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darksturnz · 28 days ago

Text

SNOWED IN

CONTENTS:・smut-heavy plot ・shypervy!matt ・pillow riding・unprotected p in v ・oral (m! & afab! receiving)・creampie ・fluff :3 + more WC: 5.1k

The blizzard outside was relentless, the kind that swallowed the streets of Boston in a suffocating white blanket and made the idea of stepping outdoors laughable. The windows of the apartment were fogged over, and every now and then the wind would whistle against the panes like it was testing the limits of the glass. You were curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that trailed onto the floor, flipping through the channels with little interest.

Behind you, Matt stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in his hands. He had that slightly disheveled look about him, like he’d rolled out of bed without fully shaking off sleep—messy hair, hoodie wrinkled, socks mismatched. You didn’t mind. Matt was always a little like that: casual, a bit quiet, but solid and easy to be around.

“You know, I feel like we should be doing something,” you said, breaking the silence.

“Something like what?” he asked, his voice soft but curious.

“I don’t know. It’s a snow day! Aren’t snow days supposed to be fun?”

He took a sip of his coffee, giving you a small, lopsided smile. “They’re also for staying inside and not freezing to death. I think we’ve got that part down.”

You sighed dramatically, tossing the remote onto the coffee table. “Come on, Matt. Live a little. We’ve been roommates for, what, three years? This is like our… fifth snowstorm together. We’ve gotta mix it up.”

“Mix it up how?”

You sat up, turning to face him with a spark of determination. “We could have a movie marathon. Or play a game. Or—wait, hear me out—we could build a pillow fort.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “A pillow fort? Aren’t we a little old for that?”

“Never.” You grinned at him, sliding off the couch and padding over to where he stood. “Don’t pretend like you don’t want to. You’re just scared you’ll get out-engineered by me.”

Matt scoffed lightly, but his ears turned pink, something you didn’t notice as you rummaged through the hallway closet for extra pillows.

“Okay,” he said finally, setting his mug down and rubbing the back of his neck. “But don’t blame me if this thing collapses.”

“It won’t collapse if you do what I say.” You shot him a playful wink, which only made the flush on his cheeks deepen.

The two of you got to work, pulling cushions off the couch and draping blankets over chairs to form the roof. Matt quietly followed your lead, handing you supplies and occasionally mumbling things like, “That’s not gonna hold,” or “You’re gonna need more support there.”

At one point, you stood on the coffee table to adjust a blanket, and Matt reached out instinctively, his hand hovering near your back like he was afraid you might fall.

“Careful,” he said softly.

“I’m fine, Dad,” you teased, sticking your tongue out at him.

His hand dropped, and he turned away, pretending to busy himself with straightening a pillow, though the faint redness creeping up his neck gave him away.

When the fort was finally done, it was a masterpiece—cozy and lopsided, with string lights you’d fished out of a storage box giving it a warm glow. You crawled inside first, sitting cross-legged on the floor and patting the space next to you.

“Come on, it’s not a real fort until you’re inside and it manages to stay up.”

He hesitated for a second, then ducked under the blanket and sat beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours in the cramped space.

“See? Isn’t this better than nothing?” you said, looking over at him with a smile.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “It is.”

You handed him a bag of popcorn, your fingers grazing his, and he froze for just a moment before quickly taking it, his eyes fixed firmly on the string lights above.

The two of you spent the evening talking and laughing, the snowstorm forgotten as you swapped stories and debated over which childhood cartoons were the best. Every so often, Matt would glance at you out of the corner of his eye, his heart thudding a little harder when you laughed or smiled at him like he was the only person in the room, which he was but that’s besides the point.

Eventually, though, exhaustion started to creep in. You yawned, stretching your arms overhead.

“I think I’m gonna head to bed,” you said, crawling out of the fort and standing up.

Matt followed you out, watching as you gathered the blanket you’d been using earlier. “Goodnight,” he said, his voice soft.

“Goodnight, Matt,” you replied, giving him a little wave as you disappeared down the hall.

He lingered in the living room for a moment, staring at the now-empty fort before heading towards the bathroom for a shower.

As you settled into bed, wrapping yourself in the familiar weight of your blankets, you heard it: the faint hum of the shower turning on down the hall. The steady rush of water filtered through the quiet apartment, a soothing yet distant sound that seemed to amplify the stillness of your room. You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the sound wash over you like white noise.

But the second your head hit the pillow, the restlessness crept in.

You sighed softly, rolling onto your side, then your back again, punching the pillow as if fluffing it would trick your body into cooperating. But it was no use. Insomnia—your unwelcome, all-too-familiar companion—was already settling in. This was how it went most nights, the routine so predictable it almost felt like a cruel joke.

The weight of exhaustion was there, heavy in your limbs, but your mind refused to follow. Thoughts you couldn’t quite name flitted just out of reach, intangible but persistent, keeping you from slipping into the oblivion of sleep.

Another sigh escaped your lips, quieter this time, like you were trying not to disturb the silence. You could still hear the water running, muffled now, but constant. Matt was probably rinsing away the day, oblivious to the small storm brewing in your head. You wondered absently how he always seemed so calm, so unbothered by the little things that left you tangled up and wide awake.

You rolled onto your side again, clutching the blankets a little tighter, hoping the rhythmic hum of the shower might somehow lull you to sleep. But it wasn’t working. If anything, it was having the opposite effect. Your mind wandered, unbidden, to the thought of Matt in the shower—steam rising, water trailing down his skin—and suddenly, your cheeks burned with a heat that had nothing to do with the blankets wrapped around you.

It was no secret, at least not to yourself, that Matt was incredibly attractive. Add to that his quiet sweetness, his unshakable respectfulness, and it was a combination that left your head spinning more often than you’d care to admit. It wasn’t just you, either—your mutual friends seemed baffled that the two of you had managed to live together for years without any “accidents” during late nights out. But then again, Matt was Matt. Respectful to a fault, impossibly shy, and so unaware of the effect he had on people—especially you—that it almost made you laugh.

Almost. Because right now, the thought of him was doing anything but making you laugh.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that might somehow chase away the thoughts swarming your mind. But it didn’t help. The image of Matt—droplets clinging to his collarbone—lingered stubbornly. You shifted restlessly, the blankets suddenly too warm, your heart beating just a little faster than it should.

This is ridiculous, you told yourself, burying your face into the pillow. He’s your roommate. He probably doesn’t even think about you like that.

And yet, some part of you couldn’t ignore the moments. The tiny, fleeting glances. The way he always seemed a little nervous when he stood too close. The way his ears turned red whenever you teased him, like he wasn’t used to being the center of someone’s attention.

You groaned softly, flipping onto your back and staring at the ceiling as if it held some sort of answer. The truth was, you’d been toeing the line with Matt for so long that even thinking about crossing it felt dangerous. But tonight, with the sound of the shower still running and your mind painting pictures you shouldn’t be entertaining, the line felt thinner than ever.

The water finally shut off, breaking through your thoughts. You held your breath, listening as the faint rustle of movement came from the bathroom—Matt grabbing a towel, maybe shaking out his hair. Your cheeks burned again at how vivid your imagination had become, and you pulled the blanket over your face like it might shield you from your own embarrassment.

Moments later, you heard his footsteps padding softly down the hallway. He paused outside your door, long enough that you wondered if he might knock. But instead, he moved on, his door creaking open before clicking softly shut.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the apartment quiet once more. But now, sleep felt even further away, your heart racing with the knowledge that Matt was just down the hall, freshly showered and unaware of the effect he had on you.

Get a grip, you scolded yourself, rolling over for what felt like the hundredth time. But as you closed your eyes, his face was still there, vivid and unshakable, lingering in the quiet of the night.

Your body betrayed you completely, heat spreading across your skin as the thoughts grew harder to push away. Your heart thudded loudly in your chest, the rhythm almost deafening in the stillness of your room. It wasn’t just your cheeks burning anymore—your entire body felt warmer, the blankets suddenly suffocating as you kicked them off in frustration.

Your breathing quickened, shallow and uneven, as if even the thought of him—his damp hair, the curve of his jaw, the way he’d probably look utterly at ease in the privacy of the bathroom—was too much to process. You pressed your thighs together instinctively, trying to quell the restless energy pooling in your stomach, but it only seemed to make it worse.

Your hands clenched at the sheets, gripping them tightly as you stared up at the ceiling, willing yourself to think about anything else. But it was impossible. Every time you tried to distract yourself, your mind circled back to him, to the sound of the shower and the way you imagined droplets clinging to his skin, how he’d towel his hair dry in that effortless, boyish way of his.

Another frustrated sigh escaped your lips, and you turned onto your stomach, pressing your face into the pillow. Your body refused to settle, every nerve ending feeling far too aware, far too alive. You hated how easily he got to you, how the mere idea of him could make your body react like this, even when you knew it was pointless to dwell on it.

Still, the thoughts lingered, stubborn and insistent, leaving you flushed and restless in the dark. You lay there for a moment longer, the ache between your legs growing stronger with each passing minute. The image of Matt fresh from the shower was seared into your mind. His scent, cedar wood and vanilla, seemed to linger in the air, taunting you with its closeness.

Unable to bear the torment any longer, you quietly slipped out of bed, careful not to make a sound. Your heart raced as you tiptoed towards your closet, retrieving your old pillow - one you'd secretly come to associate with these forbidden fantasies.

Returning to your bed, you positioned the pillow just so, imagining it was Matt beneath you. Slowly, you straddled it, biting your lip to stifle a moan as you began to grind against the soft surface.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as you rode the pillow with increasing fervor, lost in the fantasy of Matt's strong hands gripping your hips, guiding your movements. In your mind's eye, his piercing blue gaze locked with yours, filled with equal parts desire and restraint.

"Fuck," you whispered, the word escaping through clenched teeth as the pressure built within you. The fabric of your thin cotton panties grew damp, adding to the delicious friction against your most sensitive places.

Meanwhile, just outside your bedroom door, Matt stood frozen, his heart pounding in his chest. He had been about to knock on your door, to check if you needed anything before he seriously drifted off to sleep, your insomnia was always something he tried to find little tips and tricks on google to help you with it. But then he heard it - a soft, needy whimper that sent shivers down his spine.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he leaned closer to the door, straining to hear more. And then he heard it again, unmistakable this time: "Matt." Your voice, breathy and laden with desire, calling out his name.

Unable to resist, he slowly turned the knob, cracking open the door just enough to peer inside. The sight that greeted him nearly brought him to his knees. There you were, riding a pillow with wild abandon, your face contorted in pleasure as you chased your release.

Matt's mouth went dry as he watched you, transfixed by the erotic display before him. His cock twitched in his sweatpants, already half-hard from the tantalizing sounds spilling from your lips. He knew he should look away, give you privacy, but he couldn't tear his gaze from the mesmerizing sight of your hips undulating against the pillow.

Unconsciously, one hand drifted to his crotch, palming himself through the thin fabric. A low groan escaped him as he imagined it was his body you were grinding against, his name you were moaning so sweetly. Lost in the fantasy, he began to stroke himself in earnest, his breathing growing heavier with each pass of his hand.

As you continued to ride the pillow, lost in your own world of pleasure, Matt watched with bated breath. His hand moved faster over his now fully erect cock, the wet sounds of your arousal mingling obscenely with his own harsh pants. Sweat beaded on his brow as he struggled to maintain his silence, desperate not to alert you to his presence.

As your climax approached, your movements became more frantic, more urgent. Your fingers dug into the pillow, anchoring yourself as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. "Matt!" you cried out, his name a prayer on your lips as you shattered completely.

At the same moment, Matt felt his own orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in his gut. With a final, strangled groan, he spilled into his hand, his vision going white as intense pleasure consumed him. For a long moment, he remained rooted to the spot, chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Then reality came crashing back in. What the hell had he done? Guilt and shame washed over him as he realized the depths of his betrayal. You trusted him, and here he was, spying on you in such an intimate moment, using you for his own twisted gratification.

As the last tremors of your climax faded, you slowly opened your eyes, feeling deliciously spent and satisfied. It was only then that you noticed the faint crack of light seeping in from the slightly ajar bedroom door, illuminating the shadowy figure standing just beyond the threshold.

Your gaze snapped up, locking with Matt's wide, guilty eyes. His lips were parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he had just run a marathon. And there, plain as day, was the unmistakable wet patch darkening the front of his sweatpants, the outline of his still-prominent erection clearly visible.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both stunned into silence by the weight of the revelation. Then, as if in slow motion, Matt's hands emerged from his waistband, his face twisting with a mixture of shame and residual lust. "I..."

"I'm sorry," Matt managed to choke out, his voice rough with emotion. "I didn't mean to... I shouldn't have..." He trailed off, unable to find the words to express the depth of his regret and self-loathing.

He took a step back, ready to flee, to escape the condemning judgment he expected to see in your eyes. But something stopped him - perhaps it was the way you looked at him, not with anger or disgust, but with a hunger that mirrored his own.

"I saw you," he whispered, his gaze dropping to the pillow still clutched between your thighs. "I heard you saying my name, and I... I couldn't stop myself." His hand drifted back to his crotch, cupping himself almost involuntarily. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

Your breath caught in your throat at Matt's raw confession, desire warring with trepidation in your chest. This was dangerous territory, crossing lines that could never be uncrossed. Yet the aching need pulsing between your legs urged you forward, drowning out the voice of reason.

Slowly, deliberately, you sat up, letting the pillow fall away as you met Matt's heated gaze. "Show me," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. "Show me what I do to you."

Matt swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion. Without breaking eye contact, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants, pushing them down just enough to free his straining erection. It sprang forth, thick and hard, the tip glistening with pre-cum.

Your pulse raced as you drank in the sight of Matt's impressive length, your cunt clenching around nothing with renewed desire. Part of you wanted to reach out, to touch, to taste, but you held yourself back, waiting to see how far he would take this forbidden game.

Matt's hand wrapped around his shaft, giving it a slow pump from base to tip. A shudder ran through him at the contact, his head falling back as he let out a low moan. "Fuck, y/n," he panted, his voice strained with need. "The things I want to do to you..."

His hand moved faster, stroking himself with purposeful intent. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with his harsh breaths and bitten-off curses.

Emboldened by Matt's brazen display, you rose from the bed on trembling legs, closing the distance between you with deliberate slowness. His eyes widened as you drew near, his hand faltering in its rhythm as he took in your small frame, your old band t-shirt brushing against your bare thighs and your face flushed and glistening with sweat.

"Touch me," you demanded softly, guiding his free hand under your shirt and to your breast. "I want to feel you."

Matt obliged eagerly, his calloused palm molding to the supple flesh, thumb grazing over the pebbled peak. Electricity zipped through your veins at the contact, stoking the fire burning low in your belly.

Unable to resist any longer, you reached out, wrapping slender fingers around his throbbing cock. Matt groaned gutturally, his hips bucking into your grip as you began to stroke him in tandem with his own movements.

Lost in a haze of lust, Matt surrendered to the exquisite sensations assaulting his senses. Your soft hand on his aching cock, the press of your pert breast against his palm, the intoxicating scent of your arousal filling his nostrils - it was almost too much to bear.

With a growl, he tugged your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. His hungry gaze raked over your naked form, drinking in every dip and curve like a man starved. "So fucking beautiful," he rasped, reverent and awestruck.

Lowering his head, he captured one perky nipple between his lips, suckling greedily as his tongue swirled around the sensitive bud. Your answering moan spurred him on, his free hand sliding down to cup your ass, kneading the firm globe possessively.

Matt's demeanor shifted abruptly, his usual shyness melting away like snow under the summer sun. In its place was a raw, primal dominance that sent shivers racing down your spine.

"On your knees," he commanded, his voice a deep, authoritative rumble. There was no room for argument, no trace of the hesitant boy you knew. This was a man who took what he wanted, and right now, he wanted you.

Obediently, you sank to the floor, your heart pounding in your ears as you gazed up at him through lowered lashes. Matt towered over you, his cock jutting proudly.

"Open your mouth," he growled, fisting a hand in your hair and guiding you closer.

Your lips parted automatically, a thrill of submission coursing through you at Matt's commanding tone. He wasted no time, feeding his thick length past your lips and onto your tongue, groaning at the slick heat enveloping him.

"Fuck, yes," he grunted, setting a punishing pace as he fucked your face with abandon. One hand remained tangled in your hair, holding you steady while the other braced against the wall behind you, his muscles flexing with each powerful thrust.

Saliva dripped down your chin as you struggled to accommodate his girth, your jaw aching with the strain. But the depravity of it all, the sheer wrongness of being used so roughly by your roommate and best friend, only heightened your arousal.

Your muffled moans vibrated around Matt's cock as he continued to use your mouth for his pleasure, his balls slapping against your chin with each brutal snap of his hips. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the intensity, but you didn't dare pull away, submitting wholly to his dominance.

"That's it, take it all," Matt snarled, his voice guttural and rough with lust. "Bein’ such a good girl f’me, aren't you?"

His filthy words sent liquid heat straight to your core, your neglected cunt clenching around emptiness for the umpteenth time tonight. You needed more, craved the feel of him stretching you open, claiming you in the most primal way possible.

As if sensing your desperation, Matt suddenly withdrew, leaving you gasping and bereft.

"Need you so fuckin' bad, been waitin' years for this shit, kid," Matt rasped, his voice dripping with pent-up hunger. Before you could even process his words, he had you lifted off your feet, strong hands gripping your thighs as he tossed you onto the bed like a ragdoll.

You bounced slightly on the mattress, the springs creaking under your combined weight. Matt was on you in an instant, pinning you beneath his larger frame as he forced your legs apart, exposing your dripping sex to his ravenous gaze.

"Christ," he panted, his eyes dark with lust. "fuckin’ dripping baby, look at that, already making such a mess on your bed and i’ve yet to touch you."

Matt wasted no time burying his face between your thighs, his tongue delving deep into your soaked folds without preamble. “Matt! oh-“ You cried out sharply at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the bed as he lapped at your essence like a man possessed.

"Mmmph, so sweet," he mumbled against your flesh, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating outward. His nose nudged your swollen clit, inhaling deeply as if savoring your unique musk. "Could eat this pretty pussy all day long."

Two thick fingers plunged knuckle-deep into your fluttering hole, pumping in and out at a relentless pace. They curled just so, rubbing mercilessly against that sweet spot inside you, coaxing you towards the edge with ruthless efficiency.

"Oh god, Matt!" you keened, your voice high and breathy with need. Your fingers scrabbled desperately at the sheets beneath you, seeking stability as the intense pleasure threatened to consume you whole. "Don't stop, please don't stop!"

Your hips bucked wildly, grinding shamelessly against his talented mouth as he worked you over with single-minded focus. The obscene wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your sopping cunt filled the room, mingling with your wanton moans and his guttural groans of satisfaction.

It was filthy, debauched, everything you'd ever fantasized about late at night when you were alone with nothing but your imagination and your trusty vibrator for company.

Matt's tongue swirled around your throbbing clit, flicking rapidly over the sensitive bundle of nerves until you saw stars. His fingers never ceased their relentless assault, curling and twisting inside you, stroking along your inner walls with practiced precision.

"M’gonna...gonna come!" you sobbed, teetering on the razor's edge of ecstasy. Every muscle in your body pulled taut, quivering with the force of your impending release. "oh my god"

With a triumphant growl, he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked hard, his fingers pistoning furiously. That was all it took to send you hurtling over the precipice, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave of pure bliss.

As the aftershocks of your climax rippled through you, Matt shifted his position, moving to hover over your trembling form. You could feel the blunt head of his cock nudging insistently at your entrance, smearing the copious juices seeping from your tight hole.

A small puddle of your combined fluids had formed beneath you, staining the sheets with irrefutable evidence of your mutual desire. The musky scent of sex hung heavy in the air.

Matt groaned low in his throat as he rubbed the swollen tip of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself liberally in your essence. The drag of his thick shaft against your sensitive flesh drew another desperate whimper from your lips, your hips canting upwards in silent invitation.

"You're so fuckin' wet for me," he rasped, his voice rough with barely restrained lust. "Bet this tight little cunt is just dyin' to be stretched wide on my cock, isn't she?"

"Yes, please," you breathed, your voice hoarse from screaming his name mere moments ago. " need you inside me, been wanting this for so long..."

Your hands roamed restlessly over his broad shoulders and back, mapping the planes of his muscular body. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the barely leashed control he was exerting over himself.

"Please, Matt," you whimpered again, wrapping your legs around his waist and locking your ankles at the small of his back. "Don't make me beg."

“As much as I’d love to hear that shit,” he huffs out and with a guttural moan, Matt surged forward, bottoming out in one powerful thrust. Your velvety walls clenched greedily around him, drawing him deeper into your welcoming heat.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," he panted, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he fought to maintain some semblance of restraint. "So tight, so perfect. Like you were made just for me."

He began to move then, withdrawing almost completely before plunging back in with bruising force. Each snap of his hips drove you further up the bed, the headboard banging rhythmically against the wall in a lewd counterpoint to the obscene squelch of his cock plundering your sopping wet cunt.

The pressure built steadily within you, coiling tighter and tighter with each punishing thrust. Your nails raked down his back, leaving angry red welts in their wake as you clung to him desperately, urging him deeper still.

"Harder-please," you demanded breathlessly, tilting your hips to meet his increasingly erratic strokes. "wanna feel you for days."

Your plea seemed to shatter the last vestiges of his control. With a feral snarl, Matt flipped you over onto your stomach, hauling your ass up into the air. He kicked your legs apart with his knee, opening you up completely to his hungry gaze.

"Gonna ruin this sweet little cunt," he promised darkly, delivering a sharp smack to your upturned rear. "Fill you up 'til you're leakin' with my cum."

"Yes, yes, fuck!" you chanted deliriously, pushing back against him with wild abandon. Each brutal thrust sent sparks of pleasure-pain racing up your spine, stoking the inferno building in your core.

The wet slap of skin on skin echoed obscenely throughout the room, punctuated by your loud cries and his grunts. Sweat dripped down his brow, plastering stray locks of hair to his forehead as he rutted into you like a madman.

"M’close," he bit out through clenched teeth, his movements growing increasingly erratic. "Come with me, baby. Wanna feel this tight pussy milking me dry."

With a strangled cry, you came undone, your release crashing over you like a tsunami. Your walls clamped down vice-like around his pistoning length, rippling along every inch as you rode out the waves of ecstasy.

The sensation proved too much for Matt. With a guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself deep inside your cunt. Thick ropes of cum painted your insides, marking you irrevocably as his.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, simply basking in the afterglow as you struggled to catch your breath. Finally, Matt rolled to the side, gathering you close and tucking your head beneath his chin.

"That was...fuck," he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to your sweat-damp temple. "Best damn snow day of my life."

The two of you lay tangled together, limbs intertwined as you slowly drifted back to reality. The world outside continued to rage, wind howling and snow piling up, but here in the cocoon of Matt's arms, all was warm and peaceful.

As your breathing evened out, you felt a strange sense of contentment wash over you. This was more than just a casual hookup born of opportunity and circumstance - there was a connection here, something real and profound.

Matt seemed to sense it too. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling deeply as if trying to memorize your scent. "Let me stay tonight," he whispered, his voice soft and vulnerable but this time in a way you'd never heard before. "wanna hold you 'til morning."

A sleepy smile curved your lips as you nodded against his chest. "Stay," you mumbled, already feeling yourself slipping towards slumber. "Wanna wake up with you."

Matt pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his strong arms tightening around you possessively. "Sleep, sweetheart. I got you."

As consciousness faded away, you couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so safe, so cherished. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new uncertainties - but for now, wrapped up in the warmth of Matt's embrace, everything was exactly as it should be.

And you could finally sleep.

