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boldlyherdream · 3 days ago

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In the palm of your hand

John Price x afab reader

Word count: 4.3k

Tags & warnings: SMUT-MINORS AND BLANK BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT, vaginal fingering, somnophilia (not really but on the verge), p in v, creampie, gratuitous use of pet names, breeding kink if you squint, <- just imagine that’s always the case if I’m talking about price because this man wants to fill you up with his babies like yesterday

Note: Was trying to write more sea captain Price but this lodged itself so far into my skull it slipped through to a new dimension. As usual, this was supposed to be 600 MAYBE 1000 words of porn without plot. HA.

You’ve never thought of yourself as a jealous person, but right now, you’re not so sure.

Romantic relationships should start from a place of trust. Key words: romantic, relationships. Neither of which describe you and Captain Price. You’re nothing to him. He’s nothing to you. Except your boss (sort of, more like de facto boss). Maybe that’s why it’s pissing you off so much to watch two women practically throw themselves at him.

He’s laughing and joking as he waits for your drinks, indulging them with good humor and attention. Meanwhile, you work you ass off for him, and the best you can hope for is a quick dismissal. (Even Ghost tossed a “nicely done” at you once. It was only once, but that’s infinity times more than never.)

You truly don’t know why you agreed to come. The bar is buzzing, stuffed to the gills with military types and people looking to fuck military types, and you’re neither. Certainly not some super secret black ops elite task force member, or however the others might describe themselves. You’re just a nobody little intel gremlin Laswell plucked from counterterrorism and plunked into the 141 for one purpose: secure actionable intel faster. The original mission was supposed to last three days, but it went tits up in less than three hours (not because of you, thank god). Everything snowballed, and you’ve been stuck here ever since, doggedly tracking leads, trying to put the final nail in AQ’s coffin.

Despite Laswell’s stamp of approval, the captain has never seemed to fully trust you. He’s constantly hovering at your periphery, barging into your office (closet, really) to inspect your work, nitpicking every mistake. At first you thought it was because he wanted to hammer home how lethal any small inaccuracy can be for the team. Your intel literally makes or breaks their missions. But now you’re convinced he just has it out for you. A forgotten paragraph break isn’t going to kill anyone. It feels juvenile to say as a grown-ass adult, but you’re really fucking good at your job, and you want him—need him—to acknowledge that and let you get on with it.

At the very least, it’d be nice if he stopped glaring at you from the moment you enter a room to the moment you leave.

Luckily, the boys have been friendly, sometimes veering toward too flirty, but never crossing the line. Not under Price’s watchful eye.

That’s why you’re here, you suppose. Because it’s been a month since you joined the team and Kyle and Johnny insisted on celebrating that milestone. They were both adamant that you had to be the one to ask the captain, not letting you in on the reason until you got to the bar: they were desperate for a night out and knew Price would relent if it was you.

Anything to get you out of his office, probably.

It’s too bad because everyone you’ve met respects him and are terrified of him in equal measure. More than once, you’ve seen others’ estimations of you visibly grow once they learn you work with the vaunted Captain John Price.

It’s also too bad because something about him really does it for you, not that you’d ever admit it. But anyone who looks that fuckable in a stupid boonie hat and cargo pants has got to be up there in your books. Though, he looks just as good in what he’s got on tonight—dark jeans and a solid gray t-shirt, drawing your eye to the width of his shoulders, the curl of his arms, the strength of his thighs. In some paradoxical way, the plainness of his outfit stands out, calm waters in a sea of loud prints and flashy jewelry.

Even in civvies, his bearing screams officer through and through, and you’re sure those women can sense it as they pout coquettishly and laugh a little too loudly. You scoff into your beer. He can be funny, but not that funny.

Guess that next round won’t be coming anytime soon.

“You’re gonna burn a ‘ole through his ‘ead if you keep starin’.”

