needs it, poor thing been working themself to the bone.” John hums, pulling the duvet up to your neck, the lamp still dim on your side table. There seemed to be a lot of things keeping you up, namely the dark and the nightmares which breed in it. This way, you’d be safe from all of that.
Your eyes twitch, and he holds his breath, but you just roll over, pulling the hot water bottle flush against your chest.
He ushers the two sergeants out, clicking the door shut behind him. Hopefully you’d get a much better sleep tonight, and dreams that would leave you smiling tomorrow at the mess. That is his favourite look on you after all.
The motel room had one working lamp and a heater that rattled more than it warmed. Nikolai paced the room, shrugging off his coat across the chair and checking the window. Price got the door locked behind them, jacket zipped to the throat against the wind—the mission had gone fine, more than fine probably, but there was a version of fine that still left a man hollowed out, cold clean through no matter how many layers or blankets or flames. Nik watched Price shrug out of his coat and swear under his breath at the temperature.
Something in Nikolai eased just watching him move.
"Christ, I hate the cold," Price muttered, breath fogging in the remnant of air from outside.
"There are ways to warm up," Nikolai said, dry, like he wasn't watching price, watching his hands clench and unclench, watching his chest heave against the winter cold as he unlaced and kicked off his boots.
Price turned on him properly, a full pivot, like Nikolai had found the one button guaranteed to redirect all that coiled irritation somewhere. He crossed the room and kissed Nikolai like it was an argument he intended to win, one hand fisting in Nikolai's collar. Nikolai laughed against his mouth before he gave in to it, let himself be walked backward until his shoulders hit the wall. Nik's hands came up into hair, as if it were possible to push Price’s lips closer to his own.
Clothes came off Price's shoulders, then kicked away from his legs, Nikolai's hands quick and sure at buttons. But when Nikolai reached to return the favor, starting on the collar of his jumper, Price caught his wrists.
"No," Price said. "Now. Now, Nikolai."
He undid Nik's pants himself, impatient, and pushed Nikolai down into the chair. Nik let Price push his legs wide, Nik let himself be arranged. Price settled over him, his own hand reaching back to prep himself.
“Fuck, John,” Nikolai breathed, eyes drinking in the man before him, bare and warm. Hair thick across his chest, trailing down to his already leaking cock. That twisted expression of John racing to what he craves.
He took Nik's cock into his hand, stroking him just enough, squeezing at the tip to draw a low groan from Nik's chest. Then he sank down, slow, so slow. Slow enough that Nikolai's breath caught somewhere in his chest and stayed there, and once he was seated, once they were flush, Nikolai's hands came up to Price's hips and held firm.
"Don't," Nikolai said quietly when Price shifted forward like he meant to move. "Just—fuck—stay. A moment."
Price stayed.
Nikolai reached back for his coat and drew it up and around Price's shoulders, wrapping him in it, holding the sides closed with one loose fist like he could keep all that strong, furious warmth from escaping into the cold room. Price let him hold him there. He put his forehead down against Nikolai's, breathing slowly in the mixed humidity of their shared air, and Nikolai held him closer. Being close, being still, being together in the smallest, least complicated sense of the word.
The lamp threw everything gold. Price's hair was mussed where Nikolai's hands had been in it minutes ago, his mouth left swollen and warm, and Nikolai looked up at him like he was something built out of light, perhaps even blinding Nikolai to the crimson that stained both their hands.
John was, in short, beautiful. Like flame on dark water. Like a river cutting through the immovable. Like wrath beholden in the believer.
Nikolai didn't move, he held like this with Price's weight settled onto him and the coat pooled warm around him. He could feel Price's pulse where their chests pressed close, steady now, slower than it had been minutes ago, and something in Nikolai's own chest ached at being the reason a man like this could be still, could let his guard down enough to just breathe.
He thought about all the versions of himself that had existed before this room, before this man. The ones who'd done things in the dark that he didn't let himself name even in his own head. And here was Price, golden in lamplight, undone and trusting and here, choosing to lower himself into Nikolai's arms like there was nowhere else to be.
Nikolai didn't understand it. Didn't think he ever fully would, how something so ardent, so certain of its own righteousness, could want to stay tangled up with something like him. But he wasn't going to question it tonight. Tonight he'd just hold on, coat wrapped tight, hands steady, and let himself have this one small proof that maybe he wasn't only the dark thing he was so sure marred his soul.
Price shifted, just slightly, enough to press a kiss to the corner of Nikolai's jaw, slow, thoughtless, more affection than just want now. Nikolai turned into it, chasing the warmth of it, and thought: this. This is the only kind of worth I want.
a/n (sorry is long): I am SO excited to be doing @nikpriceweek again this year! as with last year, I want to string the things I write into a piece, however that fits. this year... I plan to do only seven parts/prompts (bc woo boy last year was a doozy). Additionally, this year I really want to focus on Nikolai and his side of the dynamic, to me he is this character who has so much shadow in himself, mostly he perceives it that way, and he sees John's righteousness as something to devote himself too as a way of redemption through fire. Acknowledging, even just a little, that John may be more monstrous than he can admit. I absolutely love these two so much and am so glad for this event, because it really is the best chance for me to just lock in on the beloveds. Cheers!
Johnny just came back from a long mission, and by now we all know he has a specific food craving.
So he sneaks into the bedroom, clothes already coming off and kneels beside the bed where his pretty little dove is sleeping. Youre already so obedient, moaning when his rough hands slide over your thighs, tugging restlessly at your panties.
"On your back, luv." Soap murmurs both impatiently and with full excitement. He's been about getting his hands on you for a month. Think about all those times hes made inappropriate gestures to Ghost using his tongue and hands to get his point across.
"I've got a pretty bonnie back home. Cunt tastes like focking heaven." He'd say, eyes rolling just at the memory of your wetness lathered all over his chin and fingers.
Immediately, Soap folds you onto your back, knees up to your chest, pussy already pulsing inside your cute little panties. He practically snaps them off with a rough tear and just as quickly shoves two fingers inside you.
"Oh fuck- shit.. Johnny.. baby, please.." Youd beg, even with your eyes half closed from sleep. Your hands would tug at his wrists, hips rolling up lazily. "Johnny, I need your tongue.. please.."
He groans, getting on his knees and shoving his face into your pussy, nose pressed against your pubes, tongue lapping happily at your tongue. A thick rumble leaves his chest as he begins pumping his fingers in and out, expertly locating your g-spot and tormenting it until your squirming and squealing.
"God, cum on my face, dove." He'd grunt, dragging his tongue from your back hole to your pretty clit. It pulses in his mouth when he sucks it inside, curling his fingers at the same time.
An embarrassingly loud sound escapes your mouth, you want to drag it back inside but its too late, youre already cumming. You hear a groan leave Soap, his tongue increasing rhythm.
Only after do you realize you squirted. All over his fucking face.
"Shit, I'm sorry, baby-" Youd rush out to say, but he'd immediately shush you, sucking his fingers into his mouth and wiping away his face.
"That was the hottest thing I've seen all month, luv. And were doing it again."
Yesterday was my 1 year anniversary on tumblr! I may have been here before but that was so many years ago so we're not counting that!
This also means ive been into ghoap just as long, and I honestly dont see me leaving that space anytime soon though!!!
HUGE THANKS to every single one of you for making this year so frickin awesome! <3
I decided to redraw the first post i made in celebration! (with some minor changes :3) you'll find it below the cut or here's the link to the post, i remember i really liked it but oh man did i draw Soap skinny! XD