AUTHORS NOTE: i’ve said it before but thank you guys again so so much for 200+ followers :,) i hope you enjoyed.

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madamechrissy · 2 months ago

Text

Girl I'm Into It

NSFW- WC- 1.4k- Request for heavy petting w/Gojo! College AU, lots of dry humping, touching, and teasing, Virgin Gojo blushing and whimpering for reasons lol <3

"Holy fuck the party's cramped." You mumble, sipping on this godawful punch in the middle of a rather insane frat party. The scent of smoke and cloyingly sweet liquor mixes with the endless amounts of men's axe body spray and cheap perfume. You look at Satoru then, shaking your head at him. "You really joining the frat, Toru?"

"Yeah, I mean why not? Suguru and Kento are."

"I know but... we play Digimon, Toru."

"Hush!" Satoru covers your mouth up quickly, looking around nervously, making you both laugh then. "You're the nerd."

"Me!?"

"You. Hey man, watch it!" Satoru shoves a dude who has bumped into you out of the way now, sighing as there are just far too many people, watching as you get nervous. "Wanna go to a room? Get away?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind?" You and Satoru had been friends forever, including now that you're in college of course, but parties weren't your thing, especially frat parties. But, you want to support Satoru in whatever he does. He leads you down the halls now, opening a room and peeking in, seeing a couple on the bed.

"Shit, sorry!" He closes the door, now opening another, grinning down at you brightly, his pretty blue eyes glittering under snowy lashes. "Got it."

"Thanks, Toru." You murmur, as he leads you in the room and shuts the door behind you both, the bed looks... questionable, so he instead sits on a big recliner, patting his long leg. You blush at the thought, hoping he can't see.

"Seat right here. The bed looks diseased." He says with a shiver of disgust, you laugh then, sitting on his thigh. You all had done this before at parties, you were good friends and it wasn't crazy but...

But Satoru's leg feels so good between your thighs.

So good you're nervous he can sense your heat, as you've both gotten older you've had more and more feelings for him. But now he's at this university, going to be in a frat, and you're over at an art school, he's right in saying you are a nerd...

"What's wrong silly?" He asks then, peeking at his phone, popping on a song, you try to relax a bit when his big hand is on your bare thigh so casually, he's leaning back to get comfortable, long legs sprawled out, pressing his thigh up even more.

"Um..." You gasp then, when your hips shift, and you feel your panties getting wet, panicking. He has on jeans thank god, maybe he doesn't notice!?

"Recharge that social battery." He teases, and you turn your head again, shifting your hips experimentally, he pauses now, lips parted, pouty pink ones you want to kiss so damn bad. "Fuck... you're..."

"Sorry, shit." You stand now, then look down in horror at the wet spot on his light blue jeans, covering your face in embarrassment. He gulps then, running a thumb over the sticky wetness, exhaling, blue eyes locked on it. "I'll leave-"

"Stop, it's normal yeah?" He laps it up on his thumb, moaning, and your pussy throbs around nothing. "Fuck it's... sweet?"

"It is?" You whisper, he nods then, looking up at you under those long snowy lashes, taking your hips carefully and spinning you towards him. "Gojo I've never..."

"Me either." You gasp at that, eyes wide, and he's blushing now, cheeks flushed pink on his perfect skin.

"How!? You're so popular, and gorgeous-"

"You think I'm gorgeous?" He asks, thin white brows drawn together, now you're between his thighs, his hands pressing into your hips, your entire body is reacting, your breaths quicker and quicker.

"Of course I do, Toru."

"Well I think you're pretty. So pretty." He says softly, and suddenly your hand is running through his silky white locks, as the other rests on a strong bicep over his long sleeved shirt.

"You do?" You manage to whisper, he nods, pulling you on his lap then, your thighs on either side, shaking as you kneel over him. "Toru what are..."

"Can we kiss? Please? Pretty please?" He bats his lashes, pouting, and you nod with a little nervous laugh. "I've done some things if you want me to show you?"

"Like kiss?" You whisper, lips pressing against his now, Satoru moans against your lips, you feel them, plush and firm against yours, his hot tongue slipping inside your mouth, you gasp then. You cling to his shoulders as your panties now brush against his lap, and you sink down, crying out at how good it feels, his hardness between your dripping folds.

"You're a good kisser." He murmurs, pulling back, pressing you down firmer now, and you're soaking your panties, ruining them completely, earning his groan. "I can feel how hot you are. She's so needy, hmm?" His tone goes husky, your lips part at it, gasping, your head falling back as you roll your hips again, grinding on his cock over his clothes.

"Satoru... need more." You whimper when he's kissing the tops of your breasts, then up your throat, licking and biting, bucking his hips up then, earning another cry of pleasure, heat pooling in your core. "Ngh!"

"Those sounds you make, fuck..." Satoru picks you up by your hips then, slipping a finger to your swollen clit over your panties. "They're soaked."

"Embarrassing... ah!" Satoru's little hum of satisfaction just makes you wetter, he's looking right at you, and you're drowning in that gaze, in the swirling blue depths of his eyes.

"Let me make you cum." He whispers, slipping past the elastic of your panties now, finding your soaking wet pussy with his fingers, you nearly fall apart at it, pausing your movements. He moans, hard cock shoving up more. "No, keep rocking on me."

"Y-you sure?" He nods eagerly, so you rock more on Satoru's cock, his finger rolling on your clit now in little circles, watching you, flushed cheeks, parted full lips. You kiss them as you cry out, grinding helplessly while he keeps rolling circles, then starts flicking back and forth. "Toru!"

"So wet, oh my god... so pretty..." He is urging you on more and more with every breath, every kiss, until you're about to fall, and he's sensing it, free hand grabbing your ass, shoving you further on his clothed cock, panties a sticky mess. You're dripping all the way down his finger as he's moaning, harder and harder between your lips. "Let go, I've got you."

"Toru I-"

"Cum." You scream out then, as if on command, shuddering as your wetness gushes all over, as you throb around nothing, making a mess of his finger, your panties, his jeans. He moans now, sucking on his finger before kissing you, grinding up more and more, gasping as you're trembling, clinging to him, wanting more and more...

suddenly the door knocks, and you both curse. "Go away." He grumbles, you giggle then, hips moving just a bit, and Satoru is now slipping down his zipper, you watch with a gulp as his cock is revealed, a sticky wet spot on his boxers as his pretty cock springs free, long and curved, making you wetter. " Can I... rub it on you?" He asks, you nod nervously, and Satoru now has slipped his pretty pink tip into your panties, rubbing on your engorged clit.

"Satoru!" You're gushing more and more, and he groans then, all flushed, clinging to your ass as he fucks your panties.

"F-fuck you're too wet, too hot I- ah- oh my god..." You feel something hot and sticky against you now, and you flush, looking down to see Satoru's cock is spurting hot white ropes of sticky cum agaisnt you. He rests his head on your chest, whimpering. "Fuck I'm sorry. Shit, shit shit..."

"Toru... it's okay." You whisper then, he is blushing as bad as you are when he tilts back, looking up, cupping your face gently. You place your hand down and lap some of it up, moaning. "You're yummy too."

"Fuck... let me..." Satoru picks you up then, taking off the panties he'd cum in, laughing a little nervously as you watch him, only for him to turn you and sit you on the seat, pushing your thighs apart. He fingers the sticky cum on your pussy lips, kneeling then.

"W-what are you doing?" You whisper, and he looks up at you with dilated eyes, kissing up your inner thigh.

"Gonna clean up my mess."

Virgin Toru is new for me aha, but he's adorableee

#satoru gojo #gojo smut #satoru x reader #jjk gojo #satoru gojo smut #satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x y/n #satoru x y/n #jujustu kaisen #satoru x you

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pucksandpower · 2 months ago

Text

She’s a Menace

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max has to deal with quite a distraction while on his sim (or in which there are definitely worse reasons to crash than you on your knees in front of him)

Warnings: 18+ content

Note: Max Verstappen is a four-time World Drivers’ Champion, so I leave you with this in celebration

Max squints at the screen, the blue glow of the monitors highlighting the concentration etched on his face. The steady hum of his sim rig fills the room as he grips the steering wheel, eyes locked on the track ahead. The chat is already buzzing with excitement, a stream of messages flowing faster than the race itself.

He leans forward slightly, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he pushes for the perfect line through the next corner. This is supposed to be a casual race with Team Redline, but Max never does anything halfway.

From the corner of his eye, he catches a flicker of movement. His heart stutters, but he keeps his gaze trained on the screen. Just focus. But then you’re there, slipping under his desk with the kind of stealth that makes him question how well he really knows you.

“Hey, what are you-” His voice is low, more of a mutter to himself as you settle in the cramped space, your hand resting lightly on his knee. He almost laughs at the absurdity, but then he feels the warmth of your palm through the fabric of his jeans, and his breath hitches.

“Max?” Your voice is sweet, innocent. The kind of innocent that makes his blood rush south.

“Not now,” he whispers harshly, trying to sound firm, but the effect is ruined by the way his voice catches on the last word. He clears his throat, gripping the wheel tighter. “I’m in the middle of a race.”

“I know,” you say, and he can practically hear the smile in your voice. “That’s why I’m here.”

His eyes flicker down for just a second — just a second — but it’s enough for him to miss his braking point. The car skids off track, and the chat explodes in a mixture of surprise and good-natured ribbing.

“Shit,” he mutters, jerking the wheel back to recover. He can hear his teammates’ voices through the headset, but they’re a distant buzz compared to the sensation of your fingers trailing up his thigh.

“What are you doing?” He hisses, trying to keep his voice low enough that it doesn’t pick up on the mic.

“Just helping,” you reply, your breath hot against his leg as you shift closer. “You seemed tense.”

“Tense?” He echoes, his voice tight with disbelief. “You’re not helping.”

“Are you sure?”

You lean in, your lips brushing against the inside of his knee, and he sucks in a sharp breath. His grip on the wheel falters, the car veering dangerously close to the edge of the track again.

“Stop,” he manages to say, but it’s more of a plea than a command. “Seriously, I-”

The next corner is coming up fast, too fast. He needs to focus, but then you lick a slow, deliberate line up his thigh, and it’s like every coherent thought evaporates from his brain. His foot jerks on the pedal, and the car slams into the wall with a crunch that makes him wince.

“Max, what the hell happened?” One of his teammates asks through the headset, genuine concern in his voice.

“Uh,” Max swallows, trying to keep his voice steady, “I think Sassy’s messing around. You know how she gets.”

“Sassy?” You repeat, muffling a laugh against his leg. “Really?”

Max doesn’t dare look down at you, his face burning as he tries to get the car back on track. “Yeah, Sassy,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s …you know …”

“A menace?” You offer, sliding your hand higher until it’s dangerously close to something that would definitely get picked up by the mic.

“Distracting,” he corrects, his voice cracking just slightly. “Very distracting.”

“Hmm.” You hum thoughtfully, your fingers tracing patterns that make his pulse race. “I thought you were good at handling distractions.”

Max clenches his teeth, trying to will away the flush spreading across his cheeks. “This is different,” he bites out, his knuckles white on the wheel. “You’re-”

He cuts off with a strangled noise as your lips brush against the zipper of his jeans. His head falls back for a split second, eyes squeezing shut. The chat is a blur, his teammates’ voices barely registering over the pounding of his heart.

“You okay there, Max?” Someone asks, clearly picking up on his unusual silence.

“Yeah, fine,” he says, forcing the words out in a breathless rush. “Just — Sassy’s really being a pain tonight.”

“Oh, Sassy’s being a pain, is she?” You tease, your fingers deftly working at his zipper.

Max’s heart leaps into his throat as he feels the fabric give way under your touch. “Don’t-” He starts, but it’s too late. You’re already working him free, your breath ghosting over his skin, and he feels like he might actually die right here, on stream, in front of thousands of people.

He can barely see the track now, his vision blurring at the edges as you take him into your mouth. The sensation is overwhelming, the wet heat of your tongue drawing a low, involuntary groan from his chest. He tries to bite it back, but it slips out before he can stop it.

The sound of his own voice brings him back to reality with a jolt, and he scrambles to mute the mic before anyone can ask questions. He fumbles, nearly dropping the wheel in the process, but finally manages to switch off his headset.

“God, you’re going to kill me,” he gasps, his voice hoarse as he looks down at you.

You pull back just enough to look up at him, your eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re doing great, by the way. Really holding it together.”

“Barely,” he mutters, his hand slipping from the wheel to tangle in your hair. He knows he should stop you, that he should be focused on the race, but the way you’re looking at him — like this is all some delicious game — makes it impossible to think straight.

“You’re such a good driver, Max,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the tip of him, and his whole body jerks in response. “But I wonder how good you are at multitasking.”

“I’m not,” he breathes out, his hand tightening in your hair. “I’m really not.”

“Sure you are.” You smile against him, and the sensation sends a shiver down his spine. “You just need a little more practice.”

“I’m going to crash again,” he warns, but it’s weak, almost a whimper as you take him deeper.

“Mmm,” you hum around him, and his hips buck involuntarily, the wheel spinning out of his grip as the car careens off the track once more.

He bites down on his lip so hard he tastes blood, but he can’t stop the moan that rumbles in his chest. “Fuck,” he mutters, his free hand gripping the edge of the desk like a lifeline. “Fuck, fuck-”

You pull back just enough to let your breath cool the wet skin, and his whole body shudders. “Max,” you purr, your voice a sinful mix of sweet and sultry. “What would Sassy think if she knew you were blaming her for this?”

“She-” His breath hitches as you lick a slow line up his length. “She would definitely not approve.”

“Maybe you should apologize to her later,” you suggest, and then you’re taking him back into your mouth, and he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but fall apart.

“Yeah,” he gasps out, the word barely audible as you suck harder, your hand sliding up to cup him in a way that makes his vision go white at the edges. “Definitely. Later.”

You hum in agreement, the vibrations driving him to the edge faster than he’d like to admit. He knows he’s losing control, knows that anyone paying attention to his stream can see how erratic his driving has become, but he can’t bring himself to care.

All that matters is you, your mouth on him, your tongue working him in ways that make his toes curl inside his socks. His head drops back against the chair, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets himself drown in the sensation.

“Fuck, you’re-” he chokes out, the words getting lost in a strangled moan as you take him even deeper, your nose brushing against the base of him. He feels the world tilt on its axis, the car crashing into the wall once more, but it’s a distant concern, something he can’t even begin to process right now.

His hand tightens in your hair, guiding you, urging you on as he teeters on the brink. “I’m close,” he warns, his voice a desperate rasp. “So close-”

But you already know, you always know, and the way you speed up, the way you suck him in like you’re starving for it, pushes him right over the edge. His whole body tenses, his hips jerking as he comes with a guttural moan that he knows would have been embarrassing if he weren’t so far gone.

“Fuck,” he breathes out again, the word shaky as you continue to work him through it, your movements slow and gentle now, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from him until he’s a boneless heap in his chair.

He’s vaguely aware of the game still running on the screen in front of him, the car idling against the wall, the chat a blur of confusion and speculation. But all he can think about is the way you’re licking him clean, your tongue gentle and deliberate as you savor every lingering moment of his release. His breath comes in shallow gasps, the aftershocks of pleasure rippling through his body, leaving him utterly spent.

“Jesus,” he finally manages, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. His fingers slip from your hair, trailing down to rest on your shoulder. “You … I don’t even know what to say.”

You look up at him from beneath the desk, your eyes sparkling with mischief and something darker, more intimate. “Say thank you,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice as you place one final kiss on him before tucking him back into his jeans.

Max chuckles breathlessly, running a hand through his hair. “Thank you,” he echoes, but it’s more than just gratitude — it’s awe, admiration, an acknowledgment of just how thoroughly you’ve unraveled him.

“You’re welcome,” you purr, crawling out from under the desk with a grace that seems unfair, given what you’ve just done to him. As you straighten up, you brush a hand over your clothes, smoothing out any wrinkles as if you haven’t just reduced him to a quivering mess.

Max watches you, still dazed, as you take a seat on the edge of the desk, your fingers idly tracing the lines of the virtual steering wheel on the screen. “You should probably get back to your race,” you say casually, though the satisfied smirk on your lips tells him you know exactly what kind of chaos you’ve left in your wake.

“Race?” He blinks, trying to reconnect with reality. The reality where he’s supposed to be streaming, where thousands of people are watching, where he’s just crashed his car in the most embarrassing way possible. “Oh, fuck.”

You laugh softly, clearly enjoying his distress as he scrambles to put his headset back on. The game is still running, but the car is totaled, and his teammates are probably wondering why he’s been completely silent for the past few minutes.

Max clears his throat, trying to summon some semblance of professionalism as he un-mutes the mic. “Sorry, mates,” he says, his voice cracking slightly as he glances at the chat, which is now filled with endless variations of what happened? “Uh, Sassy … Sassy knocked something over. Had to deal with that.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, followed by the sound of someone barely holding back laughter. “Sassy, huh?” One of his teammates finally says, amusement clear in his voice. “Sure it wasn’t something else?”

“Yeah, mate, you sounded a bit — preoccupied,” another one chimes in, and Max can practically hear the grin in his voice.

Max shoots a glare in your direction, but you just smile sweetly, completely unrepentant. “Just a bit of a distraction,” he says, forcing a laugh that he hopes sounds natural. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Mmhmm,” his teammate replies, clearly unconvinced. “Well, whatever it was, you might want to keep it in check. You’re not exactly in winning form right now.”

Max groans internally, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll focus, promise.”

But as he puts his hands back on the wheel and tries to get back into the game, his thoughts are still swirling around what just happened, how thoroughly you’ve taken him apart and put him back together. He can feel the ghost of your touch on his skin, the way your lips felt against him, the sound of your voice whispering his name in that sinfully sweet tone.

You, however, seem entirely unbothered by the chaos you’ve caused. You hop off the desk and start to leave the room, but not before pausing in the doorway to shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“Oh, and Max?” You say, your voice just loud enough for the mic to catch it, ensuring that everyone in the stream hears. “Next time, don’t give our cat the credit for my handiwork.”

Max’s eyes widen in horror as the implications of what you’ve just said sink in, and the chat goes wild with speculation. He can’t believe you’ve just thrown that grenade and walked away, leaving him to deal with the fallout.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his face burning as he hears the barely suppressed laughter of his teammates through the headset. He quickly fumbles to mute his mic again, before the noise from the chat can start bleeding through his headphones.

From the other side of the house, you can hear Max still muttering, cursing under his breath as he tries to explain away what just happened, though it’s clear from the chaos in the chat that he’s not fooling anyone. You’re pretty sure “Sassy” is going to become the new code word among his fans for a long, long time.

You can’t help but smile to yourself as you walk away, already planning the next time you’ll disrupt his perfectly controlled world with a bit of your own brand of chaos. Because you know Max — no matter how much he complains, he secretly loves every minute of it.

***

Max clicks out of the game, his heart still racing — not from the competition, but from the aftermath of your little stunt. His teammates had ribbed him mercilessly for the rest of the race, making it impossible to focus, and he’d finally had to give up entirely when it became clear he was more liability than asset.

But that’s fine, he thinks, as he heads to your shared bedroom. You’d wanted to play, and now it’s his turn.

He pushes open the door quietly, the soft sound of your breathing drawing him in. You’re sprawled out on the bed, lounging in a silk robe that clings to your curves in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination. One leg is draped lazily over the edge, your foot brushing against the floor, and your head is tilted back against the pillows, eyes half-closed in what looks like pure satisfaction.

Max pauses in the doorway, taking in the sight of you. The low light casts a warm glow over your skin, making the fabric of your robe shimmer as it catches the subtle movement of your body. You don’t see him at first, too caught up in your own thoughts, and he uses that moment to just watch you, to drink in every detail.

He’s still not entirely sure how he got so lucky, how he ended up with someone who could turn his world upside down with just a look, a touch, a whispered word. But he’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’d taken control earlier, had driven him to the brink of insanity with your teasing, your lips, your tongue … but now, now it’s his turn.

“Enjoying yourself?” He asks, his voice low, almost a growl, as he steps into the room. You startle slightly, eyes snapping open, but then you relax, a slow, lazy smile spreading across your lips.

“Immensely,” you reply, stretching like a cat, your robe parting just enough to give him a tantalizing glimpse of what’s underneath. “Though I was wondering when you’d finish up in there. Took you long enough.”

Max’s eyes narrow, though there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re awfully confident for someone who just crashed me into a wall in front of thousands of people.”

You laugh softly, completely unrepentant, as you prop yourself up on one elbow. “You needed to be taken down a peg. I figured I was doing the world a favor.”

“Oh, is that right?” He crosses the room, his gaze dark and intent, and you shift slightly under the intensity of it, though you don’t look away. “Well, I think it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond before he reaches the walk-in closet, pulling open the door and flicking on the light. The space is meticulously organized — suits, Red Bull-branded shirts, shoes all lined up with military precision. But it’s the back corner that interests him tonight, the small, nondescript box that he keeps tucked away behind a row of neatly hung jackets.

He retrieves it with a sense of satisfaction, running his fingers over the smooth wood before he opens it. Inside, nestled in soft velvet, are the toys he’s collected over time. Some are simple, others more complex, but each one has a purpose, a particular use that he knows will drive you wild.

He hears you shift on the bed, a small rustle of fabric as you sit up a bit straighter, curiosity piqued. He doesn’t turn around just yet, letting the anticipation build as he selects a few choice items, things he knows you love, things he knows you can’t resist.

When he finally turns back to you, the box in hand, your eyes widen slightly, and you bite your lower lip — a telltale sign that your confident façade is starting to crack. Good.

“What are you planning to do with those?” You ask, though your voice wavers just enough to give away the thrill that’s running through you.

Max sets the box down on the bed beside you, his gaze never leaving your face as he leans in close, so close that you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin. “I’m going to make you beg,” he says simply, the words a promise, a challenge.

Your breath hitches, but you don’t back down, your eyes locked with his as you try to maintain some semblance of control. “You can try,” you whisper, though the defiance in your voice is already weakening.

He doesn’t respond with words — he doesn’t need to. Instead, he reaches for the silk tie at your waist, slowly, deliberately tugging it loose until the robe falls open, exposing the soft, bare skin beneath. You shiver as the cool air hits your body, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze, the way his eyes rake over you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat.

Max takes his time, tracing a finger down the line of your collarbone, over the curve of your breast, the flat plane of your stomach. You watch him, transfixed, your breathing growing shallow as his touch ignites a fire beneath your skin.

When he finally reaches for one of the toys — a sleek, slim vibrator that he knows you love — you feel a surge of anticipation, your body already responding to the thought of what’s to come.

He clicks it on, the low hum filling the room, and you can’t help the small gasp that escapes your lips as he trails it along the inside of your thigh, just teasing, just enough to make you squirm. “Max …” you breathe, your voice shaky, and he smiles, a slow, wicked smile that sends a thrill of both excitement and nervousness coursing through you.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lips. “We’re just getting started.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he presses the vibrator against you, right where you’re most sensitive, the sudden burst of pleasure making you cry out, your hips bucking instinctively against the pressure. But Max holds you in place, his grip firm, his eyes never leaving your face as he watches your every reaction.

“Look at you,” he whispers, almost to himself, his voice filled with something akin to awe as he takes in the way your body responds to his touch, the way you can’t help but arch against him, your hands clutching at the sheets. “So beautiful …”

You can’t form a coherent response, your mind too clouded with pleasure, too focused on the way the vibrator is driving you closer and closer to the edge. But Max isn’t done with you — not even close.

He switches to a lower setting, drawing out the sensation, making you writhe beneath him as he pushes you to the brink but refuses to let you fall over it. “Max, please …” you whimper, your voice barely more than a breath, but he only chuckles, clearly enjoying the way you’re already coming undone beneath him.