Ghost’s voice is low, but you can hear the amused lilt. The two of you are the only ones left in the booth. You thought he’d been ignoring you, content to watch the pheromones flying around the bar. Alien observing human mating rituals or whatever. Seems like that’s not the case.

“I’m not staring,” you snip. Liar.

“Sure. And my name’s Nancy.”

“Whatever, Nancy. It’s just-” You can’t help but continue, gesturing vaguely toward the two women with your mostly-empty glass. “Is that what guys are into?”

You’re being unfair. You know. Everyone here’s looking to get laid. Hell, Gaz and Soap fucked off ages ago to god knows where with the first people that made eyes at them. Probably getting sucked off in a bathroom stall, or fucking in the alley around back. Honestly, good for them. And good for these women for knowing what they want and going for it, unlike you. Under other circumstances, you’d enjoy watching them pull, be rooting for them, even.

“Guys?”

Ghost raises an eyebrow. How you can tell with his mask on, you’re not sure, but somewhere along the line, you’ve learned to read him. When you don’t answer, he repeats:

“Guys? Or Price?”

“Shut up. Prick.”

“Ouch. Gonna ‘urt my feelings.” He downs the last of his lager. “Don’t get your knickers twisted. Old man’s bein’ polite. Wouldn’t be single if he went for just any warm ‘ole.”

Crude, but it mollifies you.

So he is single. That was something you hadn’t been able to verify. There’s not a ring on his finger, but that doesn’t mean shit. A confirmation from Ghost, though… If anyone knew about a secret lover, it would be him.

“Thought that might perk you up.”

God damn. You need to remember how perceptive they all are. Or stop being so fucking obvious. Both.

The captain returns, setting three fresh pints down and slipping into the booth beside you, leaving plenty of space. One arm stretches casually across the backrest, close enough to feel the heat coming off him but not touching you. Never touching you.

“Ghost behaving?”

“Never, sir.”

The man in question nudges you, jutting his chin toward the bar. “This could get interestin’.”

One of the women has followed Price over, sliding in on his other side. Her blonde hair looks soft and lustrous, cascading elegantly down her shoulders. She lays one impeccably manicured hand on his bicep, pushing her tits into him. A claim. He doesn’t brush her off.

“John, are you going to introduce me to your friends?”

John. Like she’s earned the right. Ghost doesn’t even call him that.

“They’re subordinates, not friends,” he grouses, but obliges her.

“A pleasure to meet you both.” She leans over the captain, giving him an eyeful under the pretense of shaking your hands. You take a too-big swig of your beer when you catch him peering appreciatively down her dress.

She’s inevitably flustered when Ghost refuses, deadpan stare sending her to you with her hand outstretched. You shake it, albeit reluctantly, dropping it quick as you can. It’s soft and warm and not clammy like yours. Her perfume lingers like a flowery miasma.

Price shifts to give her more room, settling with her pressed against his left. You’re trapped against his right, sandwiched uncomfortably between the two large men. Ghost is a brick wall on one side, Price a boulder on the other, and fuck, he smells good. Summer nights and clean laundry. Tobacco, coffee, and wood. Something to nestle yourself into.

The woman keeps up conversation, questioning Price about his most dangerous missions and responding with suitable amazement at his answers. Stroking his ego (and his arm, presumably his leg too, though you don’t dare confirm). It probably works on a lot of men.

You don’t want to stay long enough to find out if it will work on him.

“He must be an awful tough captain to keep both of you in line.”

Your knuckles are white with how tight you’re clutching the glass. Looking up, everyone’s attention is on you, expectant.

“Nope, just awful.”

The first thing that comes to mind slips out. Your eyes widen and dart to Price when your brain catches up to your mouth. There’s never banter between you and the captain, not like with the rest of the team. He keeps his distance. At best, you can hope to be ignored. At worst…

No reprimand comes, though. Instead, the captain presses further into your side, sending shivers up and down your spine when he murmurs in your ear, “gettin’ cheeky are ya?”