“Not yet,” he says, his tone teasing, as he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss that’s as much about control as it is about passion. You can feel the smirk on his lips as he swallows your desperate moans, the vibrations from the toy matching the rhythm of his kiss, each one driving you closer to that sweet release.

But he doesn’t let you have it. Not yet.

He pulls back, the vibrator slipping away just as you’re about to tip over the edge, leaving you gasping, trembling with need. You make a small sound of protest, your body arching towards him, but he only smiles, a look of pure satisfaction on his face as he watches you struggle to catch your breath.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” He asks, his voice low and husky as he reaches for something else from the box — a small, delicate clamp that he knows will drive you wild. He catches one of your nipples between his fingers, rolling it gently before attaching the clamp, the sharp sting of it sending a jolt of pleasure straight through you.

You cry out, your hands fisting in the sheets as the sensation takes over, and he doesn’t give you a moment to recover before he attaches the other one, his hands firm and steady even as you squirm beneath him.

“Max … Max, please …” you beg, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them, but he only shakes his head, his eyes dark with lust as he takes in the sight of you — flushed, panting, utterly at his mercy.

“Not until you’re screaming for me,” he says, his voice a promise, a threat, as he turns the vibrator back on, this time at a higher setting, pressing it against you with enough force to make you see stars.

It’s too much, too intense, the pleasure building and building until you’re on the verge of breaking, but Max holds you there, right on the edge, refusing to let you fall until you’re practically sobbing with need.

“Please, Max, please …” you cry, your voice broken, desperate, and finally, finally, he relents, his hand moving faster, the vibrations intensifying until you’re shattering beneath him, your entire body convulsing with the force of your release.

You scream his name, the sound ripping from your throat as the pleasure crashes over you, wave after wave, until you’re left trembling, barely able to catch your breath. Max doesn’t let up, his hand steady, relentless, pushing you through one orgasm and into the next until you’re nothing but a quivering, incoherent mess beneath him.

When he finally pulls back, turning off the vibrator and removing the clamps with a gentleness that’s at odds with the intensity of what just happened, you’re too spent to even lift your head. Your body feels like it’s made of jelly, every nerve ending still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Max watches you for a moment, his eyes dark and unreadable, before he leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing, as if he’s trying to bring you back down from the high he just sent you to. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair away from your face, and you lean into the touch, your eyes fluttering closed as you try to steady your breathing.

You’re too tired to respond, too worn out to even think about moving, but Max doesn’t seem to mind. He moves off the bed, and you hear the soft rustle of fabric as he picks up the discarded toys, the quiet click as he puts them away in the box.

When he returns to your side, he’s holding a bottle of water, and he gently lifts your head, pressing the cool rim of the bottle to your lips. You take a sip, the water refreshing as it slides down your throat, and Max gives you a small smile, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a tender gesture.

“Feeling better?” He asks, his tone lighter now, teasing, as he sits down beside you on the bed. You nod, still too exhausted to speak, and he chuckles softly, clearly pleased with himself.

“You’re not going to try that again anytime soon, are you?” He raises an eyebrow as he leans back against the headboard, one arm draped casually over your shoulders. There’s no real edge to his words, no anger — just a quiet amusement, as if he’s already looking forward to the next time you challenge him.

You manage a weak smile, your head resting against his chest as you let out a soft, contented sigh. “I might,” you murmur, your voice still a little shaky, but there’s a hint of defiance in it, a spark that tells him you’re not completely defeated.

Max laughs at that, a deep, rich sound that vibrates through his chest and into your ear, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm. “We’ll see about that,” he says, his voice warm and full of affection.

For a while, the two of you just sit there, wrapped in the comfortable silence that only comes after something so intimate, so intense. Max’s hand never stops moving, his touch soothing and grounding as he holds you close, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, you let out a soft sigh, tilting your head up to look at him. “You’re too good to me,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, but the words are full of gratitude, of love.

Max’s gaze softens, and he leans down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a gentle caress. “I love you,” he says simply, and the words are so full of sincerity, of emotion, that they take your breath away.

You smile against his lips, your heart swelling with warmth as you snuggle closer, feeling safe, cherished, and utterly content. “I love you too,” you whisper back, and for a moment, the world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you in this perfect, blissful bubble.

Max holds you like that for a while longer, until your breathing evens out, and you start to drift off to sleep. He shifts slightly, pulling the covers up over you and tucking them in around your body with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

Just as you’re about to fall asleep, you hear him murmur something, his voice low and full of affection. “Rest now,” he says, his fingers brushing over your hair in a soothing rhythm. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

And with that, you finally allow yourself to relax completely, letting the warmth of his embrace and the soft, steady beat of his heart lull you into a deep, peaceful sleep.

1K notes · View notes

wellhealthhub · 1 year ago

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Diabetes Sore Legs: A Profound and Comprehensive Exploration of the Multifaceted Causes, Elusive Symptoms, and Optimal Management Strategies

Welcome to our erudite and all-encompassing guide, meticulously crafted to delve into the intricacies of the intricate interplay between the ubiquitous malady of diabetes and its enigmatic association with the distressing condition of sore legs. As an omnipresent scourge, diabetes ensnares a staggering multitude across the expansive globe, and its repercussions traverse far beyond the realm of…

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otkuhotgirl · 3 months ago

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─── 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑 .

# with black-leg sanji.

milk started to leak from your nipples — and sanji was never one to waste food.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day one. smut (mdni). breast worship. lactation. praise kink. pathetic sanji. handjob. no y/n used. afab!reader.

WC: 2k.

sanji had witnessed a fair share of devil-fruits in action throughout their sailing. from those who were foolish in its essence, such as that of the candle wax; to those who were horrid and lethal — sanji could well-reminisce the brightness and the sharp ache that followed-in-suit to enel’s lightning strikes. he figured not another thing could surprise him; until his crew faced a short-lived and stupid battle against the pirates from a self-proclaimed stork-stork captain.

the opponents caused no harm. their captain, all but managing to brush your shoulder before being swiftly knocked out. relieved with your untouched health — as it was shown through your exterior —, the straw-hats’ lives returned to common routine in the aftermath, not a thing amiss. that was, of course, until you started to throw up.

countless examinations and book researches pointed out the source of your illness. the devil-fruit from the stork-captain was known for the ability to impregnate others. however, the user needed to touch two people, and that hadn’t been the case — which had sanji praying and thanking gods he hardly believed in. the mere thought of you, bearing the marimo’s child, was enough to leave him seething. comical reaction aside, chopper theorized that, as you had no bundle of cells within your uterus, you’d but suffer from some pregnancy-related effects for a while — perhaps a time equal to the duration of your period. their doctor advised you to refrain from touching others with the previous common frequency, as to avoid the triggering of said devil-fruit.

that had happened four days ago, and sanji was in the deepest pit of despair. you were far from sight throughout the day, gracing them with your presence only during meal times — and even then, your chair was placed the furthest away from the rest, as to avoid accidental brushing. sanji was half-aware of the anatomical consequences of pregnancy: nausea, cramps, swelling; and being unable to support you through it all was driving him insane.

the soothing herbal tea he brewed was intercepted. he had chopper trailing behind him for hours on end. whenever you aimed to spend time outside the walls of your room, the damned marimo stood by the crow’s nest door as though a guarding dog, unallowing him to proceed. even then, with the sunny docked and most of the crew elsewhere, sanji held no expectations of sharing an alone moment with you whatsoever, as robin had been the one assigned to stay behind in order to guarantee that the pair of you would be kept separated. sanji could neither argue nor defy a woman’s request, and robin could not be swayed with monetary bribery on your part.

he sighed. the weather was not suitable for lukewarm beverages, so he could, at least, distract himself from you with thoughts on how to turn thyme tea into a pleasant summer drink. a knock on the kitchen’s door — followed-in-suit by light steps — tore him from his thoughts, however. sanji’s nostrils were filled with the characteristic scent of your perfume, and he turned to your direction so fast he was positive a bone in his back cracked.

“my love!” sanji shouted, gripping the counter to resist the urge to jump you.

“hi,” you greeted softly, sitting on the side opposite from him.

his throat dried up. he had missed the sound of your voice and sight of your face. having you close yet again after four, painful and infinite days, had him squirming as though an addict being offered his most favored drug.

“how did you manage to convince sweet robin?” he inquired, whose worried you waved away.

“i have my ways,” you smiled. sanji fell to his knees, immediately bolstering himself up with flushed cheeks, for he could not waste a second of that moment. “missed me that much?”

“oh, mon amour, you have no idea,” he started out, placing one hand above his chest in order to profess his affection. “the sun doesn’t shine as bright without you. the food loses its taste. the vastness of the ocean brings not freedom but rather a cruel, monstrous prison—”

“shit,” you interrupted through a curse, the lovesick glance once held switching to one of annoyance. sanji’s attention remolded itself, his instincts all but shouting at him to pay closer attention to your needs, rather than to complain about his non-comparable misery.

“are you hurting, my pearl? do you need me to prepare something? perhaps some tea,” he fretted, searching for soothing herbs. “are there any cravings? i can cook it for you, no matter how offsetting.”

“it’s none of the sort, don’t worry,” you sighed. “i just need to see chopper later on. it keeps leaking.”

sanji’s eyes trailed to the wet patch on your shirt; two dots staining the fabric and offering him the clear outline of your nipples. his knees buckled yet again, although he had learned enough from the previous embarrassment to contain himself. pregnancy had a countless set of effects; he could not believe he had forgotten of lactation — a process which happened to have a direct influence on the size of your breasts. sanji caught himself drooling upon the sight of it; your hands supporting the weight you were unused to.

“does it hurt?” he inquired, licking his lips.

“it is far from light on the back,” you answered, squeezing it with a sour expression. sanji grew embarrassed at the speed of his erection — his cock aching amidst the coffins of his clothes. yet another renewed influx of milk had begun, leaving a trail in its wake; tearing through the thin fabric, molded into a droplet that fell on your thighs.

“mon ange,” he whined, losing his breath mid-sentence. sanji felt the surge of tears pooling in his eyes, the sheer yearn to hold you one enough to drive him straight into a bridge of delirium. “please, it’s been so long.”

his hands clenched and unclenched. a pathetic gesture; a mute plead to be given the pleasure of groping your breasts. the glance spared was one filled with uncertainty, for you were the rock whose surface swayed with the waves of his lust. it was fair to be cautious — if sanji was a most decent man, he, too, would have waited — yet, he was anything but. the man jumped through the counter’s surface to drop on his knees in front of you, his lips ghosting over the flesh of your legs as he glanced up at you, shedding a single tear.

“please,” he pleaded. “i won’t put it in, i just want—no, i need a taste. i promise i will make you feel good, lumière de ma vie.”

your fingers threaded through blonde locks of hair; infatuation filled-eyes. “you wish to be good to me?”

“yes,” he whined, pressing feather-light kisses to the extension of your legs. “more than anything, ma belle.”

you hummed then, at last conceding to his desire. when your touch left his figure in order to remove the ruined shirt, sanji raised to his feet, placing his hands on your waist.

“wait, wait,” he stuttered, clearing his throat. “i want it to be comfortable for you. a mere kitchen chair will not suffice.”

your thumb parted his lips, resting above the lower share. “you’re so caring, love. always treats me so well, what would i do without my knight?”

he whimpered, closing his mouth around the tip of your finger, his tongue swirling with regained desire. sanji’s arms cradled your figure closer, raising you from the previous seat in order to reach a more comfortable room. you retreated your hand, wiping the tears off his cheeks with fleeting brushes of your lips. adoring whispers were a blessing bestowed upon his ears — praises regarding his strength; his beauty; his love. he could feel the warmth of his pre-cum, smearing the tip and the underwear’s fabric.

he sat you with tenderness on the crimson cushes of the leisure room, placing one of its pillows on your lap. when sanji’s fingers met the edges of your shirt, he found them trembling.

“so eager,” you cooed, petting his chin. “will you be my good boy, sanji?”

“yes,” he whined, tender hands working on the removal of your shirt. the wet patch was more prominent, with nothing but the dripping fabric of your bra separating him from the anticipated and sacred vision.

sanji struggled with the clasp, yet you neither reprimanded nor complained. instead, your words were nothing but soothing. “take your time, there’s no rush.”

he slid the straps down your arms, dragging his tongue around the internal dampness etched on your bra’s cups. the taste had him shuddering; whining and rutting his erection against your bare leg as he attempted to swallow it all, sucking on the fabric. your touch was soft on his scalp; toying with the disheveled hair.

“how does it taste?”

“like heaven, ma moitié.”

a lonesome string of saliva connected his lips from the fabric of your bra, yet it was broken once he placed it on the couch. you tapped twice on the pillow above your lap, beckoning him closer. sanji had then positioned his head on it, eyes trailed to your swollen nipples.

“open wide,” you instructed, and he behaved as though a loyal servant; you, his muse and goddess. “that’s it, such a good boy.”

he moaned, witnessing as you pinched on your left nipple, an amount of liquid gushing over. sanji angled his head in order to catch it all; his tongue lolling out. the perfection of your body had offered him a feast and he would rather not waste a single drop. the initial taste drove him mad, and you raised a knee to drive his face closer to where he wished. sanji’s mouth closed around the hardened nipple, as he cupped and teased the other breast, striving to have it leaking as well.

tears rolled down and sanji closed his eyes at the enhanced taste, moaning with sheer desperation as he delved further, his tongue swirling around the bud as his cheeks hollowed in an attempt to coat more of your milk.

“open your eyes for me, my love. i want to see you,” you voiced out, brushing his fringe aside. when he caught a glimpse of your face — worked up and eager; loving and grateful — he rutted his hips against thin air, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “my handsome prince; my diligent heart. you, too, want to be touched, don’t you?”

sanji tried to convey his agreement through a glance, the thought of departing his lips from your breast to produce an answer all too unbearable. you tsked, tugging lightly on his hair.

“a good boy uses his words, and you’re good, aren’t you, san-ji?” you dragged the syllables of his name, teasing him further.

“yes,” he swallowed the milk beforehand, his lips leaving your nipple with a pop. the sudden lack of contact had you whining — it was brief; hidden; but there nevertheless. “please, love, please touch me.”

sanji whimpered as your fingers hovered over the waistband of his pants. “how could i ever deny my baby?”

the fabric of his pants and underwear lowered ever-so-slightly — only enough to free his aching cock — and sanji cried out when he felt the teasing of your thumb on the tip. his mouth latched itself around your nipple yet again, his fingers pinching and teasing the other one as if to coax your essence. the strokes on his cock matched the rhythm of his tongue, swirling and hot, coated white. sanji dragged out his teeth — a butterfly-touch; a temptive bite — and your lips produced the sound of an angel’s choir.

you shuddered, arching your back, face contorting with pleasure as he claimed your sensitive breast. sanji’s eyes were wide, drowning in the magnificent beauty. crimson, warm, red dripped down his nostrils, a trail that merged with the white from your essence. the milk he failed to swallow escaped past his lips, dripping on the pillow; wetting his goatee. the sound of his moan came out muffled, though the vibration had you mewling.

“keep going, baby, you’re doing so well.”

he was your knight; baby; perfect. neither a failure nor a nuisance, but your good boy.

the taste was intrinsic to you, yet unique; the sweetest beverage he was given the honor to drown in. inimitable, stimulating points of his palate that diverged from those teased by your cum. the divine essence born from your pleasure had a saltier base, it would have worked well as a topping for caramelized meals, though sanji hadn’t been able to convince you to use your cum for that purpose. your milk, however; oh, how he yearned to use it. how would it affect the flavor of a smoothie, a cheesecake? which ingredients would suit best to neutralize the overbearing sweetness?

sanji groaned with need, groping your other breast, his cock twitching once the scarce milk tainted his palm, trailing down his wrist; wetting the buttoned sleeves of his shirt. his lascivious tongue followed-in-suit, his nose burrowed into your flesh.

“t’es mon obsession,” he whimpered, sucking on the tender spots around your nipple, ensuing a painting of red and purple; leaving butterfly-kisses and soft bites, tearing up as his mouth failed to swallow you whole. “je t’aime beaucoup.”

your voice failed mid-moan, and you pushed his face back into your swollen niple, eyes rolling once sanji returned to his previous ministrations. your palm squeezed him; his pre-cum a lubrification that enhanced the pleasure from the masturbation. he rutted his hips, craving your touch, and your fingers busied themselves with his face; drawing heart-patterns, wiping the fresh blood off his nose. your thumb brushed against the milk that fell from the side of his lips, red and white creating pink.

when you smeared the tip of your tongue with it, tasting and moaning around your own finger, sanji combusted. he tore his mouth from your nipple, rubbing himself against your hand while moaning louder than he had ever done. a drop of milk fell upon his trembling lips and he opened them as wide as he could, tainting your palm with his cum while your milk did the same to his tongue.

you hummed with approval, pushing his sweat-drenched fringe off his temple. “let it all out, my love. i’m here, that’s it.”

sanji choked on your milk, whimpering whatsoever as a particular squeeze dried him off his essence.

“a good boy cleans up his mess,” you cooed, wiping his tears. “will you be good for me?”

“always, my heart,” he stuttered, his tongue lapping at the damp flesh of his other palm, chasing the sweet taste of your milk.

the breast he hadn’t sucked on leaked less; sanji wondered if he could change that in the future. your thumb gathered the milk on his cheeks and goatee and guided it to his awaiting lips. sanji sucked on it with diligence, drawing pleasure from your approving expression. at last, he sat upright, wiping his cum hastily with his underwear, whining as you sucked on the rest of his load that stained your fingers.

“don’t move,” he instructed, pulling his pants up with a cough. sanji removed the pillow off your lap and properly laid your back on the couch. he wrapped his coat around your shoulders, caressing your chin before pressing his lips against yours. “i’ll pick you a clean shirt and bra. some water, too. just relax, chérie.”

when sanji left, he made sure to hide your previous clothes inside his own closet, sniffing the fabric and chasing the vanishing scent of your milk; committing it to memory. he would not be able to live without that, his palate itching to be graced with the sweet flavor again. he had no idea of the duration of that devil-fruit, but it was of no problem, as all he had to do then, to keep on draining you off your milk, was put a real baby on you.

— 🐈‍⬛ : the nasty month is officially upon us! had to start with my beautiful french blonde, the light of my life. 🫡 let’s have some fun through october!

#kinktober 2024 #one piece #op #op x reader #op x you #one piece x reader #one piece x you #op smut #sanji x reader #black leg sanji #sanji x you #sanji smut #black leg sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji x reader #one piece smut #vinsmoke sanji smut

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seungcheorry · 4 months ago

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a/n: reader is said to have a uterus and period cramps

“what are you doing?”, mingyu says with the most desperate look in his eyes he could manage.

“um… the dishes?”, you answer, looking back at him.

his long legs take him to your side with just three large steps, and suddenly he’s next to you.

“baby, i told you to just wait for me on the couch. you shouldn’t be doing this”, mingyu puts his hand under the running water, quickly pulling it back. “and you’re not even using hot water! what if your cramps come back?”

you chuckle, pushing him away with your hips.

“it’s okay, gyu. you cooked dinner for us, it’s only right for me to do the dishes.”

“no, it’s not”, he stomps his feet. what is he, 5 years old? “it’s freezing cold outside, this can’t possibly do any good to you.”

“i’ll be fine, i promise-”

“baby, please”, mingyu presses himself against you. “let’s just go back to the couch, i’ll do this tomorrow.”

with a sigh, you look at your boyfriend. it was already cute enough of him to take you to his place so he could cook you some dinner after you struggled the whole day with period cramps, but this? this is another level of being taken care of.

“i can finish this in like, 10 minutes if you get off me.”

“you can do it tomorrow morning then, not now”, he shakes his head. “please?”

mingyu reaches for the water once again, taking your hands in his as he washes the soap off them and then turns off the faucet.

“you’re such a big baby, oh my god”, you roll your eyes, slightly annoyed.

“and you’re really stubborn, has someone ever told you that?”

you bite back a ‘yes, they have!’, as mingyu wraps his arms around you and drags you back to the living room. he makes you sit between his legs, wrapping both of you with a blanket and telling his virtual assistant to turn off the lights and play a cooking show you two have been watching for a few weeks now.

damn him for being right, once again.

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moonlightwritingf1 · 17 days ago

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The Ultimate Distraction | LN4

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N and Lando, a new couple just a month into their relationship, are still exploring the exciting depths of their connection, both emotionally and physically. While visiting Lando’s apartment in Monaco, Y/N finds herself craving his attention late one night as he’s absorbed in a gaming session in the room next to his bedroom. Unable to resist her desire, she decides to surprise him by slipping under his desk.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 word count ━━━━━━━ 1.5k

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content

The soft glow of Lando’s gaming monitor cast shadows across the room, illuminating his focused expression as his fingers danced over the keyboard. He was in the zone, his racing game demanding every ounce of his attention. The hum of the PC and the occasional click of the mouse were the only sounds breaking the silence of the late Monaco night.

Y/n lay in bed just a room away, staring at the ceiling. He’s been at it for hours, she thought, her pulse quickening with a mix of frustration and desire. She had tried to distract herself, scrolling through her phone, reading a book, even attempting to sleep. But the memory of Lando’s hands on her skin, the way he whispered her name when they were alone together, kept pulling her back.

She shifted in bed, feeling the heat building between her thighs. I want him. The thought was insistent, almost maddening. She glanced at the clock—it was past midnight. And there he was, still glued to his PC, oblivious to the world outside his screen.

Enough waiting.

With a determined breath, Y/n slipped out of bed, her bare feet padding softly across the cool floor. She wore nothing but one of Lando’s oversized t-shirts, the fabric brushing against her thighs as she moved toward his room. Her heart pounded in her chest, not from nervousness, but from anticipation. She knew exactly what she wanted.

Lando didn’t notice her at first, too engrossed in his game. His headset blocked out any sound, his eyes locked on the monitor as he navigated a tricky corner on the virtual track. Y/n paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment. The way his brow furrowed in concentration, the faint scruff on his jaw, the way his lips twitched into a small smirk when he nailed a perfect drift—it all stirred something deep inside her.

He’s so hot when he’s focused like this.

Without a word, she dropped to her knees and crawled under his desk, the space cramped but manageable. Lando’s legs were bracketed by the chair, his jeans-clad thighs inches from her face. She could smell his cologne, subtle but intoxicating, mingling with the faint musk of his body. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the button of his jeans, her breath hitching when she felt the warmth radiating from him.

Lando froze mid-game, his hand hovering over the mouse. “What the—” he started, his voice muffled by the headset. He leaned back slightly, trying to peer under the desk. “Y/n? What are you doing?”

She looked up at him, her eyes glinting with mischief in the dim light. “Shh,” she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. “Keep playing.”

“Wait, what?” he stammered, his voice higher than usual. But before he could protest further, Y/n undid his jeans and pulled them down just enough to free his hardening length. Her warm breath ghosted over his skin, and Lando’s breath hitched.

“Jesus, Y/n,” he muttered, his grip tightening on the edge of the desk. But instead of stopping her, he found himself unable to move, trapped between shock and arousal.

Y/n didn’t give him time to think. She leaned forward, her lips wrapping around him in one smooth motion. Lando let out a strangled groan, his head falling back against the chair. “Fuck,” he hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily.

But Y/n wasn’t done teasing him. She pulled back slowly, her tongue tracing the sensitive underside of his shaft before taking him into her mouth again, deeper this time. Her hand wrapped around the base, stroking in tandem with her mouth, each movement deliberate and unhurried.

“Y/n, I can’t—” Lando started, his voice strained. He fumbled for the headset, tugging it off and letting it dangle around his neck. “You’re going to make me lose.”

“Then don’t lose,” she murmured, her lips still pressed against him. She gazed up at him through her lashes, her eyes dark with desire. “Keep playing.”