The woman laughs. He’s never like this. The beer must be going to both your heads. You should leave before you do something stupid.

You shove Ghost. “Move. I want some air.”

“Nah. Don’t think I will.”

“I said, move, asshole!”

He doesn’t budge. Pretends like he can’t even feel your punches. He probably can’t.

An errant elbow catches Price in the side. “Watch it.”

“Tell Ghost to let me out!”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing!”

“Then stop bloody thrashing.”

“I just want some air. Is that too much to fucking ask?” You screech.

You freeze at the scowl on Price’s face. Overreaction. Insubordination.

“Alright. Come on, love. Let’s have a little chat.”

“No, I sorry- I’m fine, sir.”

“I’m not askin’. ‘Scuse us.”

Price all but shoves the woman aside and yanks you from the booth, barreling through the crowd and out the side door to the parking lot.

The door closes behind you with a resolute bang. Music and voices muffled to a dull drone. You glare at your feet as he pulls a cigar out of his pocket and lights it, cherry flaring crimson when he takes a puff. You did need some air. The breeze does you good. Clears your head a little.

“Right. What’s got you all worked up?”

“Nothing, sir.”

He repeats your denial, incredulous, bringing the cigar to his lips again. Puckering, holding for an indulgent beat, breathing out a dense cloud of coffee, chocolate, almonds. Toasty with a sweet finish.

“Well?”

You blink away from his lips to dart back to his eyes, burning a hole through you.

“It’s really nothing, sir. I’m probably just tired and drank too quickly. Won’t happen again,” you mumble. The excuse sounds weak as it leaves your lips, but you pray he’ll just accept it and go back inside. Tell you to go home and get some rest.

He can do whatever he wants with that woman for all you care. Not like you have any claim on him. Not like he owes you anything.

“You’ve had a right cob on all night.”

“I have not.” You sound petulant. Might as well huff and puff and stamp your feet too.

“Do I need to ask Simon?”

“No.”

“Then spit it out.”

Without the hat, everything about him feels different. Short cropped hair and mutton chops peppered with gray. It should look ridiculous—and it would on anyone else—but he pulls it off somehow, gives it gravitas, makes you want.

Even the way he looks at you is different. Heavier. You feel exposed under the crystal blue of his eyes. Revealed to be a hissing, cornered kitten trying to sink its useless little claws into something.

Might as well be yourself. Rip the band-aid off. End this stupid crush here and now.

“Just- can you just tell me if that’s what you’re into?”

“Explain.”

Stupid, frustrating man. That’s the last thing you want to do. Your jaw’s clenching so hard you can barely squeeze the words out.

“That woman. Is she- is that what you’re into?” Your hands make some flimsy waving motions in the air, hoping to convey whatever it is that you apparently don’t have.

He’s silent for what feels like hours, scrutinizing you between puffs of his cigar. You’re sure it’s deliberate. Your cards are all on the table and he’s playing some kind of mind game to make you nervous, get you to fold. It’s working. Worst case, he’s contemplating how to discipline you. Best case, how to reject you. The more time passes, the more you want to flee, sprint home, beg Laswell to transfer you and never look back. You’re mulling over your transfer options when he snuffs the cigar butt under his boot, pulling your chin up to really look at you. Narrowed eyes dart between yours.

Your breathing shallows. Lips part when he ducks down.

Your body responding to him, subconsciously. And fuck if it doesn’t make him downright giddy.

“‘S that what you were worked up about, sweetheart?” Gravelly and patronizing. His lips pull into a mean grin. It sends a jolt to your core, makes you want to melt into a puddle on the concrete.

He pushes a muscled thigh between your legs, pinning you against the building. Hears your sharp intake of breath when he grinds it up into your pussy. Eyes crinkling with undisguised glee like a child finding exactly what they asked for on Christmas morning.

“That all you needed, honey? Could’ve just asked.”

He presses you down, hands like clamps around your waist (sure to leave marks) as he drags you over his thigh. Growling and grunting like a rutting animal even though you’re the one with stars in your eyes.

Your hands search for anything they can reach, tucking under his shirt to grab urgently at his stomach, firm underneath just a little pudge. Gripping the thick hair on his chest. Grounding yourself. Is this really happening? It’s more than you imagined, but still not enough. You lurch up to kiss him, tongue licking into his mouth, lips grazing the coarse hairs on his face.

Taking one of his hands, you shove it unceremoniously down your pants. A moan rips out of his chest when he feels how sticky you are.

“Suck.”

You obey, docile as a lamb when he sticks two fingers in your mouth.

Unbuttoning your jeans relieves a bit of pressure and gives him room to ease a finger into you. It’s thick, easily twice one of yours, and you go limp against him as he gently works it inside. One knuckle. Two. Gliding in and out easily with your slick. Shushing you with a kiss to your temple.

“That why you work so hard?” Your head bobbles weakly and you just about go cross-eyed when he works a second finger inside. “Look at the state of you. Could’ve asked me any time for this, sweetheart.”

He feels around until you buck, almost headbutting him when he finds it. Cooing at you like a puppy that learned a new trick. He goes slow at first, calloused fingertips dragging across that sensitive spot. Precise, metronome strokes that accelerate. The pace has you trembling on the edge, chest heaving, drool trickling down your neck, pussy squelching so loud it drowns out the noise from the bar.

He wants to commit every iota of this to memory.

His hand shifts, thumb swiping against your clit. Quickening bursts. Firecrackers popping, one after another. Nails dig into skin but he doesn’t register it, too drawn to the way your eyes are rolling into the back of your head.

“Oh my god fuck fuck fuck-”

The sensation spreads, crashing over you, waves cascading to the crown of your head, the tips of your fingers and toes and back again. Your knees buckle. Everything is silenced.

The world comes back slowly. There’s hair stuck all over your face. You’re outside. It’s cold. You’re hot, tucked against your captain. Shirt rucked up. Both of you panting.

Languidly, he takes his fingers out of you and into his mouth, slurping up the juices with relish. He kisses you, swiping your taste across your tongue. Hungry, slick, tart. Dark chocolate from his cigar. Malt from his ale.

“Fuck. Captain. That-”

Before you can catch your breath, he’s zipped up your pants, patting your pussy over your jeans like a dog.

“Right. Let’s go.”

The abrupt command sends you reeling. Whiplash. That’s it? Sorted? Go back inside and what? Pretend nothing happened? Good enough for a parking lot and nothing more.

Your expression must betray you because his voice softens to a soothing rumble. The promise of rain on a sweltering summer’s eve. “Sweetheart, I’m not going to stick my cock in you in some piss-riddled parking lot like a randy teenager. We’re going back to base so I can fuck you on a proper bed.”

“Oh.” He’s being considerate. It’s almost old-fashioned. But, “what about-”

“Ghost will take care of it.” Reading your mind again.

“But Johnny and Kyle-”

“Ghost will take care of it.”

He cuts you off, forcing your hand to the enormous bulge in his pants, a steel rod nearly bursting the seams. Saliva pools in the corners of your mouth. You nod dumbly, the size of him rendering you speechless.

“Now get your arse in the car.”

++++

Sluggishly, you blink awake.

A sliver of light across a cluttered desk. Your mouth feels dry. You’re lying curled up on dark navy sheets that definitely aren’t yours. Whiskered lips brush along the back of your neck.

Your raspy oh is met with an answering grunt.

“Good. You’re up.”

Something prods your ass until you part your legs, letting him slip between the crease of your thighs. Big mitts splay out, digging into your thick thighs, squeezing them together as he rocks back and forth. It chafes, skin still tender from going so many rounds last night. Insatiable man.

He cups the head of his cock against your clit, catching it with every thrust. Sharp zings through your core, making you twitch and buck.

You clamp your thighs to give him more friction.

“That’s it. Get her ready for me, sweetheart.”