Lando groaned, torn between the game and the woman currently driving him out of his mind. His hand hovered over the keyboard, unsure whether to keep going or surrender completely. But Y/n’s insistence was impossible to ignore. With a shaky breath, he turned his attention back to the screen, his fingers trembling slightly as they resumed their position.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, though there was no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, he sounded wrecked already.

Y/n smirked, her lips curving around him as she picked up the pace. Her tongue swirled around the tip, eliciting another sharp intake of breath from Lando. She could feel him struggling to focus, his movements on the keyboard growing sloppier with each passing second.

“Concentrate,” she teased, her voice low and sultry. “Unless you want to crash.”

Lando gritted his teeth, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the desk. “You’re making this fucking impossible,” he growled, though his resolve was clearly crumbling.

She hummed in response, the vibration sending a thrill through him. Her hand tightened around his shaft, her strokes becoming faster, more insistent. Lando’s breathing grew ragged, his concentration shattered as pleasure overwhelmed him.

“Y/n, I’m serious,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you don’t stop—”

She didn’t let him finish. Instead, she took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate him. Lando swore under his breath, his hips bucking instinctively. The controller slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the desk as he reached for her hair, tangling his fingers in the strands.

“Fuck the game,” he muttered, his voice rough with need. But Y/n pulled back, her lips slick and swollen as she looked up at him with a mischievous grin.

“No,” she said firmly. “You’re not quitting. Not yet.”

She leaned forward again, this time flicking her tongue against the sensitive spot just beneath the head, eliciting a shuddering moan from Lando. Her hand moved in sync with her mouth, her strokes deliberate and slow, dragging him closer to the edge without letting him fall.

“Y/n,” he gasped, his free hand clutching at the armrest of his chair. “I can’t—you’re killing me.”

She ignored his plea, her focus entirely on him. Her lips sealed around him once more, her tongue swirling as she took him deeper, pushing herself further than before. Lando’s breath came in short, sharp bursts, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought to maintain control.

On the screen, his car veered off the track, spinning out in a cloud of virtual dust. Lando didn’t even notice, too consumed by the sensations coursing through him. His fingers clenched in her hair, gently guiding her movements, urging her to take him even deeper.

“So good,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “God, you’re so fucking good at this.”

Y/n responded by hollowing her cheeks, the suction intensifying as she increased the pressure. Her hand moved faster, matching the rhythm of her mouth, every stroke bringing him closer to the edge. She could feel him trembling beneath her, his thighs tense, his breath hitching with every pass of her tongue.

“Y/n, I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained. “Too close.”

But instead of pulling back, she doubled down, her mouth working him with relentless precision. Her other hand reached up to fondle him, her fingers grazing over sensitive flesh, pressing against him in just the right way. Lando’s grip on her hair tightened, his body tensing as pleasure coiled tightly in his core.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his hips bucking upward, unable to hold back any longer. “Y/n, I—”

She didn’t let him finish. Her mouth enveloped him completely, swallowing him as he finally gave in to the overwhelming sensation, waves of pleasure crashing over him. His entire body stiffened, his release spilling into her waiting mouth, each pulse accompanied by a choked gasp from his lips.

For a moment, everything was still, the only sound in the room Lando’s ragged breathing as he slumped back in his chair, utterly spent. Y/n pulled back slowly, her lips brushing against him one last time before she settled back on her heels, a satisfied smile playing on her lips.

“Told you,” she said softly, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “You didn’t have to stop playing.”

Lando stared at her, his chest still heaving, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. “You’re unbelievable,” he finally managed, his voice hoarse. He reached for her, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped her cheek. “Come here.”

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes locking with his, before crawling out from under the desk and standing up. Lando wasted no time, pulling her into his lap and capturing her lips in a deep, hungry kiss. His hands roamed over her body, eager to return the favor, to show her just how much she affected him.

But Y/n pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss with a soft laugh. “Not yet,” she whispered, her fingers trailing down his chest. “You still haven’t finished your race.”

He groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, though there was no real malice in his tone.

She smirked, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “Then consider me your favorite executioner.”

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charliemwrites · 6 months ago

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Squeak 'Em If You Got 'Em

You belong to Task Force 141. Task Force 141 belongs to Captain Price. It's simple math - but math was never your strong suit.

Original AO3 Link

Content: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Fraternizing (therefore, power imbalance), Medical Care (non-descriptive), Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy

It’s your first mission with the 141. Well – your first mission with the whole squad.

You’ve completed assignments with Ghost and Soap, Gaz and Ghost, Soap and Gaz. A little intel gathering here; a terrorist assassination there. Things to build your confidence and the team’s confidence in you.

This is the first time you’ve been trusted with a Big Kid Operation. And it’s gone to absolute shit.

Not by any fault of your own. You’ve been sharp, responsive to your superiors’ commands. Hauled Gaz out from under a burning car with Ghost’s vicious scope covering you. When everyone else was breathing off the mad dash to the safehouse, you were still on your feet, doing triage. Price even patted your head before sending you off for a powernap.

It’s not clear what went wrong, or where. Hitting a base trying to flush out a Big Bad expected to be elsewhere, only for the guy to be there with his own small army. Too many men on their side, too few bullets on yours. Almost got massacred but managed to eke out an escape with some well-placed and impromptu bombs from Soap. Intel was wrong, someone was tipped off, plans were changed – doesn’t matter what happened, just that it did.

Your boys are pissed off, battered and scraped, all cramped together in a dingy safehouse only a little bigger than a barrack. Everyone is running low on patience. Gaz is ginger from multiple burns. You suspect Ghost has a microfracture in his leg. Soap is mildly concussed and grumpy about missing out on shuteye. Even you’re a little bristly, worn down from everyone else’s bad mood.

And then there’s the captain.

When you rouse from your doze, Soap and Gaz are hovering nearby, muttering sullenly about Price’s piss-poor mood. “Right crabbit” as Soap put it.

You suspect why.

(“Not going to say it’s bad for me?” Price gruffs.

You don’t look up from your treatment reports. “It is bad for you.”

“You’re not going to tell me I should quit.” He’s not asking this time.

You flick your eyes up, unimpressed. “Would you listen if I did?”

He huffs, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he blows cigar smoke out the open window. Pointedly. You don’t quite roll your eyes, but turning back to your charts is as good as.

“We all have our vices, cap.”

“That so?” he muses. “What’s yours, lamb?”

You. “Insane amounts of morphine.”)

Nicotine withdrawals are a hell of a thing. This mission wasn’t supposed to last as long as it has, but supposed isn’t worth fuck all right now. Gaz isn’t supposed to have second degree burns on his arms. Ghost isn’t supposed to be limping when he thinks no one is looking.

Bottom line is this: you’re all vacuum sealed in a little cement box and Captain Price didn’t bring any cigars. And it’s making everything worse.

Sighing, you rouse yourself from the corner you curled up in with the shock blanket. The boys quiet a little, offer you thin smiles. You appreciate the efforts and reward them with a squeeze to the shoulder each. Soap spares a whispered warning to keep out from under Price’s feet, but that’s exactly where you plan to go.

On the way, you grab a cup of water for your lieutenant, on watch at one of the windows. He’s been there for hours now. You scuff your boot to let him know you’re coming, set the cup and two paracetamols on the windowsill by his rifle, left side.

“Should save it for the others.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, sir.”

He doesn’t look up from the scope. You notice his hand twitch from the corner of your eye as you walk away.

Your captain is standing in the open door at the front of the safehouse – opposite side of where Ghost is posted. He tilts his head to acknowledge your approach but doesn’t speak until you’re already at his elbow.

“Last time, sergeant, I’m not injured,” he rumbles. His voice is rough from too little use and too many bitten back curses.

“I know, sir,” you say, erring on the side of deferent. You’d bugged him about it a lot earlier, afraid to nod off with your captain potentially wounded and in pain. Know you made a bit of a nuisance of yourself, jittery on the tail-end of a bullet too close to his head.

“Why the fuck are you up, then?” he demands.

“Everyone else is up,” you answer, simple and nonconfrontational.

He grunts. Slides a glance your way and catches whatever expression you’re making. Seems to realize he’s being an ass, and sighs. His shoulders only seem to tense more though, leashing in his unusual temper. You wait another moment, obtrusive because you’re being quiet. Wait until he finally looks at you properly.

“Sleep alright, Squeaks?”

His tone is milder now, you might even detect threads of an apology woven in there somewhere.

You don’t quite smile, but you know your expression warms. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t bother telling me I should try it myself,” he warns, but it lacks the heat it had a moment ago.

“No, sir,” you agree. Then offer up the blister pack.

“The hell is that?” he squints.

“Gum.”

“Trying to say something?”

You roll your eyes, turn them out the open door. “Nicotine gum, Captain Muppet.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a sputter as he decides if he wants to ream you out or give you a commendation. You don’t look at him, spare his pride (and yourself from his temper) as you tuck your free hand behind your back.

“Fuck, Squeaks,” he sighs, swiping it from your patient fingers.

You wait until he’s popped two pieces and started crunching before offering the patches next, side-eyeing him.

“The gum is just something for your brain,” you explain. “These are what will actually take the edge off.”

“Christ, you’re an angel. Should have called you that instead of Squeaks.”

You snort. “Whose fault is that?”

He narrows his eyes at you, but it’s with better humor than he’s had since the transport in.

“Soap’s, last I checked.”

You hum, lean your hip into the doorframe. Can’t let yourself look at him again because you know you’ll blush like a schoolgirl. It’s an embarrassing and increasingly frequent risk around your captain. Because of your captain.

A good man – you’re starting to think one of the best men you’ve ever met. A better leader – definitely the best you’ve ever had. John Price is larger than life and all you want to do is bask in the safety of the massive shadow he casts. Like seeking shelter from a hot day.

You’ve gotten shy, praying that you can reside in that shadow without drawing the attention of the noble creature it comes from. Not because you’re afraid, but because you wouldn’t know what to do with it. Don’t know what to do with it. Still crave it, though.

It wasn’t like this, at first. Not sitting in his office, your file on the desk between you two. A fresh transfer with nerves shot on too little sleep and too many questions, asking your new captain why you were there at all.

Staring out into the small hours of another Hell Day, you puzzle out where it changed.

Maybe that first proud grin when you got brave enough to start asking the right – real – questions at the end of that introductory meeting.

Maybe when your fellow sergeants dragged you to breakfast dark and early the next morning, singing praises of the 141’s COs at your gentle probing.

Maybe it was that hair ruffle after debriefing your first official mission, Ghost reporting that you’d done well.

Or it was the pack of sour candies he dropped in your lap during movie night. Or the shoulder squeeze as he guided you through a tough knife maneuver. Or the sympathy on his face when you nearly cried over paperwork last week.

But no, wait. You know what it was.

A break during sparring practice sometime that first month. You were sitting against the wall, nursing a sore wrist with a cold pack. Price was posted up next to you, just quietly in your space. Almost like he was desensitizing you to his presence.

You’d been groping for something to say, uncharacteristically longing to bridge some of that gap between you and your CO. There had been no ice to break with Gaz and Soap, just the two of them cannonballing into your friendship. And Ghost – well, it’s hard to keep feeling terrified of a guy whose glove got caught on the lace of your underwear two days ago because of an unfortunate tumble and loosened drawstrings.

But you’d seen the way Price interacted with them. The fond if sometimes exasperated sighs at your fellow sergeants. The brotherly exchange of glances with Ghost. You wanted that too. To belong to the 141, not just part of it. And that had to start with Price.

“Your physical is coming up, sir,” you landed on. Wanted to drop your head in your hands. Not your best.

Price didn’t quite groan, but his grimace was loud. He didn’t turn away from the sparring mats where Ghost was beating the stuffing out of Gaz and Soap simultaneously. It was like he hoped that if he didn’t look at you, you’d magically forget your duties.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice it coming up?” you asked, mustering a teasing tone.

He grumbled noncommittally. You took that as a yes. (You’d been correct.)

“There’s four of you, sir,” you reminded. “I have your vaccination records memorized already.”

He huffed, ran a hand down his face, ended with a scratch to the facial hair at his jaw.

“How about this, sergeant,” he began. “You take my word that I’m fit as a fiddle, and I tell Soap to stop calling you Squeaks.”

Soap had just coined it that day; there was still a chance it wouldn’t stick. You sucked in a breath. “Sir. That’s just cruel. You need your physical.”

“Pain in the ass, they are.” He faltered, shot you a wary look. “Sometimes literally.”

“Nope, it’ll just be a normal check-up,” you laughed.

“The deal is still on the table, sergeant.”

“What was it you said that first day?” you asked, arching an eyebrow. Getting brave enough to let something like a personality shine through your training. “I ‘know how to get the job done’? Something about me being ‘unafraid to pull medical override’ when needed?”

“Alright, alright watch it,” he grumbled. You didn’t think there was any real heat in it. (There hadn’t been.) “Insubordinate little shit.”

“Tomorrow morning, then? Or would you prefer the afternoon to prepare yourself?” At his narrow look and knowing you could be pushing your luck, added a smug little, “Sir.”

“Right then,” he sighed, pushing himself up.

You blinked as he stood – blinked again when he winked at you.

“I’ll see you at 0700 tomorrow, Sergeant Squeaks,” he said, loud enough to catch the boys’ attention.

You yelped indignantly, felt your cheeks flush first at the noise and then at the wicked grin he sent you. Christ, that smile needed a license.

“Ah, that’ll be the nickname, then,” he mused, nodding to himself. “Ta.”

He exited to the sound of Soap whooping and Gaz laughing. You sat, shocked and betrayed, open-mouthed, until Ghost called you back to the mat.

Yes, yes that was it.

The warmth in your chest and persistent fluttering in your gut. The way that wink-and-grin combination made your head spin for hours afterwards. That first precious glimmer of really belonging.

After all, you don’t mind the nickname. It’s apt enough. Deserved given how you squeal when Ghost flings you across the mat by your belt, or when Gaz scoops you up around the ribs and hauls you about like cheap luggage. More imaginative than the “doc,” “sergeant,” or simply your last name that all your previous squads used.

“I’d offer a penny for your thoughts, but yours look like they cost a pound,” Price says.

You don’t quite startle, still too keyed in on the mission for that. But it jerks you from your musings, abrupt but not unwelcome. No use dwelling on your increasingly fluffy feelings for your captain. At least not here and now. Maybe in the shower back on base, where the feelings are allowed to be more than just fluffy.

“Too rich for your blood, cap?” you ask.

“You’d make me a poor man if I let you.”

Your grin has no right to be so bright given the circumstances.

“Squeaks!” Soap calls, a little whiny. “Can I have a vomit pill?”

“For fuck’s sake, Soap, if you don’t quit your whinging—” Ghost snarls.

Because you’re already looking at him, you see the way Price’s mouth goes tight, eyes closing as he gathers patience. You pat his arm, smooth a thumb over the synthetic of the nicotine patch – telling yourself that you’re just checking it’s flat.

“I’ve got it, sir. Take a minute?”

“I’ve had a minute.”

Brooding into the darkness doesn’t count, as you’ve told Ghost several times already.

“When was the last time you had something to eat?” you try instead.

He doesn’t answer – which is all you need. You tug a meal replacement bar from your vest pocket and tuck it into his hand.

“Like I said, I got it, sir.”

You blink at him one last time, a wordless entreaty to stay, eat. Then turn on your heel and return to your boys.

Ghost and Soap are scowling at each other. Gaz is slumped in the middle, looking about ready to tear his curls out. You make a detour to your bag to grab the peacemaking supplies, then fearlessly enter the fray. It’s shocking, really, that you’re not vaporized for stepping in the middle of their death glares.

“Here,” you say, dropping a Dramamine and a pack of pretzels into Soap’s lap. “Drink with water.”

You say it every time because they have no regard for their esophagus or stomach linings. Soap, defused for the moment, salutes you with a tip of his half-finished water bottle. You bite back a chastisement that he isn’t further along with it.

Gaz is next. He’s been chugging water dutifully, keeping his arms elevated and still, otherwise. His bandages are clean and dry from when you dressed them earlier. You know he’s hurting something awful and will be for a while yet. Wish you could do more, apart from generic pain meds.

You give him a bag of animal crackers and pat his leg as you turn to your last patient. Ghost glares at you.

“Already gave me the damn meds,” he growls. They’re gone now and the cup of water is empty.

“Let me take watch for a bit?” you reply. “Elevate your leg, put a cold pack on it.”

He frowns, considers. Clearly wants to say no. There has been no sign of hostiles since you all holed up, though. You’re just waiting for the coast to be clear enough for Laswell to send evac.

You’re about to say as much, but his eyes flicker over your shoulder. Maybe it’s occurring to him as well.

“Fine. You remember what I taught you.” It’s not a question because it’s not an option. Ghost has been relentless about sniper training. Says your steady hands and cool head make good assets.

“Yes, sir,” you say.

You don’t offer a hand out of the chair, know he’d sooner break it. But Soap sidles up to offer a shoulder (that he accepts) and you take his seat without another word.

Four hours later, Laswell sends word that Nik is on the way. Price looks saner than he has for the past day. He gives you a grateful nod and squeezes the back of your neck when you ask if the nicotine supplements helped. You board the helo and feel especially warm when he leans his thigh into yours.

Sparring, you decided a while ago, is your personal hell. That opinion hasn’t changed.

You can’t pin a single one of them. Ghost is a demonic trainer, barking instructions when he’s not tossing you around the mat himself.

Guard up, Sergeant. Leg back, Sergeant. Don’t let him overwhelm you, Sergeant, he’s a muppet.

Each time, you haul yourself up and try again. Get knocked around like a human pinball in a crack-fueled arcade machine for the effort, but you try. Price says you need experience and practice. So, you nut up and get practice and experience under Ghost’s watchful eye. Even if it means you probably need your own medic now.

It’s worse today. You think the boys might be a little high-strung because of your last mission. A hostile surprised you, knocked the pistol from your hands and took you to the ground. You managed to stab the guy – nearly gutted him, according to Soap – but it was the closest call you’ve had since joining the 141. Too close for them, you suspect.

Their response has been to train you harder, to be sure it’s not so close next time. You appreciate the sentiment, really you do, but damn if you’re not suffering from their particular brand of fussing.

At some point, you get dropped on your ass and just lay there, staring up at the ceiling. It’s not more than two heavy breaths before a skull mask peeks over you. Like the devil himself just watched you get drop kicked into Hell.

“I hate it here,” you groan.

“That so?” Ghost asks.

Opposite him, Soap’s mohawk pokes into view, a goofy grin plastered across his face. He’s not even sweating.

“Ach, don’ look so torn-faced, wee chook.”

You blink. Squint. Blink again.

“LT, how hard did you hit me?”

“English, MacTavish.”

Soap rolls his eyes and puts on an accent violently wavering between obnoxious American and obnoxious British. “Don’t look so sad, small chicken.”

You swipe at his leg – get him in the calf with two knuckles.

“Ow, fuck!”

“Hope it cramps,” you snip.

Ghost sighs, then reaches a massive hand down and hauls you up by the collar of your shirt. You consider hanging limp and defiant, but you know better than to test his patience by now. Resigned, you get your feet under you.

“Enough,” he grumbles. “Save it for the next round.”

“Oh, that’s the only hit you’re gettin’, lass.”

You hope he’s not right.

Five minutes later, you’re right back where you started, blinking at the overheads. Ghost is squatting next to you this time, apparently considerate of the knock you just took. Soap is muttering about your “stupid little hands” hitting him on pressure points somewhere nearby. You wish you had the energy to be smug that you made his arm go numb.

“Feel like that last round was personal for some reason,” you wheeze.

“Only got yourself to blame, Squeaks,” Ghost replies.

Wishing a cramp upon Soap was a little cruel, you’ll admit. Can’t help that you’re mildly frustrated that after months assigned here, you’re still barely able to hold your own against any other member of the 141.

Also, you can’t believe he called you a chicken.

“No, no I think I can blame Price for this,” you say.

“What was that, sergeant?”

You yelp and jolt upright, thankful that you’re already flushed from exertion. Price is standing at the edge of the mats, arms crossed, eyebrows arched. It’s not fair that he looks that attractive in cargos and a plain tan undershirt. Especially when you can tell you’re about to get your ass handed to you again.

“Sir,” you start. Wish Ghost would strike you down like the grim reaper knock-off he is. He’s not merciful enough to put you out of your misery. “I was just saying, um…”

Nothing is forthcoming and Price doesn’t wait for you to scrounge together any excuses.

“Right, then, Squeaks,” Price says, stepping forward, “let’s give you a chance to take out your frustrations, since you have them.”

Oh, you do. Just not any that should be worked out in the gym… or with an audience. (Or your captain, but that goes beyond saying. You’re well past that qualm by now.)

“Great,” you mumble as Ghost once again yanks you up like a particularly awkward kitten. “The whole squad gets a turn.”

Gaz chokes on water over Price’s shoulder. To the side, there’s a mysterious noise similar to a strangled goose as Soap turns away, ears bright red. It’s only when you hear Ghost’s quiet huff that you realize what you’ve said.

Christ.

“Lieutenant, would you—”

“No.”

“Damn.” Worth a try.

And so you trudge to the center of the sparring ring, shaking your hands out to dispel the nerves.

You’ve never sparred your captain before. He’s been running drills aplenty with you and the rest of the boys, of course. But Ghost has been the one in charge of your training, getting you up to snuff with the rest of the team. Gaz and/or Soap are almost always there as well, for bonding and encouragement.

Price, however, hardly has the time to join your sparring practices – nor does he really seem inclined to participate. When he is there, it’s usually just to supervise and offer advice. You’ve never asked, always just figured he’s too busy to risk an accidental concussion.

“C’mon then, sergeant,” he goads, nodding you forward. “Take a swing.”

“No,” you reply.

You know better by now.

“This’ll be good for you,” Gaz calls. “Need practice with someone new.”

You don’t respond, keeping your eyes on Price’s center mass. Another lesson Ghost taught you – the hard way.

“Need to get more comfortable with our dear Cap anyway,” Soap adds. “Nothing cozies up mates like a sweaty row.”

You twitch against the urge to turn and glare at him. Little shit. You’re plenty comfortable with your captain by now. Any further and you’re risking inappropriate behavior.

“That’ll do,” Ghost snaps.

Price huffs softly at them but never takes his eyes off you. There’s a beat of heavy silence, you feel the pressure of incoming action on your shoulders. Then he lunges at you—

And you decide in short order that you wish you’d never been transferred to the 141, never joined the military, never been born. Price fights like a machine. Brutal, efficient, ruthless. Less savage than Ghost but terrifying in new and nightmare-inducing ways.

“Easy does it, lamb. There’s a dear.”

He settles you onto the bench, barks at Gaz to bring you a cold pack and water. You just try not to fall over, still blinking spots from your vision. Probably not a concussion, but you’re in for a hell of a bruise later. Your vision finally focuses on Price, crouching in front of you, eyes so soft for a man that just gave you three consecutive heart attacks.

“Ring your bell a bit, did I?” he teases.

“If I get my bell rung any more it’s gonna be an alarm,” you mumble.

Gaz jogs up with the ice pack and your stupidly bright pink water bottle. The latter gets nudged into your hand. You sip at it while Price pops the internal water bag and shakes it. When you lower your bottle again, Gaz is already gone.

“Chin up, sergeant, you’re making progress,” Price says, offering you the cold pack.

You sigh, set it against your smarting cheek and temple, one eye closing against the temperature difference. Drop your gaze to your free hand, still tightly wrapped to protect the fine bones and thin skin.

“I can’t win against any of you,” you mutter, trying not to pout.

“You will.” He says it like he gives orders, so sure that it’s going happen that he doesn't consider there to be an alternative. “Just need to get out of your own head.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, brow furrowing.

A gentle nudge under your chin draws your gaze up to his. A silent command to listen, this is important. You’re helpless to do anything but obey.

“You let yourself get intimidated, convince yourself that you’re going to lose so you miss openings to get a win. We’re not invincible, Squeaks. If some sack of shit out there can get a hit on us, so can you.”

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip, considering that.

It’s so easy to put them on a pedestal. They’re the 141. The four-man army (five-people, now) top brass sends in when they want shit done. Even you, a perpetually sleep deprived combat medic with more caffeine than blood, had heard of them before your transfer. Usually from patients waxing semi-delirious poetic about their badassery, but that’s beside the point.

You’ve been with them long enough now, seen enough of them, to parse facts from gossip.

Ghost is a terrifying badass with a penchant for wicked blades. But he also likes tea with too much sugar, watches nature documentaries with you at 2am, and once cursed a blue streak over a papercut.

Soap is indeed a pyromantic demolitions expert that can set anything on fire if he tries hard enough. He’s got one of the fastest clearing times in the military. That said, you’ve banned dog-themed movies because they make him cry, play doodling games when he’s bored, and could talk for hours about different types of coffee.

Gaz is brilliant with any gun he gets a hand on, a marksman to rival Ghost, with a head for strategy and tactics that makes your own spin. You’ve also helped him hide a cat on base for the past two weeks and learned how to crochet from him.

And Price. Price is everything they say he is, through and through. He’d a leader at his core, watching out for all of you no matter the time or place. He’s bedrock, the foundation you’ve all built yourselves upon, the reason the 141 is the catastrophic force it is.

But just last week you had to stitch his bicep together because some asshole with a blade got a lucky swipe.

“I want to do right by you all,” you whisper.

It keeps you up some nights, the weight of your position on this team. Not just because of what they are, but who they are. You care about your boys far more than you care about casting a shadow to match theirs

“You are,” Price says. Sets a large, strong hand on your knee and squeezes gently. “I wouldn’t send you out there if I didn’t think you could watch out for yourself and them. I know it’s hard for you to see, but you’re improving.”

You’re not a real doctor. You’re a combat medic; the first tenant of your creed isn’t to do no harm. It’s that you can’t fix someone else if you’re already broken.

“Thank you… Price,” you murmur.

The smile he rewards you with could fucking melt you. You duck your head, clear your throat.

“I should get back to it, then,” you say.

“No, you’re done for the day.”

“But—” Your mouth clicks shut at the look he gives you.

“Up you get, Squeaks.”

You stand, still holding the icepack to your face. At his gesture, you offer your free hand to allow him to unwrap it. He does so in methodical, hypnotic movements. Quiet, focused. His hands are so much bigger than yours, and rougher. Mind, you have your own callouses, but sweating in nitrile gloves half the day tends to soften them.

When he finishes the first, you switch, giving him the other hand. As he does, he calls out to the boys.

“Squeaks is coming with me, so don’t do anything too stupid.”

“Aw, but sir!” Soap whines.

“Let them be, Johnny,” Ghost interrupts, shaking his head.

Price lets you scurry off to the locker room for a rinse and change of clothes. When you emerge ten minutes later, he nods for you to follow him, and you dutifully fall in line. It’s quiet between you two, but not the awkwardness of when you first joined. Outside, he heads to the left instead of the right, meaning the destination is his office.

“Sir, I have paper—”

“Already waiting for you. C’mon, Squeaks.”

You puff your cheeks at him sullenly, but only because he’s not looking.

“Bossy,” you chide.

“’S what they pay me for.”

And he’s so good at it, too.

You’ll never tell him why, but you love his office. It’s quiet, cool – except for the patch of sunlit couch under the window, where you like to curl up when the AC gets to you. Price keeps it neat and tidy, but there are personal touches everywhere. A picture of the 141 before you joined, his hat on the edge of the desk, a few milling medals in little clear cubes on his bookshelf. It smells like a humidor, but your brain has been rewired to have a positive association with cigar smoke.

It's better than your “office.” Little more than a converted storage nook in one of the clinic’s procedure rooms, outfitted with a counter, cabinets, computer, and rolling stool. You use it for its intended purpose sometimes, but mostly it’s where you stash your personal supplies – funny plasters, candies, meal replacements, extra balaclavas, fidget toys, nicotine supplements.

It’s also where you hide to cry, but no one needs to know about that except the “hang in there” kitten poster.

Most times that you need to do paperwork without disruption, you come to Price. Er, his office.

You like to work with company and Price is usually buried under his own mountain of red tape, listening to whatever radio station has caught his fancy for the day. Usually some form of classical or jazz, sometimes dad-rock when he’s in an especially good mood. He’ll sacrifice a portion of his desk and let you fill out your charts and forms and happily receives your mission reports right on time.

Today, a stack is waiting where you usually work – to his left side, on the short end of the desk. You won’t be able to see his computer or any confidential documents on screen. He’d have to work hard to see any private information on your side. He’s even left a pen – your favorite one that you swear you’re going to steal, a smooth black ballpoint that doesn’t skip or smear.

Price nudges a chair out for you. You drop into it with a sigh, easing the ice pack away from your face.

“You broken?” he asks, closer than you expect.

When you glance up, he’s right there. Right in front of you, down on one knee. The fabric of his jeans is taught over the swell of hard muscle in his thighs. Even like this he seems to dwarf you, broad shouldered and just… larger than life. You’re a little lightheaded with the scent of him, cologne and cigars and clean linen. Don’t even care that he’s the reason your face hurts in the first place.

“Don’t think so.” But he’s already reaching. You let him.

His fingertips are searing hot as they caress over the cold skin of your cheek. A brush so soft it tingles instead of hurting. Your next breath shudders as he applies gentle pressure, prodding around the forming bruise.

“Didn’t mean to clock you like that.” His voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it, a purr that usually haunts you over comms but is pure sex without static to dilute it.

“Shouldn’t have gotten clocked,” you counter.

It really was your own fault. His shirt rode up a tantalizing inch, revealing the cut line of his hip. Practically a neon sign pointing here, look, you know he’s packing, you know you want to get your tongue— and then you’d received the cosmic justice of your captain’s fist.

Hopefully, the red skin from the ice pack shrouds the flush starting to fan across your face. That little sliver of skin will be burned into your mind for the next decade at least. A place of honor in Sergeant Squeaks’ Spank Bank.

“I’m not in the habit of beating down my own people,” Price rumbles.

“That why you never join?” you ask.

His gaze flickers that tiny fraction from the wound to your eyes. Something glints in them, there and gone, too fast for you to recognize. Still, the intensity of it makes your stomach flutter.

“One of the reasons.”

He stands and turns away. You swallow back disappointment at the loss – his attention is an addiction and you’re constantly craving a fix. Just as you’re wrestling your thoughts onto the much-more professional path of paperwork, he sets something down in front of you.

Chocolate, infused with 50 milligrams of caffeine.

Your mouth drops open, saliva already gathering under your tongue. Wide-eyed, your gaze bounces up to your captain, to the grin just a touch too sweet to be as mocking as he means it to be.

“You always crash after sparring,” he says. “Have a nibble before you fall asleep.”

“Thank you, sir,” you chirp, grabbing at the bar with excited hands.

“Feral little thing,” he tsks.

“You have cigars, I have caffeine.”

“And insane amounts of morphine, apparently.”

“’S what the caffeine is for.” You hum, delighted at the first touch of candy on your tongue, just the right balance of sweet and bitter. “Want some?”

He considers for a moment, head tilted, eyes flashing. Then he takes your wrist and ducks down, the click of his teeth through the chocolate loud in your shocked silence. When he straightens, his eyes find yours, glimmering in the soft lighting of his office. He doesn’t look away as he chews, swallows. Then his tongue peaks out, licking slow and deliberate across his bottom lip.

There’s going to be a wet patch on this seat by the time you leave.

You open your mouth, not sure what you’re going to say. Some one-liner that it’ll taste better from your mouth. A different one-liner that you want to see if it tastes better from his. That he’s the hottest thing you’ve ever laid eyes on in your miserable little life. That you’ll happily spend the rest of your days on your knees, between his thighs…

His phone rings.

He grunts, a dissatisfied but resigned thing as he plucks it from his pocket.

“Gotta take this. Get started, lamb.”

“Yes, sir,” you manage.

He drops a hand on top of your head as he goes around you for the door, already pressing the phone to his ear. You shouldn’t find the authoritative shift in his voice as he answers so appealing. You do anyway.

It’s only when the door closes that you feel like you can breathe again. Managing it in a way that’s somewhat normal is a challenge, but you wrangle yourself under control, thinking about anything other than how badly you want your captain.

By the time he returns, you’re already checking over lab results, making notes on a sticky-pad off to the side.

“World ending?” you ask, glancing up.

Price huffs in amusement, rewards you with one of those heart-melting smiles that crinkles his eyes a little. It’s impossible to coax out of him when he’s stressed or there’s bad news. Whatever his call was about, it doesn’t seem to be anything worrisome.

“Not just yet.”

“Damn, I was hoping I could avoid reports a little longer.”

“’Fraid not.”

A scritch to the back of your head as he passes this time, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear. You hum in appreciation, lean into it a little, but don’t cause a fuss when he continues to his desk. That would be too revealing.

“Music?” he asks.

You perk up. He’s letting you pick today. “What about that classics station you found a couple weeks ago?”

He hums, glances at the window behind you. “Rain’s coming in. Sure you won’t fall asleep?”

“I’m not a toddler.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Now you’re just being hurtful, and I’ve been a perfect angel.”

He snorts, but there’s an unmistakably fond twinkle in his eyes. “Today.”

“Always! I’m the best behaved on the team.”

It’s true. Gaz and Soap are two bastard halves of the same bastard coin. And Ghost is a whole coin of his own, no matter how he pretends he’s above the sergeants’ shenanigans. It’s usually you that reminds them to keep the damage to a minimum, give the recruits a break, quit before Price hears.

“That’s not saying much,” he huffs. “Don’t think I don’t know about the cat, Squeaks.”

You blink, smiling innocently. “Cat, sir?”

He runs a hand down his face, but you clock his grin before he scrubs it away. “Right. Shut up and get to work.”

You hum and try not to look too smug. Don’t want to get kicked out just yet.

Price gets the radio started and you return to the lab results, the two of you settling into a companionable rhythm. Between Ella Fitzgerald and Price’s old-school loud-as-fuck keyboard, you have the perfect background noise to focus. The caffeine boost helps, keeps you from getting too drowsy once the rain starts pattering on the glass.

“Hey, Price?”

You’ve been slipping up lately, forgetting your formalities. Not that Price is much of a stickler for it outside of missions and official meetings. It’s a barrier you’ve tried to keep for yourself, to stop your traitorous thoughts from gaining too much traction.

He hums in question, but you wait until he’s turned from his screen to offer the paper you’ve been squinting at for the last several minutes.

“Is this an ‘a’ or a ‘d’?” you ask.

He blinks, glances at where you’re pointing. Pauses. Flicks his gaze back to you, unimpressed.

“This is your handwriting.”

“Yes.”

He sighs and gives it another look. Then sits back.

“That’s ‘o’ and ‘l’.”

“OH.”

You write over it, making the two letters more distinct. Price watches with something like dread.

“Thank you, sir!”

“Christ, Squeaks. Can’t even read your own scribbles.”

“No, but you can.”

There’s a part of you that really likes that. That he knows your handwriting better than you do, has read and deciphered enough of your reports or other notes to parse out the smallest difference between letters.

“No, I can’t. Write neater.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

You won’t.

It’s Task Force Specialty Training Day.

AKA: government-funded team bonding.

You’re not sure how Price has managed to swing it – paintball guns, paint-“grenades” (water balloons) – but you’re not about to complain. He’s passing it off as a training exercise, and you will admit there is some merit to it. Practicing teamwork as a unit and between individuals, trying out tactics and strategies.

It’s also a hell of a lot of fun.

You’ve been pairing up, one person taking a break each round with the odd number of people. Watching the showdown between Ghost-Soap and Gaz-Price was nerve-wracking and thrilling. The absolute thrashing of Gaz-Soap by Ghost-Price was downright horrifying. (Except for the part where the sergeants decided that if they couldn’t win, they’d at least go down being extra as hell, and for that you salute them.)

As for your team-ups, you’ve had mixed successes.

Ghost is a win for all three matches – you manage to pull your weight before getting taken down on two rounds, and on the last one you “survive” the whole way. Your lieutenant even fist-bumps you when it’s over, with a rare and coveted “good job” tacked on the end.

You knew teaming up with Soap would be a riot. You win two rounds with him and lose one, the latter against the formidable Ghost-Price team that you learn dominates pretty much always. The two of you don’t make it easy though. Rigging little traps, setting off red herrings, or just indiscriminately causing mayhem.

Working with Gaz proves the most mixed results. Two losses to one win – that being against Soap and Price, and only because the former lets himself be goaded into giving up their position at just the wrong time. Still, there are no hard feelings about your rocky matchups, just good-natured promises to improve together.

It’s your rounds with Price that have been the most exhilarating. You’ve never had him and only him in your ear before, growling out orders. The neat little part of your brain that’s so good at compartmentalizing has apparently decided to take a vacation today. You’ve been relentlessly horny since he purred that first “how copy.”

Thankfully, you’ve learned to adapt to operating while being attracted to your captain, so it’s not so different from any other exercise. Really, you’re hardwired to follow Price’s commands at this point, reinforced by living another day when you do.

You just don’t realize how hardwired until the last match against Soap and Ghost.

Price nods you into one of the tiny, gutted buildings through one of the windows. He’s going to circle around, try to meet you in the middle. Simple maneuver, very effective. You just have to stay “alive.”

Inside the building, there are windows, wall cutouts, even boxes and barrels to provide cover. You’re ducked behind one of these when you hear the pop-pop of a paintball gun. Then a yelp, a crash.

Ghost shouts, “Medic!”

“Hold.”

You’ve never, never ignored a call for help before. Hesitation means lives in the field and you’re programmed to move before that second syllable is even out.

But Price’s voice cuts through years of training and instinct, locks your muscles down, keeps you tucked behind a stack of crates. You don’t even think, don’t have time to think. It takes you a moment to process what just happened even as your body obeys.

Price said to hold, so you hold.

No sooner have you realized what you’ve just done – or haven’t done – than Ghost is sweeping around the corner. Deadly, silent, efficient. You can only just see the top of his head from your position.

“Take the shot when you have it.”

Ghost pivots to clear the other side of the room. You pop up, already firing. Hit him once, twice, three times. Stomach, chest, face. He grunts and goes down.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

You never managed to shoot Ghost in any of your other rounds.

“Status, Squeaks.”

You blink, still staring moon-eyed at your lieutenant, as if you actually just fucking killed him.

“Target down, sir,” you say. “Repeat: Ghost is down.”

There’s another pop-pop, followed by heartfelt Scottish cursing.

“That’s the game, love.”

Ghost is the only one there to hear the noise you make, thankfully. You’re not even sure why. It’s a term of endearment you hear all the time, even from Price, but never like that. Thick with pride and approval.

Ghost clears his throat, his gaze far too knowing. You jolt.

“Sorry for shooting you in the face,” you say, scrambling over to him. “You okay?”

“Just fine, sergeant,” he replies, pushing himself up. “Deserved it, I suppose.”

You hum. “That was fucked up, sir.”

“All’s fair,” he shrugs.

You scrunch your nose but offer your hand to help him up anyway. He takes it out of sportsmanship but doesn’t put any weight into it to stand. Price and Soap find you a moment later. Soap looks disgruntled, splattered in fresh blue, but Price is grinning.

He makes a beeline straight for you, wraps his hand around the back of your neck, and presses your foreheads together. You suck in a breath but don’t pull away. No, you pull him a little closer, fingers curling in the straps of his vest.

“Brilliant, Squeaks,” he praises, “as always.”

You swallow back the sound that threatens to crawl out of your throat, suspecting you’d sound like a mouse on crack. Price isn’t as sparing with praise as Ghost, but it’s always hard-earned and exquisitely genuine. More importantly, he always says it like you’re his favorite person in the world at that moment.

“How-how did you know?” you ask.

He pulls away and you try not to show your desperation for him to return.

“Ghost calls you by name when it’s an emergency.”

You blink, shocked and awed (and a little frustrated with yourself). As always, your unwavering trust has been rewarded. Not just with victory, but with a long, heavy look from your captain that makes your heart flutter.

Price gives you one last pat to the head, and then the four of you file out to meet Gaz.

Towards the end of the session, Soap suggests the one activity you’ve been dreading: royale.

It’s a good chance to practice solo work, in the event that you’re separated from the rest of the team. Unlikely as it is to happen – you’re always paired up, and always watched like a hawk – the 141 isn’t in the habit of entertaining weak spots.

So you suck it up, resupply your ammo, and dart off when the counter starts. Thirty seconds to develop a strategy and try to execute it. Soap had that look in his eye, so you feel confident that he’s going to make some noise and cause some chaos. Ghost is also an easy guess – stealth is his specialty, and no one has much of a counter for it.

While Gaz was a wild card with Soap earlier in the day, he tends to match the rhythm of whoever he’s paired with. Lacking backup for this round, you think his plan might be similar to yours: low profile, let the heavy hitters swing at each other.

As for Price… you’re not sure what he could be planning. He knows everyone on the team too well, is far too intimate with each operators’ strengths and weaknesses. Has to, given that in any other circumstances, you’re all on the same team, looking out for each other. Chances are though, he’ll mark you as an easy target and go after you or Gaz (his usual teammate on two-person ops) first, leave Soap’s antics and Ghost’s general spookiness for last.

You post up outside of one of the little buildings, between two free-standing walls and wedged behind a barrel. It would be too small a space for any of the boys to risk, but for you it’s just the right fit to provide cover without immobilizing you.

When the horn sounds for the beginning of the match, you let out a breath and start counting. You’ll wait a single minute, then start around the perimeter. You’re a decent enough shot that if you see someone from a distance, you’re willing to risk your position to fire at them.

At 45 seconds, you think you hear something. You quiet your breathing, straining to hear. It’s coming from the nearby building. You peak around your safety, watching the window and open entrance for movement.

There’s a flicker of color, the rapid pops of fire and returned fire. Soap’s maniacal cackling, someone cursing, but hard to discern who. Probably Gaz. It’s confirmed when you see the top of his baseball cap duck past the window. You pause, consider. Then grab one of the paint-filled water balloons and chuck it through the window as hard as you can.

Soap shouts something unintelligible. Then Gaz pops around the frame, already firing. You’re lucky, though. He hits the barrel instead of you, and you fire off three shots. The last one hits him in the face shield, and he goes down with an overdramatic cry.

Fuck, that’s twice today.

You take a paranoid glance around, then scurry into the building. You clear corners with slightly shaky hands, adrenaline hitting even though this isn’t real, and you weren’t even in the middle of it. You just can’t believe that worked.

As you get to the doorway, you come across Soap, laid out with hot pink up his shin.

“Och!” he groans, throwing an arm over his face. “Ma leg’s gone!”

You snort. “Want me to put you out of your misery?”

“Aye, ya cruel harpy! Send me on ma way to Hades.”

You roll your eyes. “Seen Ghost?”

“I’m about to be a ghost!”

From the room, you hear Gaz stifling laughter. You fire one last shot into Soap’s vest, right over his heart. He makes an oof noise then falls limp, spread-eagled like you’ve truly done him in.

“Dead now, you muppet?” you ask.

“Aye, I’m right deid. Pushin’ daisies.”

You grin even as you roll your eyes and continue into the room. Gaz is also lying there like a corpse. Per the rules of the game, you can’t ask him about Ghost or Price since he’s technically “dead.” Still, you kneel down by him, poke him in the cheek.

“You alright?” you ask. “I didn’t mean to hit you in the face.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he assures, patting your wrist. “Hey, you want a candy?”

He unzips one of his vest pockets, revealing a little trove of Jolly Ranchers. Classic flavor, good choice.

“Oh, hell yeah,” you whisper, fishing out a blue one. “You’ve had these the whole time?”

“Forgot about them, honestly.”

You grin and pluck up another.

“Oi, Squeaks, get me a red one!” Soap calls. Too loud.

You shoot him an annoyed look. “Shut up! You’re gonna blow my spot!”

Still, you grab him a red one and drop it on his face before moving on. Game’s not over yet, after all. They each give you five seconds to clear the area before they come over the universal comm channel, announcing that they’re out.

You duck into a room on the first floor, take a moment to pop a candy into your mouth and shove the wrapper in your pocket. Then debate your next move.

It’s insane luck that you managed to catch them both. Right place, right time, right opportunity. That unfortunately also leaves you up against the two teammates that scare you most. You’ve already gotten Ghost once today, doubt that you’ll manage it again. Price will also definitely come after you before trying for Ghost.

Meaning… well, you’re probably fucked. And not even in a fun way, dammit.

Sighing, you creep from cover, trying to think of a strategy other than hide and pray they take each other out. You’re a little too chicken-shit to leave the cover of the building. It’s small, maneuverable, and – most importantly – you’ve already cleared it. There’s “roof” access if you risk ascending the metal staircase on the exterior.

You pop your head out to triple-check the area, but there’s no sign of either of your superior officers. Heart rabbiting, you take the stairs as quickly and quietly as you can, immediately flatten yourself on your stomach when you reach the roof.

Well, at least you managed that.

You shimmy into position with the staircase to your right, trying to keep it within view. Then you settle to wait.

The one part of sniping that’s always been a struggle for you is the waiting. Ghost can sit there for hours, silent and still, just watching. You, however, need something to do. Even the most tedious parts of medical care require you to actively do something, or you have someone to talk to.

For a while, you entertain yourself by clicking the jolly rancher around your teeth, hoping it doesn’t turn them blue. When that one is finished, you fiddle the other one out of its wrapper and pop that in, wrinkling your nose at the mixed flavor. Still, it’s something other than tearing up the inside of your mouth with your teeth while you keep a wary eye on the playing grounds.

Not that there’s much to see. Not a damn thing.

You sigh, wondering what Ghost and Price are even up to. Probably found each other and are having a really intense staring contest from their respective points of cover. Perhaps trading clever one-liners.

God, you should have let Soap shoot you while he was still “alive.” Let yourself “bleed out” and then skulked off when the one-minute timer for “fatal” wounds was up.

The longer you sit here, the more your body wants to relax into complacence. And, paradoxically, the more wound up you get. Hurry up and wait, as the boys say. You’re used to it on missions, and usually busy yourself by taking everyone else’s minds off of it. Right now it’s a special kind of torture when you don’t even have the threat of actually dying to keep you on edge.

Just your captain and the lieutenant who, while scary in their own way, only have paint to threaten you with.

A hand grips your ankle and yanks.

You yelp, startled, as you’re flipped onto your back. The paintball gun is ripped from your hands and tossed aside in a tinny clatter. Out of instinct, you put your arms up to protect your face and neck, jerking the leg not being held. Your knee hits the back of your assailant’s, knocking them down onto your hip, pinning your torso.

You lash out at his midsection, get exactly one softened punch in. Then the hand on your leg wraps around your wrist and slams it into the concrete beside your head. The next thing you feel is the barrel of a gun against your temple and you freeze. There’s a beat of deafening silence. You slowly lift your other hand up.

“There’s a good girl,” Price’s voice rumbles. “Just surrender.”

You let out a shaky breath, heart thundering for an entirely new reason.

“Eyes open, lamb.”

You hadn’t even realized you closed them. His eyes are so fucking bright when you meet them, bluer than the perfect spring sky above you.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you manage, voice pitchy.

He hums, never dropping your gaze, never loosening his grip. You’re well and truly trapped.