You can feel the drag across your skin. His arousal and yours smearing all over his full, heavy length. Some of his cum’s probably still there too, making an even easier glide. He seems content to cradle you like this, thrusting leisurely, keeping himself on the precipice.

Not you though. A whine builds in your throat, an unspoken ask that he answers immediately. There’s almost no resistance when he slips in with a satisfied sigh. He feels so fucking good, stuffs you so full it feels like your brain has leaked out your ears. Blissful static is all that’s left.

Unlike last night, he doesn’t go slow, pistoning into you at a lethal pace, knocking pitilessly against that spot that makes your toes curl and your pussy clench. Balls slapping against your clit. Sucks messy bruises into the back of your neck and shoulders, bristles scratching the sensitive skin there.

One hand finds yours, lacing your fingers and pressing down together into your soft stomach, and you swear to god you can feel him there. The other flips your head around to draw you into a sloppy kiss. It could almost be sweet if he weren’t being such a brute. You can’t even moan. Can barely breathe. Tongue shoved down your throat, cock shoved up your pussy.

It’s too fucking much. It’s not long before you’re close, back arching, walls tightening, attempting to scramble away as much as draw him deeper.

“Christ, honey,” he bites out, “‘s like you’re on a mission.”

How he knows your body so well already, you have no idea. He lets go of your hand, slipping thumb and forefinger into the mess between your legs to pinch your clit. It’s mean, it makes you squeal, it hurts. It sends you careening off a cliff as you cum, free falling, wind whipping, clenching so hard he has to really cram himself in to keep from being pushed out entirely.

You lay rubber-limbed in a puddle of sweat, catching your breath, brain still rebooting. Jostled about as he pounds into you with abandon now, knocking the breath out of you, probably growling something absolutely filthy if you had the presence of mind to make sense of it.

Hands tighten. One hard thrust. He lets out a final, shuddering moan as he cums, spurting white hot into your pussy with half-aborted thrusts, trying to bury himself deep in your guts.

His grip relaxes, though he doesn’t let you go. Morning sun shines bright now through the curtains. The pillows are nowhere to be found, the sheets have disappeared too. His sweaty chest presses flush against your back, hairs tickling you. Hot breaths huff against the crook of your neck.

His dick gives a valiant twitch when you shift. “Morning, John.” It feels strange to call him that. You have to make a concerted effort, but you want to test it out, see how he reacts.

“Bloody good morning, sweetheart,” he chuckles, pushing himself up, arm shaking just a little. He finally slips out of you. A month’s worth of want gushes out behind him. He crawls down to prise your legs apart and check his handiwork. It flusters you, the intensity with which he zeroes in on your pussy.

You have to look away, only to squeak in surprise to suddenly feel his tongue laving over your clit. You’re warm and pliable from your orgasm, letting him push and bend you to his whims. His beard scratches the inside of your thighs, now even more tender. His fingers delve in too, unrelenting strokes, just this side of painful, until you peak again, hard and fast.

You’re still riding high when a piercing ring cuts through the room. He doesn’t bother wiping his face before answering the phone, rasping out an affirmative with your cum and his smeared all over his beard. “Copy. Briefing in 15, room 12.”

Shit. 15 minutes. Not enough time to go home and change.

Before you can panic, Price is already half-carrying you out of bed and toward a large, private bathroom (the benefits of captaincy), turning on the water, and pulling you in behind him. It’s slow to heat, but he stands in the spray, shielding you from the worst of it.

“Don’t have all day.” He points at a bottle of shampoo in the corner.

You fumble at first, finally squeezing some out into his outstretched hand. He tugs you toward him (apologizing when it makes you stumble), wetting your hair under the now-warm water, patiently massaging it into your scalp. It’s a welcome surprise that has you humming, eyes closed in bliss.

While he shampoos his own hair (some perfunctory swipes, at best), you decide to return the favor. Lathering the shower gel across his back and shoulders, kneading at the hard muscle. They’re tight with tension, and the groan that rumbles out of him is beyond pleased. Cleaning him feels like a treat. Plush muscle and thick fur, sudsy whorls across his stomach and chest.

He indulges too, caressing the soap over the curve of your neck, soft plush of your waist, paying particular attention to your breasts and the tender, swollen lips of your pussy.

Your fingers trail low, following the coarse hair down, down, making sure that every inch of him is lathered. Despite cumming moments ago, he’s sprung back to life. His hands shoot out to stop you, though it looks like it pains him. “Careful, love. Got no time for that.”

When he climbs out of the shower, his reluctance stands blatant between his legs.

You have to scramble to dry off and change. Now that you’re clean, the idea of wearing yesterday’s clothes again makes your nose wrinkle in disgust, though there’s not exactly a lot of options. Definitely skip the dirty underwear. The jeans will be fine. The shirt…

“Here.”

Something garishly red is tossed in your direction, unfurling to reveal a Liverpool FC jersey with Barnes 10 across the back. You frown, eyeing the other t-shirts folded in the same drawer. All dark blues and grays.

“Can’t I borrow something else?”

“You want to wear yesterday’s clothes, be my guest.”

When he uses his captain voice, you can tell there’s no point in arguing.

Ghost is already in the conference room when John herds you inside. One look at your outfit has him choking on his tea.

“Looks like someone had a good night.”

“Watch it, Simon.” Though Price’s tone is far from threatening.

Kyle and Johnny arrive next, eyebrows disappearing into their hairlines when they see the captain’s arm draped over your shoulders, him looking every bit like the cat that got the cream. They throw cheeky winks your way before sitting down, neither saying a word (something you didn’t think possible).

Kate comes in last, and you really don’t know what to think when she doesn’t comment either. Just lets out a weary sigh before starting the briefing.

She’s quick and to the point. The forensic accounting methods you’ve been experimenting with have unearthed a promising lead—a major AQ funder. That’s the gist. A lot of details go in one ear and out the other, distracted as you are by John’s thumb stroking over the purpling bruises on your neck.

“141 will roll up the HVI in Copenhagen. I’ll link up with my Russian counterpart. We’ll see where they lead us.” Laswell nods toward you. “You’ll need to be on standby to vet the intel we gather.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Rog. We’ll split up. Ghost and I’ll recce his compound in Copenhagen. Soap and Gaz secure the perimeter. Primary objective is the HVI.”

John bursts out the door as soon as the meeting ends, dragging you behind him. Dripping sordid promises in your ear all the way back to his room. “Don’t have much time, sweetheart. Gotta finish what you started.”

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boldlyherdream · 6 days ago

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My husband (has cancer) is a frequent customer of a local family-run pharmacy. It’s much more personal and welcoming there than at a chain pharmacy — they recognize us and I feel very comfortable asking them questions about medications (husband currently has a lot).

Anyway this week my husband’s prior authorization for a medication was delayed and he decided he would pay the out-of-pocket cost rather than wait a couple days for medicine he needs to go to work. It was a $100 prescription so this was tough but not earth-shattering.

Anyway; the lead pharmacist noticed that he was being charged for his normally-insured medication, asked him about it, and took 50% off as a gift. He said every year at Christmas they have staff and community contribute to a fund to help people pay for medications, and whenever a usual customer is facing an unexpected charge, they can cover some of the cost.

Reminder to support your local businesses, build your local community!

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boldlyherdream · 6 days ago

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Masterlist

I'l try to keep this updated and I basically do this so I don't have to go through all my posts all the time, so I am not in the mood for pretty. Honestly I admire people who do header and colors and all of that. Maybe I'll add that later.

When he does that Thing (Ghost knows what he's doing)

TF141 x fat!reader, smut

no title (in queue for rewriting) Venom!Ghost x reader, monster smut

Venom!Ghost Thoughts (no smut), Thought 2

Venom!Ghost x reader Part 1, ?