“You let your guard down,” he replies, though it doesn’t sound quite like the reprimand he probably intends it to be. “Pulled myself up from the window behind you.”

Ah, right. You couldn’t have managed that distance without help, but of course he could. Fuck, you wish you could have seen him do it.

“Glad it was you,” you breathe, too honest.

His brows arch. “That so?”

“Yes, sir.”

You shift, trying to relieve the maddening pressure of his thigh between yours. Get a warning squeeze to your wrist and go still again, all too aware of the heat radiating off him, seeping through thin layers of fabric. You want to writhe, rub up against him like an animal until he’s soaked. You pray that when he pulls away, there won’t be a wet spot on his pants.

“And why’s that, hm?”

Because you liked getting caught by him. Because you wouldn’t want anyone else between your legs, holding a gun (even a fake one) to your head. Because you’re hoping that he’ll leave bruises on your wrist when he finally lets you go.

“Just seems right, as my captain.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you.

“Did you take out Gaz and Soap?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes flash with unmistakable pride. You nearly whimper when his thumb sweeps over the delicate skin of your wrist. A new and ridiculously arousing version of his usual head pat.

“That’s my girl,” he practically purrs.

Your face feels scorching hot and there’s no good excuse for it if Price notices. Maybe he’ll just think it’s embarrassment at being caught.

“Now, before we finish up here—” God, you wish he would finish you here. “Have you seen Ghost from this perch, little bird?”

You don’t even hesitate to offer up information. Price could ask for your Social Security at this moment, and you’d happily write it down for him.

“Northwest, ten o’clock. Thought I saw movement, but it was too far to take a shot. Was just keeping an eye on it.”

His smile is absolutely sinful as he straightens up and drops the handgun to fire a single shot against your chest, just like you’d done to Soap. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. And then, to your mixed relief and disappointment, he shifts back and lets you go, giving you space to wiggle out from under him.

“Are you broken?” he asks. “Wasn’t too rough, was I?”

“Don’t mind a little rough.” It’s out of your mouth before you can think about it even once.

“I-I mean,” you fumble, scrabbling for your gun and looking anywhere but him. “I’m not fragile, that is. I’m – you didn’t – not broken, sir.”

And before he can respond, you practically throw yourself off the roof. That’s about as much humiliation as you can take. You don’t stick around to see the end of the match, instead make a beeline for the restroom to clean yourself up.

Not that it’ll matter, you think, only a little self-pitying, they’re just going to get ruined when I see him again.

If the captain was planning to say anything about your semi-inappropriate fumble on the rooftop, you don’t get to hear it.

No sooner have you returned to base and showered off the paint than you’re informed by Laswell of a new assignment.

A freshly formed squad with a newly promoted captain. They’re waiting for their actual medic to be transferred from a field hospital, held up by the shuffling of personnel to fill in the gaps. But since the 141 is between operations, your skill and experience make you a good candidate for a temporary placement.

You’re scheduled to ship out in two hours, and you haven’t eaten since lunch – was planning to go out for food and drink with the boys. You still have to pack your bag, your equipment, restock your supplies.

“Squeaks, settle down. You’ve got plenty of time.”

“Yes, captain.”

Price sighs. You cast him an apologetic glance, but only see sympathy and what might be worry in his expression. His arms are crossed tight across his chest, hat tilted so that with his head ducked the way it is, you can’t see his eyes.

“Sweetheart…” he tries again.

“I just—” You press your lips together, ashamed, but he nods for you to continue. You lace your fingers together, twisting and bending digits to the point of discomfort. “I-I like it here. I don’t want to… I know this is part of the job sometimes, but I just… I feel like I work well with you, and I’m worried about…”

A warm, calloused hand takes your chin between thumb and forefinger, guides your face up.

“Look at me, love.”

You swallow audibly as you obey, expecting reprimand or impatience. You feel stupid and childish. Price’s gaze isn’t judgmental, though. It’s searching, bouncing across your features and between your eyes like he’s trying to read all the things hidden between your words.

I like it here with you. I’m your medic, not anyone else’s. I’m worried that this will be like every team before the 141. I’m afraid I won’t measure up to whatever they expect, that they’ll take me away from you after this.

Whatever he sees (and you fear it’s something far too close to the truth) it causes his expression to shift. Something similar to what you see when a mission is going south. That determination and confidence that’s as firm as the ground you walk on. A look that declares we will survive, and we will win.

“Listen here, sergeant,” he commands. Your spine straightens, shoulders back, but you don’t pull away from the gentle hold on your chin. “You are 141; you are one of mine. You get this over with and come back to me in one piece. Do whatever it takes to make that happen. Your place will be right here waiting when you do. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.” Your voice is barely more than a breath, can’t get enough air in your lungs.

His hand shifts to the back of your neck, so wide he’s cradling the base of your skull. He tilts your head and for a heart-stopping moment you think he’s going to kiss you. You’d let him, right here in the open doorway to your barrack. Want him to.

Then his forehead touches yours. It’s almost better than a kiss. Just as intimate, more grounding. It’s what you need right now. To have him here breathing with you, showing that you’ll be missed. That he has faith in you but will be worried every moment you’re not under the watchful eye of the 141. Of him.

Your eyelids flutter as you focus on his warmth, his scent. Let yourself be soothed.

“Tell me,” he orders.

“I’m 141, one of yours,” you repeat obediently, voice soft and a little hoarse. “I’ll come home to you in one piece, whatever it takes.”

“Good girl.”

He shifts, the soft hairs of his beard brushing your skin, and then you feel his lips on your forehead. A sweet goodbye, maybe even a promise.

“Get your bag. I’ll see you off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Despite everything, the sight of the 141’s base through the plane window fills you with overwhelming relief. You’ve fulfilled your promise; you’ve come home to Price and the boys.

It’s only once you’re wheels-down and unclipping from your harness that the trepidation seeps in again. The weight of Captain Fuckface’s disapproving stare gets heavier with each second that it’s about to find an outlet with your own captain.

Once the ramp is lowered, he steps out first with a barked call for you to follow. As if you had anywhere else to go. Still, you set your jaw and fall in, pacing yourself to stay behind him all the way to the tarmac.

Your boys are waiting for you. Even Ghost, surly motherfucker with his arms crossed. He’s still there. And you’re struck with almost debilitating déjà vu. An arrival similar to this one, skittering out from a plane as a new transfer, nervous and trying not to be. Your team lined up to meet you, even though you didn’t realize at the team how much they would really be yours.

And Captain Price, your captain. A step in front of the rest with a small, crooked smile on his face. He looks more tired than last you saw him a month ago. Darker circles, deeper frown lines. They start to ease when he sees you approaching, only to reappear just as quickly when your expression becomes clearer.

His eyes dart to your temporary captain, to the grim expression that’s probably painting his face.

You wish you were happier to be home.

“Captain Price.”

“Captain Dillard. Successful mission?”

“We managed to get the job done.”

The unspoken “no thanks to her” is loud. Down the line, each member of the 141 shifts, frowns, glances between you and Captain Fuckface. To your gratification, they all seem dubious. Even Ghost.

“I see,” Price says slowly. His eyes flick to you. “Broken, sergeant?”

“She’s fine. We can debrief now.”

Price shoots him a razor-sharp look. “Didn’t realize you demoted yourself to sergeant.”

You swallow back a snort of laughter, choose the high road. “Not broken, sir. I’m solid for debrief.”

Price gives you a onceover, heavy and worried. But you really are fine – physically at least. With a nod, he and the other captain lead the way back into base. The rest of the 141 fall back to walk with you, doing their own check-ins.

“Bunch ‘a wankers, eh?” Gaz asks.

You duck your head, keep your voice quiet. “A bit, yeah.”

“Admitting you like us, then?” Soap teases. There’s tension around his eyes, a careful way he gauges your reaction when he loops an arm around your neck.

“Like you better than them, at least,” you say, trying for humor. Your tone just misses the mark, but he laughs like normal anyway. You’re unspeakably grateful. “Probably just because I’m stuck with you muppets.”

Soap scoffs, ruffling your hair. It’s familiar and friendly and what you need after being away for what feels like a year.

“You make us proud, Squeaks?” Ghost asks.

You know it’s just his way of checking on you. His tone implies that the answer is an obvious “yes,” but you can’t help the way you flinch a little. All the attempted good humor disappears.

“Tried to, sir.”

There’s a heavy moment of silence. Before it can be broken, you have to turn the corner towards Price’s office. You follow the two captains inside, settle at parade rest by the door. Price notices the unusual behavior but doesn’t question aloud, only narrows his eyes fractionally.

“Right then,” he begins, “what’s this about?”

“Captain Price, Agent Laswell led me to believe that the 141 is the best the SAS has to offer,” Fuckface begins. “But what I’ve seen from your medic this past month makes me wonder what kind of standards you’re being held to.”

Price holds up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there. Sergeant?”

You swallow despite how dry your mouth feels. “Yes, sir?”

“Wait outside.”

“Yes, sir.”

You slip out with as much composure as you can, wait until the door is closed to slump against the wall. You’re exhausted, nerves shot, just want to curl up in the common room surrounded by your squad and their good-natured chaos.

You – fuck – you just want a hug.

It’s about ten minutes that you stand there, leaning into the wall, wishing for this to be over with already. When you hear boots and see a shadow moving near the door, you straighten up into parade rest again.

Captain Fuckface opens the door looking smarmy, the asshole. Behind him, Price is standing over his desk, hands planted on its cluttered surface. He looks composed on the surface, but you can see that he’s pissed beneath. Your stomach sinks.

“Sergeant,” he practically barks, “a word.”

You wait until Captain Fuckface has exited before skirting inside, closing the door behind you. There’s a beat of silence. You’re sure you must be pale as your lieutenant’s namesake by now.

“You know what he just told me?” Price asks, voice low.

“Some idea, sir.”

“You want to tell me your side?”

“I—” You blink, words caught, frustration making your eyes water. Yes, you want to tell him. You want to explain every stupid miscommunication and misrepresentation that must have been told about your temporary assignment. All that comes out is a rough exhale, fists so tight behind your back that your palms hurt.

“Squeaks. Sweetheart.”

You tear your eyes away from the floor. Didn’t realize how badly you needed to hear him calling you that. Or to see that warm, patient look on his face.

“Stop standing there like an FNG. Come here.”

You drop out of parade rest and nearly scramble across the room. Not to the chair you usually lounge in, on the other side of his desk. No, you make a beeline for him, crash into his open arms with a bitten off sob.

“It fucking sucked,” you mumble.

“I gathered.”

You sniffle away any embarrassing tears and focus on your captain, all of him surrounding you again. His arms are sturdy and strong, squeezing you just this side of too tight. The scent of cigars and beard oil and gunpowder soak into you. You press your face against his chest, hear the strong, steady thump of his heart and could swear that yours is trying to follow along.

“Tell me,” he says after a moment.

“Sir,” you say, pulling away. Try to keep your voice at a reasonable level. “I tried. I did everything I usually do. By the book, even. He wouldn’t listen, sir. Told me I’d be reprimanded if I tried to go over his head.”

He nods. “I figured as much from what he said about you – insubordinate. Difficult to work with. He also said you were slow to follow orders.”

You close your eyes for a second, suck in a breath. Of course he said that. It’s not even untrue.

“Thought that was odd,” Price continues, “when I have every experience showing me the opposite.”

You blink, dart your eyes up to his. He smooths a hand through your hair and you’re helpless to do anything but lean into it. Needing comfort, needing reassurance.

“You have a hard time listening to people you don’t trust, huh?” he asks.

You stare, mouth parted like any moment you’ll muster up enough brain cells for an actual reply.

“It’s a note in your file from past COs. That you’re shy around authority. Even Ghost said something about it during your first couple missions with him,” he continues. “Thought I’d have to keep an eye on it, but you’ve never hesitated to follow orders since then. Not with Ghost, and never with me.”

You nod because it’s true. Too many COs trying to ignore your medical decisions, too many of them that let dying men run back into battle. Always thinking twice if you should listen and fall in line or call for evac and possibly be the reason a mission fails.

“You’re not insubordinate or difficult to work with. You’re the best fucking medic in the service and they were bloody stupid for not realizing the favor we did them by loaning you out.”

You blink away another wave of tears, realize your hands are curled into his shirt but can’t make yourself let go.

“You-you’re…”

“Yeah, I’m on your side, love.” You feel him smirk as he presses his lips to your forehead. “Honestly, Squeaks. What did I tell you? You’re mine. I’m not about to believe some puffed up kid that just got his third pip over my medic.”

And he says it so simply, so obviously, that you feel silly for all your anxiety. Of course Price believes you. He’s your captain. You trust him more than anyone. Possibly ever. And for damn good reason

“Yessir,” you breathe, nudging your face against his.

“Good. Now let that wanker back in and then come stand behind me.”

And as always, it’s not even a conscious thought to follow orders. You swing the door open, then pivot on your heel and stand just by Price’s elbow at picture perfect parade rest.

Captain Fuckface swaggers back in, drops into the seat across from Price’s desk. You keep your expression even and calm.

“I won’t tell you how to reprimand your people, Price, but I hope this isn’t an issue we have the next time we borrow one of yours.”

You wish you could see Price’s expression, because you could swear the temperature in the office drops to freezing.

“Borrow?” Price repeats, chuckling. It’s not nice. “I wouldn’t lend you a fucking pen, never mind a member of my team again.”

Yeah, it’s good to be home.

You’re happily snoozing when someone jostles you, trying to get their arms between your back and the cushions. It’s too soon after being gone. You flail, panicked. The only thing you remember is falling asleep near Price, and now someone (who is not Price, they don’t smell right) is trying to move you away from him.

You push out with your arm, catch fabric, hear a grunt. The hold on you loosens and you fumble around the figure leaning over you.

“John,” bursts out of your mouth, automatic as breathing.

“Sweetheart?”

You stumble towards his voice, not even fully awake but seeking him out, knowing he’ll keep you safe. And then he’s scooping you up, letting you cling. Sheltering you while you blink, taking stock of the situation.

You’re still in Price’s office where you fell asleep after he unceremoniously dismissed Captain Fuckface. Ghost is standing by the couch, hands up in the universal “unarmed” gesture. (Never mind that he is most definitely armed… somewhere.) Price has you cuddled up on his lap now, one arm around your legs and the other supporting your back. Making gentle circles with his thumb through your shirt.

“Oh,” you hum, “sorry, LT.”

“You’re alright, Squeaks,” he says, adjusting his mask. “Was just gonna get you to bed.”

“Oh.” You don’t want to go to bed, even though you can see that it’s well into night by now. You want to stay here with your captain. “I’m awake…”

“I’ve got her from here, Ghost.”

And it says something, probably, that Ghost doesn’t even pause. Just nods and quietly exits. It’s only then that you realize you’re still snuggled into your captain’s lap and while you really, really don’t want to leave, this is more than a little compromising. You shift, start to pull away.

“Sorry, sir,” you say, face warming, “I was just—”

“Stay.”

You stay, blinking in surprise. “Sir…?”

“You’re allowed to call me John, sweetheart. You did just now.”

Ohhhhhh no. No, no. He can’t do this to you. Not now. Not when you’re on his lap and he’s driving away the chill from sleep and you’ve been dreaming about him for the past month straight – and long before that, honestly.

“I-you—” you start but don’t know how to finish.

“Squeaks,” he murmurs, quieting you, “there’s something I want to run by you. I trust you’ll tell me what you think like always.”

Confused by the shift, you nod where you’re tucked under his jaw, knowing he’ll feel it.

“You like it when I call you mine.” You make a winded noise, but he just keeps talking like he didn’t just unceremoniously turn your world upside down. “You like that you belong to more than just this squad. You like that you belong to me.”

He lets that sink into the air between you, and all you can do is stare at his desk, shocked speechless.

“You like when everyone else calls you Squeaks, but you like it more when I call you sweetheart or lamb or love. And I think you said exactly what you meant when I caught you during the royale.”

You barely dare to breathe, wondering where this is going, what he’s going to say next. Alright, so you haven’t been subtle, you know that. But you figured there was a mutual unspoken agreement to ignore your unprofessional utter devotion.

“I also think…” Here he finally pauses. You feel him swallow, his fingers flexing where he’s holding you. He takes a deep breath like he’s the one bracing himself. “I think that if you want something more, you won’t say anything because you’re afraid it would risk your spot on this team.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hands tightening in his shirt. The silence is all the confirmation he needs.

“So I’m going to tell you this before anything else. There is nothing you could do to jeopardize your position here. Your place will always be with us for as long as you want it.”

You pry your voice from where it feels lodged in your chest. “Even… even if I screw up?”

Screw us up.

He chuckles. “We all make mistakes, Squeaks. You’d still have me if I screwed up, wouldn’t you?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

“There’s your answer.” He adjusts a little, tucks you against his shoulder so that he can card his fingers through your hair. “We’re a team. We communicate, we work together. No unilateral moves or heroes.”

That sounds… fuck, that sounds lovely.

“That said, if you don’t want something more with me, for any reason – or even no reason at all – nothing has to change. I’m still your captain, you’re still my medic. This is still your squad.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You’re too overwhelmed, half-convinced that this is just another dream. That you’ll wake up on Price’s office couch, to him gently and platonically ushering you off to bed.

“You don’t have to have an answer now,” he offers after a beat.

You already have your answer. It’s not something you have to think about when you’ve long made peace with your feelings.

“I-I want…” You gather your courage. Remind yourself that he wants this too. He wants you. “I’ve always been yours, John. From the moment we met.”

He exhales hard, ruffling your hair. His grip on you tightens again.

“Men like me don’t know how to love casually, darling. Can’t say things like that ‘less you mean it.”

“I do.”

You really do.

He coaxes you from the safety of his chest, draws you back to get a good look at your face. You stubbornly meet his eyes. There’s concern, uncharacteristic uncertainty. He’s just as nervous as you are. He doesn’t know how this is going to go either; if you two will be able to balance rank and duty with a romantic partnership. But beneath that, you see your own longing mirrored back at you and an adoration that makes your heart ache.

Carefully, you slide your hands up his chest, over his neck, to his face. Like he’ll bolt if you move too quickly. Your nails scrape gently through his beard, eliciting a shiver that you catalogue for later. One hand cups his cheek, thumb sweeping beneath his eye. The other traces delicate fingers up a strong jaw, over his temple, card into the fine silk of his hair.

You hope it communicates anything your expression doesn’t. That you want him in every way he’ll allow. That what you feel for him is anything but casual. The shock is still there, a film of static over your racing thoughts, but you’re certain that this – that he – is what you want.

“Alright, love,” he rasps. “I believe you. Just… for my own piece of mind, sleep on it?”

You frown, open your mouth to protest. The words die on your tongue when he takes your jaw in hand, thumb pressing gently to your chin. Even his silent orders you follow like religion.

“I promise I’ll still want you tomorrow,” he says, “but we’ve waited this long. Another day won’t hurt.”

You huff, but he can already see acceptance in the tilt of your head. Still, you’re sure to make your displeasure known by tugging at a bit of hair. Not hard, but enough to get the point across. Enough to make him grunt and eye you in exasperation.

“Brat,” he grumbles.

You shift on his lap, a grin tugging at your lips. You like this new nickname. “Your brat.”

“Mm.” His eyes go half-lidded. “You’re trouble.”

“’M not!”

The hand still on your jaw tightens a little, warning. “Behave for me a little longer and I’ll make it worth your while.”

You shiver, know from the look on his face that you’ve been made. Well, in for a penny and all that.

“But siiiiir,” you whine.

“Hush, none of that,” he scolds, but there’s unmistakable fondness.

“You can’t just offer me all this and then tell me I’ve gotta wait,” you complain.

He arches an eyebrow. “Oh, I can’t, can I?”

That low, rough tone washes over you like fingers down your spine. So fucking hot it’s unfair. You want to get on your knees – no, you want John to put you on your knees. Order you to kneel, sit still, behave. You’d do it, too, even as you would mouth off.

“It’s cruel and unusual,” you accuse.

He chuckles, shakes his head. His thumb sweeps in a gentle arch over your cheek. “How about something to tide you over?”

You perk up. There’s an amused twist to his mouth that makes you bubbly and warm.

And then he’s sliding his hand to the back of your head and guiding you down. Instead of leaning your foreheads together like usual, he tilts his chin and slants his mouth over yours.

You squeak in surprise, then go loose and pliant. Close your eyes and lean into him, knowing he’ll support you. Sink into the surprising softness of his lips, the tickle of his beard on your skin. Breathe him in and count his heartbeats beneath your palm, a touch faster than usual. It’s instantly addicting.

He keeps it chaste, but it’s like a feast after starvation, so much contact and intimacy where you’ve always tried not to take too many liberties. You press. Want him closer, closer, closer. He wraps his other arm low around your ribs, just above your waist. Hugs you tight against him. You wish you could straddle him, but that would involve pulling away, moving, not kissing so you take what you can instead.

It's too soon that he pulls away, shushing you when you whine.

“John…”

“Poor dear,” he coos, kissing your nose. “Right bastard, aren’t I?”

You nuzzle against his cheek. “Not a bastard,” you sulk.

“Oh, I am, love. Just your bastard.”

You hum in delight; know he can feel your stupid smile but can’t bring yourself to care. The two of you stay that way for a while longer. You, curled up on his lap like it’s where you want to stay for the rest of your life. Him, holding you like he never wants to put you down.

Eventually, though, you both chance a look at the clock and he sighs.

“Off to bed with you, lamb. You need it after all the shit you put up with.”

And while you want to argue, a huge yawn ambushes you at the word “bed” and you know to pick your battles. Besides, you’ve been dozing on his lap for the last few minutes, hypnotized by everything John Price.

“You too,” you mumble, pressing a sleepy kiss to his temple. “I know you haven’t been resting well.”

“Alright, love.”

You linger as he shuts down his office and locks the door, then fall into step towards the barracks. It’s late enough that you don’t pass anyone, but even if you did, it’s not unusual for you and the captain to be up or walking together. It is, however, unusual for him to draw you close by your waist at your door.

You set your hands on his chest, curl your fingers a little to revel in the hard muscles beneath. His arm around you is so fucking thick, strong with decades of training and work. You’re desperate to see it all for yourself, to feel him beneath your hands, your body.

Despite your less-than-PG thoughts, the kiss he leaves you with is achingly sweet. It’s like something out of one of those chick-flicks Gaz pretends he doesn’t watch. Slow and purposeful, like he’s got all the time in the world to torture himself with just a taste of you. No wonder the girls in those movies are always swooning.

“Goodnight, love,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Goodnight, John,” you whisper. “Sweet dreams.”

“They always are with you,” he says, winking.

It’s stupid and corny and you can’t believe how warm your face feels as you roll your eyes, feigning exasperation.

“Get out of here before you give me ideas,” you huff.

He hums, presses one last, perfect kiss to your forehead. “Think you’ve got enough already. Can’t wait to try them all out.”

And with that, he continues down the hall, leaving you to a night of slightly frustrated (but incredibly happy) sleep.

The next day is early as usual, but you’ve been given a single day of grace to recover from the month-long assignment. You spend it with the boys drilling recruits. You’re not doing any training, ostensibly there as medical supervision in case of mishaps – but mostly just enjoying your squad’s company.

Soap and Gaz fill you in on all the mayhem they caused while you were away, with Ghost interjecting the punishments and reprimands they received without you there to smooth things over with Price.

“Speaking of!” Soap adds, looping an arm around your shoulders. “Ask the old man if we can go into town tonight.”

“What for?”

He scoffs. “‘What fer’, she asks. To welcome ya back, ya daft chook!”

You’re as touched as you are confused. “I wasn’t gone that long?”

“Aye, but it’s the longest you’ve ever been gone, and it was proper dreich without you here.”

Gaz nods with his arms crossed, trying to look sage but mostly looking like a muppet.

“Ghost didn’t have anyone to toss around, and Price was dead chuffed.”

Huh. You glance at the lieutenant, the only responsible one who’s still keeping an eye on the recruits. But, sensing your gaze, he flicks you a look. He would seem disinterested to the unfamiliar viewer, but you clock a twitch around his eyes like he’s smiling.

“Ask him.”

You hum. “Alright, I will. But why me?”

“Because you haven’t been around to piss him off,” Soap says.

“And he won’t say no if he thinks it’s your idea,” Gaz adds.

“You’re going to see him in a bit anyway. Might as well,” Ghost muses.

Which, well. Yes, you are. You’ve got a backlog of records to catch up on, and you’re looking forward to doing so with John – even if it stays just the usual routine with no romantic overtures involved. Still, it should probably worry you that you’re so predictable.

You also want to ask about what Gaz meant, but you already know. The other sergeants have been sending you off to John with requests and bad news for a while now. At first, they said, because you were the newbie. By the time the “newbie” excuse was null, you didn’t mind being the one to seek your captain out upon request. But it’s a pattern that you’ve suspected for a while now, all but confirmed last night: John just doesn’t say no to you.

Except, apparently, when you want to ride him until his office chair breaks.

When you pop by his office after lunch (with food you brought from the cafeteria, because you’re a saint and you know it) the pattern holds true, and John agrees to take the squad for drinks. You grin, drop a kiss on his head as you fire off a text to Soap, who will surely let the others know.

You two don’t get to indulge much more than a few chaste kisses, unfortunately. The new evening plans mean that you both have to kick it into overdrive if you want to be finished with work in time to leave. You satisfy yourself by pressing your knee against his and sitting in his lap during breaks.

When the sun gets low, the rest of the team invades the office. You and John change into civvies, then meet up with the rest of the boys at the garage. John gets behind the wheel, you climb into the backseat between Soap and Ghost, while Gaz takes the passenger side.

The drive into town is lighthearted and high-spirited, chattering on about more things you missed while you were away. The bar is one of a handful that the squad rotates through to avoid establishing traceable patterns. This one has billiards, a foosball table, and a couple of old school arcade games in the back. During the season, they play Premier League on the TV screens, but right now it’s just reruns of old championship games.

You like the booths at this one, tall and rounded so that you can see and hear your whole team.

Soap pulls ahead to claim a table near the back, the first one in. Ghost slides in after him on the end facing the door. Gaz takes Soap’s other side, and you hop in behind him, scooching to make room for John.

“I’ll get us the first round, yeah?” he asks.

You ask for cider, craving something sweet and bubbly. Gaz and Soap get whatever seasonal beer is on tap. Ghost hops out of the booth to help carry the drinks.

John settles next to you when they return, his thigh a warm, hard line against yours. Whatever is in his glass is a warm honey brown.

“Wanna try?” he offers. “Have to do it before you drink the cider though. You’ll hate it otherwise.”

You’re already picking up the tumbler, humming. “Probably going to hate it anyway,” you muse, sniffing suspiciously.

“Christ, Squeaks,” Ghost gruffs, “it’s whiskey, not rotten milk.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, safe across the table and with John at your elbow. Then you take a sip. It’s nasty (as expected) and burns all the way to your stomach. But your reaction gets a chuckle out of the table, and you insist that one day you’ll like it. Still, you hand it back to John and quickly chase it with your own drink.

Conversation swings around to your own experiences while away. You try to keep it vague, knowing that your boys are protective. Overall, not bad to see how another team operates, but overjoyed to be returning to yours.

After the first round, Soap goads you into a game of billiards and Gaz follows along to play the winner. Ghost and John wave you three off, saying they’ll hold the booth and maybe order some food for the table.

Gaz retrieves the next round of drinks while you and Soap set up, then cheers on whoever happens to be losing at the moment – or whoever has his favor. You lose (because Soap is a pool shark) and Gaz doesn’t look like he’s doing any better. Across the bar, you make eye contact with Ghost. He visibly sighs, rolls his eyes. He says something that makes John chuckle before hopping out of the booth.

“He being insufferable?” he asks when you’re in earshot.

You both glance over as Soap crows something in purposefully thick brogue. Whatever he says, the tone is unmistakable.

“Right.”

Ghost pats your shoulder as he passes to challenge Soap to a round. It looks like Gaz is salty enough about losing to stay and watch the decimation about to happen. Which means that you have the perfect opportunity to cuddle up with your captain.

But first—

“Going to get another,” you say when you stop by the booth, “want anything?”

“Another, please, love,” John replies, tapping his glass.

You nod, take your empties back to the bar. It’ll be a minute until the bartender can come around, busy with a new group that just walked in. You’re not in any rush, so you lean against the countertop and wait patiently, offering a polite smile when she makes eye contact.

You entertain yourself in the meantime with thoughts of John. He told you to sleep on it last night, and you did. Ruminated on the potential changes to your relationship, professional and personal. The potential changes in your relationships with the rest of the team. Any nervousness that arises is always tamped down by the reminder that it’s John. You know him, trust him with anything and everything.

You can trust him to be your partner in this relationship, whichever way it goes.

Of course, as is the general state of the universe, it’s then that someone sidles up to you. That sixth sense for Men™ that most female-presenting people unfortunately develop starts to ping. Oh no.

“Sorry, it’s pretty crowded,” he says, a little too close and a little too loud, “hard to find a seat.”

Well, at least it wasn’t some shitty pick-up—

“But my lap is open for you.”

Aaaand there it is.

“I’m good,” you deadpan.

Instead of accepting the brush off – or even just scoffing that you’re a bitch and storming away – he laughs. All good-natured and familiar, like this is normal banter between you two.

“Okay, okay, sorry. I know it was a bad line, but I was hoping it would get a laugh.”

You arch an eyebrow, unimpressed by the attempt to backtrack. “Maybe stick to your day job.”

He chuckles, scratches the back of his head in a way that’s probably meant to be endearing. You think he looks like a knob. “Well, shit as the military pays, it’s better than what I hear comedians make.”

Surprised, you give him another once over, reassessing. Definitely military, you realize. It’s all in the stance, the way his too-tight t-shirt is tucked into his jeans. Also the haircut – recruit fuzz. Are they even allowed off-base?

He misunderstands your extended look and edges closer. His arm brushes yours. Someone is on your other side, so you shift your weight away as much as you can and try to ignore it.

“I’ve never seen you around here before,” he says. “Out of towner?”

You snort. He can’t have been here more than a month, what would he know about regulars?

“No,” you answer, “I’m up at the base too.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, giving you his own (too slow, so inappropriate) onceover.

“Yeah.”

Blessedly, the bartender stops by so you can order. Thank god it’s easy-to-pour drinks and not a cocktail with six ingredients.

“Damn,” the recruit chuckles, “a little forward, but I like a woman who knows what she wants. Whiskey’s not really my thing, though.”

You open your mouth to correct him, but he scoops up the tumbler almost as soon as the bartender sets it down and takes a big swig. The words wither as you stare, appalled. It’s so ridiculous that you have to mentally rewind to be sure that – yes, that really did just happen.

“Oh, sorry,” he smirks, leaning towards you. “Want a taste?”

You jerk back, about to punch the living daylights out of him. Then a shadow falls over you. The smell of cigars cuts through the stink of the bar and the recruit’s godawful cologne.

“Is that my fucking drink?” John growls.

“It was,” you sigh, leaning into him. Out of sight, his hand settles on your hip, thumb slipping beneath the hem of your shirt.

The recruit’s eyes go big and round, blood draining from his face. “O-oh, sir—”

“Well, boy? You going to waste good whiskey on my dime?” John demands.

Somehow, the recruit gets even paler. The bartender, entirely uninterested in whatever drama is happening, slides your drink over and then nods when you ask for another whiskey.

“Go on, then,” John rumbles. You can feel it where your shoulders brush his chest.

With a trembling hand, the recruit downs the rest of the whiskey, though he nearly chokes on it this time. John tsks, thanks the bartender as a new glass is set down. This shouldn’t be nearly as arousing as it is, your captain putting the fear of god in some idiot with bad manners.

“Sir,” the recruit manages. “I-I didn’t realize that you – that this is your—”

He’s not referring to the drink though. His gaze is darting to you. To the 141 insignia on the jacket you’re wearing. And you’re flooded with memories over the last several months.

“You’re the new medic?” a nurse inquires, looking at your paperwork.

“Oh, you’re the 141’s, right?” a physician asks. “You can deal with your captain, then.”

“You’re one of Price’s 141, aren’t you?”

“Just what I would expect from Captain Price’s medic.”

“Oh, Christ, you’re Price’s. The medic.”

“You’re one of mine.”

Oh.

You blink, remembering what John said the night before: “Men like me don’t know how to love casually.”

No. No, he really doesn’t. You have zero issue with that.

“Word of advice, mate,” John drawls, “if a woman looks like she doesn’t want to talk to you, she fucking doesn’t.”

You hum in agreement, scoop up the new whiskey and offer it, knowing your cheeks are rosy from more than just alcohol. His gaze is molten when he looks down at you. Whatever expression you’re making, it seems to both wind him up and defuse him from ripping the recruit a new one.

“Shape the fuck up, soldier,” he says in parting, never looking away from you.

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go, Squeaks.”

You happily slip past him, nearly moaning when you feel his broad palm settle on the small of your back. Not pushing or demanding. Just there. He helps you into the booth and then crowds in next to you, arm draping along the back. The heat of him is intoxicating.

“Fucking wanker,” he grumbles.

You bite back a grin, lean into his side. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

He shakes his head but there’s a smile quirking at the edges of his lips. “You don’t need rescuing, love.”

“I don’t need it,” you agree, “but I like it sometimes. When it’s you.”

He takes a sip of whiskey, swallows it with a sigh. “Christ, I want to take you back to base right fucking now.”

You can hear what he isn’t saying. The filthy promises tucked in the cadence of words and spaces.

You suck in a breath, squeeze your thighs together. “Wish you would.”

His eyes pin you, bright with desire. Reminds you of the hottest part of fire, beneath tongues of flame where it burns an eerie, steady blue. You see that same intensity in his gaze now, like you could burn yourself on his stare alone.

Then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “A little while longer,” he decides, looking across the bar. “The boys missed you.”

You follow his gaze. They’re finishing up their pool game now, and you’re sure they’ll be piling in again soon, telling you all about who cheated and who’s a sore loser. You missed them too, admittedly.

“Just the boys?” you tease.

John’s eyes flick back to yours for a heart-stopping second. Something predatory flickers through them, sends a delicious chill down your spine.

“I’ll show you how much I missed you later.”

The ride back to base is pleasantly quiet after the noise in the bar. Everyone is drink-warm and in good spirits, the radio on a Top Twenty hits station at an unobtrusive volume. You spend the drive trying to sit still and not blush every time you make eye contact with John in the rearview. You don’t succeed, but if anyone other than him notices, they’re gracious enough not to mention.

Gaz and Soap invite you to a movie in the common room, but you politely decline with the excuse that you want more rest before getting back to routine tomorrow. You say your goodnights, then casually saunter out the door – but not before hearing John claim something about paperwork.

You don’t get further than the next hallway before you’re grabbed around the waist and flattened against the wall. Your mouth falls open on a gasp, sparks shooting up your spine. John looms over you, his forearm braced above your head. The fingers of his other hand curl around the nape of your neck, his rough palm so broad that he can thumb your jaw, tilt your face up.

You start to speak – a reminder that you’re out in the open, where anyone could see you two fraternizing – but his mouth crashes into yours and steals the breath from your lungs. He still tastes like whiskey; you could definitely learn to love the flavor from his tongue. He curls into your mouth, a thorough and devastating exploration, coaxing you to follow his lead, to taste and indulge.

His fingers twitch like he wants to grip you harder, hold you closer. A noise gets trapped in his chest and pours into yours like warm honey, dripping languorous and decadent into the pit of your stomach. Pools there, aches between your thighs. You make a soft, wanting noise, fingers snagging in the front of his shirt.

“John,” you plead against his mouth.

“Tell me,” he replies, voice broken to gravel. “Fuck, love, please tell me this is still what you want.”

You can hear the question there. Flutter your eyes open and see the longing in his, the thread of hesitation because he’s a man who values open, clear communication.

“Yes, John,” you whisper. “I want you. I want to be yours.”

He groans, presses his forehead against yours for a moment. Gathering himself, you realize. It never occurred to you that he could be just as desperate for you as you are for him. God, it’s heady, that thought. Dangerous.

“You’re already mine.” The dark edge to his words makes you twitch.

“Yeah?” you breathe. “Show me, then.”

And oh, you should know better than to challenge your captain like that.

He doesn’t utter a word as he scoops you up by the thighs. Like you weigh nothing, muscles jumping deliciously beneath your curious palms, biceps stretching his sleeves. You lock your ankles at the small of his back, wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. Tease open-mouthed kisses along his cheek and jaw, just shy of his mouth, and grinning at his impatience as he storms down the hall.

He throws a door open, practically slams it after himself, the lock deafening. You know it’s his room just from the scent, but you surface when the light flicks on. Like his office, it’s neat but lived in, with the desk being the messiest spot in the room. There’s another door that you hope leads to an ensuite bathroom, but you don’t get to ask before he kisses you again.

And you see, now, why he wouldn’t give you this sooner. It would have kept you up all night and then destroyed your attention span all day – knowing what he tastes like, that he licks into your mouth like he’s kissing somewhere much lower. The way he just consumes every part of you; his undiluted attention becomes more necessary and precious than oxygen.

You don’t even realize he’s moved again until his thighs are under you, supporting your ass. The shift presses your pelvis to his, your clit bumping and grinding against the bulge growing in the front of his jeans. The sudden, delicious friction makes you draw back a little, gasping and clutching at his strong shoulders.

“Easy now, love,” he murmurs, tucking his face into the crook of your neck. “I’ve got you.”

You know he does, want to tell him that, but you’re beyond words at the moment. Breathless from the kisses, from that initial grind against your aching pussy, from the kisses he’s sucking into the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. You show him with your hands instead, featherlight touches along his spine that make thick arms tighten around your waist.

When you drag your nails along his shoulders he shivers, so you do it again, harder. He moans low and rough against your throat, teeth nipping. Another rush of liquid desire makes your pussy clench, empty and needy.

A sigh falls from your lips as one of his hands slides around the small of your back, callouses a sweet torture to the sensitive skin there. He grips your hip, just shy of too hard. You realize what he wants, move even before you feel a guiding tug. Rock down on his lap, providing you both the relief of a little friction. Just something to take the edge off, to buy you time to explore the gorgeous man beneath you.

One of your own hands glides into his hair, distracted by how soft and fine the strands are. It’s a detail you’ve never gotten to appreciate before, one that you imagine few others, if any, know. Your strong, brave, ridiculously competent captain, hiding a silky head of hair beneath that iconic hat or wool beanies. You bite your lip on a smitten smile.

Overcome by a wave of affection, you slide your other hand to his jaw, coaxing him away from your collarbone. His eyes are a storm when they meet yours, pupils blown wide and the blue ring around them swirling. This close, you can pick out the individual shades of gray that make them so intense.

His lips are swollen, glistening in the low light. Unable to resist, you lean in to kiss him, craving another hit. Get swept up in how he matches your passion and then leads you deeper, so gently but effortlessly dominating that you forget you initiated in the first place. Just press closer, closer. Hating the layers of fabric between your bodies but unwilling to allow any space or stop grinding against him.

That is, until he begins to ease away, soothing your protesting whines with lingering kisses and flicks of tongue. He doesn’t go far, leaning his forehead against yours and breathing into the heated hair between you two.

“I want to feel you,” he rumbles. “Will you let me undress you?”

“You’ll get undressed too?” you pout, plucking at the front of his shirt.

His smile is absolute sin. “Of course, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” you huff. “One more kiss?”

He huffs in amusement but indulges you. Takes the opportunity while you’re distracted and foggy to nudge you back on his lap a little. When you feel his fingertips skim bare flesh, you arch.

He doesn’t shove your shirt up like you expect from the hunger in his expression. It’s a slow glide, his hands mapping out the slope of your waist, the curve of your ribs, the dip of your spine. Everywhere he touches feels hot and tingly, sending fine tremors out to your limbs. You comply with pulling your arms from the sleeves, duck your chin to get it over your head.

Grin as your hair is ruffled up despite your best efforts, falling in disarray. He smiles back, takes a moment to smooth the strands down again, tucks a bit behind your ear. You tilt your head to kiss the thin skin of his wrist, just next to his watch. You’re obsessed with the stupid thing, love the way it accentuates the corded muscles of his forearm, the veins and tendons in his hand.

His other hand slips up your back, finds the wide band of your bra, plucks the hooks free with a sniper’s skill. You make an appreciative noise, shrug the damn thing off and take a deep breath in relief. He kisses your chest at the swell of your breasts, beard contrasting the softness of parted lips. Then you feel his hands sliding up your stomach, stopping at the top of your ribcage. His thumbs rub along reddened skin where the elastic left imprints, careful and reverent.

You practically melt, swaying closer as his mouth descends. Your nipples are already perked when he swirls his tongue around one, just teasing enough to make you whimper. He draws the flat of his tongue over the bud of nerves, then takes it into his mouth, sucking. A low sound of satisfaction thunders in his chest, accompanies a flick of his tongue that makes you jerk. Wish you had something to grind against, but your hands are too busy gripping at him to dip down between your legs.

He occupies one hand with the other breast, thumbing at the nipple. Then pinching, plucking. Drawing out high, soft noises from your throat that prompt responding growls from him. The other hand takes a handful of your ass to keep you still against him, fingers digging in. You hope it leaves bruises.

When his mouth and hand switch breasts, you whine, caught between the pleasure and wanting more. His mouth is wicked, that perfect combination of rough and teasing that you’re sure has your panties absolutely soaked. You wouldn’t be surprised if it’s visible through your pants by now.

“John,” you moan, patting his shoulder. He growls, sucks a little harder for a moment, prying a yelp from your lips, then draws away.

“Something you wanted, gorgeous?” he asks.

“It’s… it’s your turn,” you breathe.

“My turn?”

You huff, not sure if you’re frustrated or endeared by his eyebrow arched in curiosity. Hard to parse out anything from the lingering ache of pleasure. In answer, you hook your fingers beneath his shirt and lift. He realizes what you want, angles his arms to let you guide it up and then off.

You drop it on the bed, eyes drinking him in. He’s built beautifully, powerful muscle beneath healthy layers of softer tissue. Carved for work, for war. His skin is a tapestry of his military career; scars and uneven tan lines map beneath course thatches of body hair. Your hand looks so small on his stomach, looks fragile when the muscles jump at the light touch.

Fixated, you flutter your hands all over him, tracking each faded wound, tracing every line of tensing muscle. He’s burning beneath your hands, so hot you could think he’s running a fever. Touching isn’t enough. You plant a hand on his chest, feel his heart pounding beneath your palm.

Meet his eyes as you give a measured push. Slowly, never breaking eye contact, he lowers his back to the mattress. You follow him down, wriggling up his body. Lick your lips when you settle right where you were before, where he’s hard and straining in his jeans.

Where you belong.

Your mouth follows the paths your hands made. You kiss scars, nip at the ones you recognize as yours. His hand settles on the back of your neck, not gripping with any force or trying to guide you anywhere. Just holding, grounding – though you’re not sure if that’s for you or himself.

When your lips brush down the fuzz of his happy trail, he twitches and chokes on a noise. You love it. Want to hear more. He doesn’t stop your eager fingers from undoing his belt. Your mouth waters at the sound of the buckle clinking. It’s nothing, then, to get his button open, zipper down.

You tug impatiently at the waistband, which finally earns his interference.

“Alright, love, easy.” He’s still lifting his hips – so easily, even with your added weight, holy hell – to let you get it past his hips. “There’s no rush.”

“John, I want you. You made me wait all day.”

“Poor dear,” he coos mockingly, eyes lidded. “A whole day, you say?”

In retaliation, you nip sharply at the cut of his hip. He huffs, tugs on a lock of your hair.

“Brat,” he mutters, fond.

You flash an absent smile, already preoccupied with the tantalizing shape hidden beneath black cotton. Christ, and they say black is slimming? You can’t imagine it looking any bigger than it already does. But you’ve always enjoyed it when reality exceeds imagination.

You’re not disappointed. The head is flushed pink, flared, the barest hint of precome glistening at the slit. What catches your attention is how wide he is. Above average length, yes, but fucking thick too. Easily three of your fingers across, maybe slightly more. Your wet hole twitches around nothing, hungry to try to fit him inside.

That’ll have to wait a little longer.

With the two of you already at the edge of the bed, you’re able to get to the floor with relative grace, kicking your shoes off for comfort. Knees tucked under yourself, thighs pressed and rubbing together, you wrap your hand around the base. Your thumb and middle finger only just touch, and he’s thickest towards the middle.

His soft inhale barely registers as you ease your loose hand up to the head, trace around the ridge of the glans, then circle around to smear the beading precome. You slide your hand down, squeeze and stroke up again, coaxing out more. It’s too much to resist. The tip of your tongue laps at the shining slit, humming as the flavor bursts across your tastebuds.

You swirl your tongue, tracing the inverted heart shape in pantomime of what he did earlier to your nipples. As much as you want him in your mouth, you trace a thick stripe down his shaft, kissing open-mouthed at the base. He smells like masculine body soap and detergent, clean sweat. You sigh happily, licking back to the head and sucking it between soft lips.

It’s only then that you tune in to the noises he’s making above you, the low grunts and choked off curses. You didn’t think he could sound better than when he’s purring over comms, but you were wrong. Desperate to hear more, you swallow him down further, jaw already twinging at the stretch. It’s perfect.

His hand is in your hair again, still not pushing or pulling, just there. Just holding. You wouldn’t mind him holding a little tighter, but you’re not willing to pull off his cock to tell him that. No, you’d rather see if you can tease him into doing it by instinct.

You dive down until the head rubs the back of your throat. As much as you’d like to take him all the way, you’re out of practice and know you’ll choke too much to make it truly pleasant for him. He’s so thick it’ll take a few sessions to manage. That’s alright though, you know how to make it good without deepthroating.

Your hand wraps around what can’t fit in your mouth, tongue flicking at the vein on the underside. Then you loosen your jaw and move. Slow at first, testing how far you can go before your airway is cut off and your gag reflex protests. Then a little faster, applying suction towards the head, thumb rubbing tight circles right under where your bottom lip stops. You increase the pace until—

“Fuck,” John snarls.

You settle on that rhythm, mind emptying of anything and everything but this. Him.

When his hips start to rock along with you, a thrill goes down your spine. A noise vibrates from your throat, down his cock. He hisses a breath between his teeth, fingers flexing where they’re tangled in your hair. You could purr it feels so good, those little shocks where the strands pull too tight.

“Fucking incredible,” he pants. “You’re so – Christ, love.”

You give him a pleased hum, smiling a little at how his hips jerk.

“Alright,” he groans, the hand in your hair becoming insistent, urging you back. “Alright, that’s enough, gorgeous.”

You whine in protest, pull off gradual and decadent, reluctant to stop. A string of saliva connects your bottom lip to the head of his cock. You swipe your tongue over it one last time to snap it, eyes flicking up to his.

“You know,” he breathes, chest heaving, “I thought about this, at the training grounds.”

You blink, surprised.

“Your tongue was blue, Gaz’s fucking candies,” he continues. His hand slides from your hair to your face, wiping the spit that drips from the corners of your mouth. “Thought of you licking my cock like that. Wondered what you’d taste like if I kissed you after.”

You press your lips together, biting back a moan at the thought. If he had put you on your knees like that, you would have gladly exposed your back to Ghost’s gun just to get a taste of your captain’s cock.

“I was so wet…” you murmur, blushing despite yourself and what you just did. Your voice sounds husky and used, his jaw twitches at the sound. “I was afraid there’d be a spot on your pants. Almost wanted to get off in the bathroom while you finished the match.”

A confession for a confession. Kneeling before him like this, his hand on your face, it feels almost like absolving yourself of sin. Or at least, this is what you imagine it would be like; you’ve never been to a confessional. You’re also pretty sure that you’re about to be anything but cleansed.

“Yeah?” John purrs. “Why didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have been able to look anyone in the eye,” you admit. Then add, embarrassed, “And I knew I wouldn’t be able to get a good angle.”

He chuckles, low and dark. His grin curls more wicked when you can’t suppress a shiver.

“That so, love?” His tone twists into the gently condescending tone that you’re becoming obsessed with. “Like it deep, is that it? Can’t manage it with those pretty little fingers.”

You pinch your bottom lip between your teeth and have to squeeze your eyes shut while you nod. It’s embarrassingly true. Even when you can get that perfect spot, your hand tends to cramp by the time you get a good rhythm. Toys help, sometimes, but you miss the warmth of a living person – and half the time you’re too tired to thrust consistently at the speed you need.

All in all masturbation tends to be a frustrating process at this point. And now you just know he’s going to ruin it for you entirely.

“Don’t worry, love, I’ll take care of you,” he soothes. “Come up here.”

He helps you climb back into his lap, hands disconcertingly steady. You lean into his chest, mouthing at his jaw and scraping your teeth just to hear him rumble in your ear. One of your hands reaches for his cock, the head of it rubbing against your bare stomach, wet with saliva and precome.

“Now, now,” he chides. “It’s my turn. Be good for me.”

You moan softly. “But I want you.” The whine in your voice surprises you, sets your face on fire. You hide against his neck.

“I know, sweetheart,” he hums, “and you’ve been so patient. I promise I won’t make you wait long.”

His palm glides up your back, flat and warm. You’re being gentled, you realize. And it’s fucking working. It’s just like the training exercises, so easy to follow his instructions and knowing it’ll be well worth your while. In fact, you don’t even think of resisting as you sigh, pliant and cooperative while he rearranges you.

“Just have to make sure you’re ready for me,” he continues. “You’re in for a long night and I don’t want you too sore tomorrow, yeah?”

There’s a pillow under your hips as you’re settled on your back, blinking at him in a haze. He hums appreciatively, a roughly whispered “good girl” making your eyelids flutter. You drift your fingertips over his chest, down his arms, a little spacy but mostly just admiring. When he sits back on his heels, you let them settle next to your head. Open, offering.

He grazes his hands down your naked torso, lingering over the marks he’s already left, until he reaches your waistband. You lift your hips to give him room to slide them off. He drops kisses along your thighs while he does, open-mouthed. He takes your panties with him as he goes, apparently not patient enough to tease you any further. Not that you’re complaining.

Your calves brush his wide shoulders as he leans back. His jeans are still resting low on his hips, making room for his cock to sway over the bunched waistband of his underwear, still rock hard and flushed a tempting pink. You draw your legs back a little, knees pressed together. Enthralled by being completely naked, vulnerable, while he remains partially clothed.

“Shy now, darling?” he chuckles. “Come on, let me see you.”

You make a high, embarrassed noise… but still inch your legs apart, shaking when he palms your sensitive thighs. He exhales hard when you’re fully exposed, the gush of air caressing flesh.

“Bloody gorgeous,” he whispers, more to himself than you. “So fucking wet for me.”

Your fingers twitch. The urge to cover your face almost overcomes the desire to remain obediently compliant.

“John,” you call, quiet and beckoning. “You promised.”

It takes a second for him to realize what you mean, but then he huffs in amusement. Gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re right, love, I did.”

He moves as if to touch you, but you press your foot to his thigh, urging him back a little.

“You too,” you murmur, “pants off.”

“Alright,” he says, clearly humoring you.

You bite your lip as he steps off the bed, gaze locked as he kicks off his boots and removes the last of his clothes. He arches his eyebrows when he catches you staring, even put his arms up a little, palms open by his hips as if to say “well?”.

“You’re so handsome,” you breathe, “I can’t stand it.”

“Good thing you’re lying down then, eh?”

You snort, shaking your head despite the smile tugging at your lips, and reach for him. He sets a knee on the bed and the lamplight encapsulates him in perfect, beautiful glow. Every inch that you’ve been worshiping, every detail you’ve sworn to memorize. You’ve had your hands on him, your mouth.

This man you love and respect, the embodiment of duty and honor, and you belong to him.

“Oh, love,” he rasps, “you can’t look at me like that.”

You blink. Don’t even know what face you’re making. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll never let you go again.”

You don’t want him to let you go.

And he must read that in your expression because he groans, crawls up the bed to your reaching hands. You love watching the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunch and jump as he settles between your legs. The hard length of him is searing against the bend of your hip. Seeing it next to your abdomen like this, you’re struck by just how deep he’s going to be. Fuck.

You curl a leg over his hip and gently tug, urging him to close that last little gap between you two. He acquiesces, propping himself up on an elbow by your head, caging you in, making you feel small beneath his bulk. You tilt your head for a kiss as his other hand skims up your thigh and teases at your wet slit.

“You really are sopping,” he breathes against your mouth.

Your hips twitch, wanting more, wanting him to touch. His finger draws a featherlight circle around your throbbing clit. It’s not nearly enough contact or pressure, but it still sends you moaning into his mouth. Slowly, maddeningly, he keeps drawing those delicate circles, occasionally dipping into the slick dripping from your hole. His touch becomes firmer after a few passes, enough that you think eventually you’d spiral into the most mind-numbing and aching orgasm you’ve ever had, but you’re not that patient. Not before, and certainly not now.

“John,” you gasp finally, trembling. “Please, more.”

He doesn’t say a word, just hums and dips his fingertip into your entrance, thrusting in tiny increments until his finger is sinking into you all at once. You whine, head tossed back against the pillow. It’s not a stretch, but it feels divine after being empty for so long.

“Breathe, love,” he murmurs in your ear.

You suck in a breath, blinking away the fuzziness at the edges of your vision. Leave it to John to make you pass out (or nearly, anyway) without ever laying a hand on your throat. When you have enough air, you keen desperately, feeling him stroking your walls.

“Ready for another?” he asks.

You nod, nipping at his chest. A second finger eases you open, curling until you yelp.

“There it is,” he chuckles.

If your eyes weren’t in the back of your head right now, you’d glare. As it is, it’s all you can do not to dissolve as he angles to rub the heel of his palm against your clit. There’s a slight stretch now, his fingers thicker than yours made more obvious as he scissors you open, preparing you.

You feel useless laying beneath him while he does the work, except when you reach down, he rips his hand away to pin yours. You gasp, protest on the tip of your tongue, but he kisses you quiet until the fight leaves and your noises turn needy again.

“I told you I’d take care of you,” he rumbles. “Just be a good girl for me and take it.”

And well, it’s hard to muster any complaints when he plunges his fingers into you again, a third wedging alongside the first two. You’re definitely feeling it now, just the right kind of stretch. It’s a challenging pressure but not painful, and you’re soon rocking down on his hand.

His mouth descends on your chest again, toying with your nipples, getting you to twitch every time he sucks. He finds that perfect spot inside you with unerring accuracy, petting it with hard, steady strokes of his fingers. You’re gushing over his palm, down his wrist, pooling beneath your ass. It’s all starting to coalesce, burning through your veins, the stimulation luring you higher and higher.

“I-I’m gonna…” you moan, hissing air between your teeth. Try and mostly fail to still your hips. “John, wait, I’m gonna cum.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Wanna – wanna… on your cock,” you babble, barely coherent.

He chuckles. “I’ll let you cum more than once, sweet girl.”

(Let you. Good fucking lord.)

“No, no,” you whine. You clutch at his shoulder, clawing him harder than you mean to. “Want the first time to-to be… John, please.”

He hums in understanding and slows but doesn’t stop. You swallow back a sob, reminding yourself that this is what you wanted.

“Tell me properly,” he says, a hint of that authoritative tone creeping into his voice.

“Please,” you whimper, “l-let me cum on-on your cock.”

He groans deep in his chest, rattling what few brain cells you’ve still got in your empty little head.

When he pulls his hand away, his entire palm is shiny with your slick, strings of it stretching between his spread fingers. His scarred knuckles are dripping with you as well, obscene with the light hitting them. He considers his soaked hand for a moment, then makes eye contact with you and drags the flat of his tongue across his palm. Your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out, head spinning and staticky as he swallows.

“One of these days,” he growls, bass deep, “I’m going to sit you on my desk and eat you out until you’re begging for mercy.”

You shudder, breath hitching while you try to string together syllables.

“I-isn’t this desk a little small?” you ask.

His eyes are the darkest you’ve ever seen them. His hand drops to his cock and strokes, spreading your slick all over himself.

“I wasn’t talking about this desk.”

Oh, fuck. You’ll never be able to sit in his office again. At least not without getting wet enough to save a dying man in the desert.

You’re so thoroughly distracted by that thought – that promise – that it almost surprises you when his cock glides along your pussy. He balances on his knees to watch himself notch the fat head at your entrance. It already feels like a lot and he’s not even pushing in yet.

You scramble for something to hold onto, find his hand and lace your fingers together, squeezing tight.

“Ready, love?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. Then, “please.”

He enters you in one long, slow thrust. An inexorable and unrelenting push, bullying your walls aside, creating space for himself inside you. You feel full by the time he’s halfway in, tender where you’re split open around the thickness of him. The thumb of his free hand rubs gently at your throbbing clit, little strokes that ease the ache but also make you twitch tighter around him.

Three quarters of the way, you’re making high-pitched noises in the back of your throat, sounding tortured. But he doesn’t stop, the squeezing of your thighs around his hips urging him deeper. If he’s speaking, you can’t hear it over your own heartbeat. Just arch your back, inviting him to ruin you.

When he’s finally seated inside you, heavy balls flush with your ass, you think you’re going insane. It feels like he’s in your guts, like his cockhead is kissing your esophagus. Logically, you know that your body is built to accommodate this – him – but it feels like he’s reshaping you just for his cock. You’d never be satisfied with anyone else; not that you think you’ll ever want anyone else. Not since you met John, and definitely not now that you have him.

“Alright?” he asks.

Your tongue feels clumsy in your salivating mouth, so you nod and squeeze his hand in reassurance. He rocks, grinding himself impossibly deeper and you cry out, thighs trying to clamp shut from the too much too good of it. He settles snug against you like that, presumably for you to adjust.

Except his thumb hasn’t stopped playing with your clit. You can’t relax, can’t think, can’t breathe under that unfaltering rhythm, that perfect pressure. He started you towards an orgasm doing that before and it seems he memorized it just to do so again. He’s not even moving, but he doesn’t have to, your walls are fluttering and twitching around him.

“Fuck,” you whine, “fuck, J-John. If you keep… I’m gonna…”

“Yeah?” he asks, and oh god, it’s that tone again. “You can cum just from having me inside you?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and nod, trying to stave it off, but the lack of sight only makes it worse.

“Show me,” he growls.

His pace doesn’t change in the slightest, winding you up and up and up…

“Look at me.”

Your eyes snap open, helpless against his commands, and lock gazes with him.

“Cum for me, beautiful.”

And you fucking do, back bowing to an almost painful angle, thrashing and crying out, eyes rolling into the back of your head. He doesn’t move a fucking centimeter, his cock pressing ruthlessly against all those white-hot points of pleasure, drawing it out. Even when he jostles inside you, it just sends another wave of ecstasy crashing over you, your pussy both under-stimulated and over-stimulated.

“There’s my good girl,” John purrs above you. “Ride it out, love. Fuck, you feel so good squeezing around me.”

You keen, push at his hand on your clit. Mercifully, he eases off, settles his palm flat on your thigh, giving you another point of stability. You pant as you come down, heart thundering and sweating.

“Oh my god, John,” you gasp.

“You did so well, sweetheart,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “Came so beautifully.”

You moan, rolling your head back against the pillow. Blink at the ceiling for a moment and try to remember how to breathe. Difficult when he’s still inside you, still hard. You twitch at the thought of more. John makes a punched-out noise, the hand still in yours squeezing.

“Do you need another moment, or can I move?” he asks, perfectly patient.

You clear your throat, shift a little, gauging. You’re still sensitive, but not overly so. More importantly, you desperately want to feel him moving inside you.

“Fuck me,” you whisper.

He groans, but there’s endearing relief in his expression.

You’re not willing to let go of his hand at first, until he brings it to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, your wrist, your palm, and rests it on his bicep instead. Both hands free now, he adjusts your hips on the pillow, angling them up. Then he curls his fingers around your calf and hooks your knee over his shoulder. You squeal at the shift, clench down on him hard.

“Holy fuck how are you deeper?” you moan.

He rocks his hips, not hard or deep, but even that is enough to make you squirm and quake.

“Fuck that’s a good angle,” he growls and doesn’t waste another second.

The pace isn’t fast, but it’s deep and rough. A measured rhythm that’s already driving you crazy. The head of his cock drags deliciously against your sucking walls when he pulls back, then scrapes your g-spot when he plunges in. Over and over and over. He doesn’t speed up at all and yet they start to bleed together, the pleasure of one thrust rippling into the next.

It's hypnotic, it’s maddening. It’s exactly what you need after cumming just from feeling him inside you. Your second orgasm almost always takes longer than the first, but John takes you apart methodically. Even when you start to whine and whimper again, keening half-words and flexing as if to make him go faster. He’s implacable.

Watching makes it worse. The tight flex of muscles, the way he grunts every time he buries himself to the hilt. He tilts his head back, a single pearl of sweat skating down the stark tendon of his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat. A groan rumbles from his chest when you scratch your nails down his arms.

He’s beautiful and he fucks like a god and all you want is to stay here on his cock for the rest of your life.

“Please,” you wail, “I wanna...”

His eyes flutter open, still sharp even through the pleasure scorching his system.

“Go ahead, angel,” he growls. “Play with your clit, make yourself cum again.”

Fuck, it didn’t even occur to you that you have both hands free, but now with explicit permission, your hand darts down to swollen flesh. You hold onto his forearm where’s braced beside your head, an anchor while you rub your clit. It’s almost too much at first, even when you’re in control of the speed and pressure. But soon that almost-pain melts into pure pleasure and you synch your strokes with John’s.

The second orgasm is a slow build, a rising tide of blistering heat and pulses of ecstasy, a gentle violence that ravages your body. It’s wave after wave, each more intense than the last, leaving you a writhing puddle as John fucks you through it. Every crest has you crying out ragged and slack jawed. As you’re shaking through the last of it, John dips down to kiss you, filthy and uncoordinated, grinding deep one more time.

You lay boneless beneath him, limbs tingling.

John dots your face and jaw with kisses as you recover, only half inside you. The hand that he’s been bracing on is tangled in your hair, scratching blunt nails over your scalp. He murmurs in your ear and your brain is too scrambled to figure out what, but his tone is sweet and soothing.

You take one last deep, settling breath in… and realize he’s still hard. Good fucking god, he hasn’t cum.

Gaz made a joke at John’s expense once; about how older men can only go once but they can go for a while. You should have taken that as a warning.

“Do you want to be done?” John asks gently.

You blink, refocus your eyes on him. His expression is open, concerned. If you told him that you couldn’t do any more, you know he would understand. Would let you finish him with your mouth, or even jerk himself off if you really tapped. There would be no repercussions, hard feelings, or complaints.

But even still shivering from your last orgasm, you want this man to paint your insides.

“Fuck no,” you reply, reaching for him, “I just needed to catch my breath.”

He grins and leans down to kiss you, a messy tangle of lips and tongues. Then he pulls out of you. A frankly obscene amount of slick floods from your abused hole, almost unnaturally hot where it slips down your ass. He smirks at the sight, but before you can grumble about it, he circles an arm around your waist and flips you. You land on your stomach with an oof muffled into the blanket.

“That was just – waah!”

You’re forced to brace on wobbly arms as he hikes your hips up and stacks both pillows beneath, then settles you down again. It’s stupidly hot how easily he manhandles you – and all in the spirit of making you comfortable to continue fucking your brains out. Christ, he couldn’t be better if you made him in a factory.

His palm settles low on your back, presses gently. “Show me what’s mine, pretty girl.”

You arch with a soft moan, canting your hips to display your swollen, dripping pussy. He makes an appreciative noise, draws a curious finger from clit to hole. Sparks of oversensitivity burn through your veins, but his grip keeps you from twitching away.

“I’ll have you in pieces by the end of this,” he breathes.

He’s right; it won’t even take much at this point. You double down on that thought when you feel his cock at your entrance again, still thoroughly coated in your slick. No, you’ll be disassembled before he’s finished, and you won’t even care if he puts you back together again.

(But he will, of course he will. It’s John.)

At this angle, he feels even bigger than before, nearly at your body’s limit. That doesn’t stop you from leaning into it, pushing your hips back to get him seated up against your cervix again. He makes you stop like that, bending down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades.

“Good?” he asks.

“I’m good,” you reply, swiveling your hips in a tight circle. “C’mon, fuck me, fill me up. Show me what it means to be yours.”

He growls, draws his hips back, and slams home, forcing a cry from your used throat. It’s none of the steady, measured pace of before. This is rough and fast, almost brutal. He fucks like he fights, all deadly precision and focused strength. His bruising hands jerk you back to meet each thrust, treating you like a toy for his own pleasure.

It’s far too much after two orgasms. Your pussy spasms like you’re not sure if you want to keep him in or force him out. It doesn’t matter what you want, though, he’s fucking taking what he needs from your willing body. And you can do nothing more than wail, whiny little “ah, ah” noises ripped from your drooling mouth.

“That’s it, love, fuck,” John snarls.

The bed starts to bang against the wall, loud enough to be heard in the hallway. It drops your shaky arms out from under you, making the angle that much steeper, that much better. Your wet cheek presses into the mattress, fingers clawing into the sheets beside it.

“You take me so well, just like I knew you would,” he rumbles above you. “My sweet girl, always so eager to please me.”

You don’t answer, but the way you clench around him is all the confirmation he needs. He’s not even wrong; you love making him proud, earning his praise, being good for him. This is no exception, letting him demolish your pussy with every inch of his thick cock.

“You want me to fill this greedy cunt, is that it?” he grunts. “Have you drip with me at breakfast tomorrow?”

You shout a squeaky “yes,” feeling like you could cum again just from the thought alone.

“Then touch yourself for me, pretty thing. I want to feel you.”

You whimper, dismayed. “B-but—”

He slows just enough to lean down, nearly flattening you against the bed. He doesn’t stop entirely, thrusting into you in sharp, hard jerks that make your lungs hitch. His breath is against your ear, hot as steam.

“That wasn’t a fucking suggestion,” he purrs, low and mean, “and if you don’t follow orders, I’ll do it myself.”

One of his hands unlocks from your waist, fingers skirting dangerously close (and not gently) towards your aching clit. You squeal, try to writhe away but only succeed in grinding his cock against your walls.

“Y-yes, sir.” It’s out of your mouth without a single thought but you can feel him throb.

“Good girl,” he groans, pushing himself up again.

He nudges your knees wider apart, leaving you spread for him to hammer right back into you. You detach a hand from the sheets and sink shaking fingers down to your pulsing clit. The force of John’s thrusts makes it impossible to be gentle or careful, and you sob through the overstimulation as you rub two fingers through your puffy folds.

“That’s right, love, just like that,” he praises.

You thrash beneath the onslaught, voice out of control, only held up by John’s grip. His rhythm starts to falter, words becoming sparse as he chases his orgasm. Somehow he gets rougher, fucks harder, as he nears his end. Tilts his hips at just the right angle to abuse your g-spot again. You scream and then sob, babbling out pleas for him to cum in you, fill you up, make it drip down your thighs…

A burst of heat accompanies your name in his hoarse, fucked-out voice. The feeling of it, spurts of white-hot cum painting your oversensitive walls, sends you crashing through another pit of ecstasy. John slows but doesn’t stop, easing you both through the last incandescent dregs of orgasm.

You feel him shift above you, his shadow blotting out the minimal light. He whispers something under his breath, something complimentary, you gather. You’re too busy trying to remember who and where you are.

“Alright, love?” he asks, sounding just as wrecked as you feel.

“Mhmm,” you manage past scratchy vocal cords.

“Can I pull out, get us some water? Or do you need another moment?”

You shake your head, reach blindly for his hip to keep him close.

“Understood,” he chuckles, petting your flank. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

You lay there until your heartbeat steadies and breathing isn’t a manual process. When you tap his thigh, he tries to be gentle, he really does. But even soft now, he feels huge, and you make pathetic noises as he pulls out. He shushes you, dropping kisses on your spine as he helps you down onto your stomach, your hips sore.

“There you are sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back.”

The bed bounces a little as he gets up. There’s a moment of silence that you suspect is him admiring his work, then the sound of a door, running water. Seems like he does have an ensuite after all. Thank god.

The mattress dips as he settles on the edge, your hip pressed to his.

“Need help sitting up?” he asks.

“I got it,” you reply.

It takes you another second to gather the will and strength, but you eventually manage. You curl against his back as he offers you a full glass, need both hands to keep it steady while you sip. His hand settles on your knee, thumb caressing soft circles into the skin.

“Sore?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit. “It’s good.”

“Will it stay good, or should we get paracetamol onboard now?”

How is he so fucking wonderful?

You hold the drink away to lean into him, nuzzling up against his jaw. “I’m alright, love. You didn’t hurt me.”

He huffs, eyes impossibly soft when you pull back enough to meet them with your own. “It wasn’t too much?”

You smile, touched and utterly smitten. “It was perfect. You were perfect. Thank you.”

“For that?”

“For everything.”

You wake the next morning to John in your arms. His face is tucked into the hollow of your throat, quietly snoring. One of your legs is curled around his hip, the other sandwiched between both of his. He’s hugging onto you like a teddy bear, one of his hands spanning across your bare ribs, the shirt you’d stolen rucked up around his wrist.

You’re not sure where his other arm is – beneath the pillow under you maybe. One of yours is around his shoulders, keeping him tucked close. You card the fingers of your free hand through the downy hair at the base of his skull and bask in the pre-dawn light. John Price, your captain, is snuggled up to you in his own bed after rearranging your intestines the night previous. It’s more than you ever could have dreamed of. It’s perfect.

You doze for a while, soaking in the warmth of his bare chest, the sounds of him finally resting for once. Feel like you could stay here forever, loose-limbed and content in the watery hours before responsibility comes barging in.

The change in his breathing rouses you again, his snores tapering off. He presses a drowsy kiss to your neck. You hum a wordless good morning, smoothing your palm down his arm to hold his hand. The two of you lay like that for a few moments, waking up and fondly recalling the night before.

“How much do you think Soap and Gaz have on this?” he wonders eventually.

You adore his sleep-rough voice.

“At least 20 quid,” you muse.

He grunts. “Fucking children.”

You giggle, drawing your nails lightly over his shoulders. “In their defense, we took forever to sort ourselves out.”

He hums, agreeing but not willing to admit it. You see laps in your fellow sergeants’ futures.

“We took exactly as much time as we needed,” he replies.

You hold him a little closer as your heart skips a beat. “I love you, John.”

He lets out a breath and pushes himself up to look you in the eyes. “I love you.”

At breakfast that morning, you make eye contact with Ghost across the table. Even with the mask, you can tell he’s smirking when he flashes the 50 quid he just won off Gaz and Soap – much to John’s dismay.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #sergeant squeaks #captain john price #john price x reader #cross posted on ao3 #old fic

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