Soulmates fix-it Price x Reader

Pretty Boy Gaz

Small Gods x TF141

Polyam!TF141 x reader

TF 141 x plus size!reader and how they show their love

"They are not my Boys" (they are) First version, drabble

no smut (yet), slow burn?, Bucky Barnes x reader x TF141

"My good Boys" Part 1, Part 2 (WIP)

Bucky Barnes x reader x TF141, sub/dom elements, no smut yet

Period

Period Blood, smutty, TF141 x reader

Heatwave

Bucky Barnes x fat!reader, smut

Haven Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 (WIP)

Soap has ADHD and forgot to mention his wife. So the team decides to visit their home and maybe they'll stay?

Polyam 141, slow burn, so far no smut

Just a little Smoke Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Drug use (weed) and smut, TF141 x reader, polyam TF141, MDNI

Ghost and his Orc Wife Thing 1, Thing 2

Venom x Reader dancing in the rain

Bucky Barnes x Reader Comfort, no smut

When it rains, it pours Part 1, Part 2

Bucky Barnes x fat!reader

Bucky Barnes x cat hybrid!reader

fluff, reader is high on catnip

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boldlyherdream · 7 days ago

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Masterlist

Not many people choose to live in a tourist town. Aside from the busy summer months though, it’s mostly quiet which is exactly what the 141 needs. A secluded spot on an expansive lake to escape, somewhere to recover physically and emotionally. It seems they aren’t the only ones with this idea. A woman who keeps to herself lives in the small cottage next to them. Some locals whisper about the distance she maintains from everyone, assuming she prefers solitude or just doesn't like them. They don’t realize that she’s trying to piece herself together again after a loss; too hurt to let anyone in, too scared to be shattered again. The 141 realize. They see the exhausted shuffle of her steps, the vacant eyes that stare but don’t really see. They know it well. It’s the face of someone who’s seen battle, who’s fighting a war alone and barely surviving. So they try to help. Push against the barriers she’s built, offer a hand to lift her from the pit. It’s a fight, each step a struggle as they break down her walls. And as they help her, they realize she’s healing a part of them, too—a part they thought was long gone, too dead to bring back to life. But even in this small corner of the world, life doesn’t stop; war doesn’t wait. They’ll all be faced with a choice that will either break them further or make them whole again.

Chapter 1 It's always interesting when the new neighbor(s) move in. Chapter 2 Waging war over the trash bins. Chapter 3 Biscuits and favors. Chapter 4 Yardwork and yearning. Chapter 5 Surprise visitor. Chapter 6 Friends and Intrigue. Chapter 7 Rainstorm Chapter 8 Repairing old wounds and making new ones. Chapter 9 Friday night plans. Chapter 10 Small town fair.

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boldlyherdream · 9 days ago

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underdog / ghost x f!reader / cyberpunk au / complete

You're so focused on the top that you forget about the fall—and what might catch you.

cw: extremely dubious consent, rape/noncon elements, power imbalance, violence and gore, break-in, minor character death, verbal abuse, alcohol, spanking, abduction, rough handling, reader is in over her head, antagonistic ghost, everyone has ulterior motives, liberties taken with the cyberpunk 2077 lore/universe

AO3

chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4

ghost, commissioned by @/bi-writes and drawn by @/mellounir

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boldlyherdream · 9 days ago

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On my hands and knees begging for you to write about a big bad intimidating moth hybrid ghost fighting for his life not to jerk his head around and follow whatever flashlight is moving around in the dark. He has to keep his reputation at all costs, but even beyond that, if anyone realized how easily distracted and drawn to light he is amongst the 141 he’d never live it down

This is so silly and lovely and so 141 I can't handle it. I'll let you know I giggled and cried writing this thank you so much anon. Idk something about Ghost being softer/less intimidating hybrids just 😭😭😭 I think Ghost would be a Ghost Moth... Basic? maybe. Obvious? Yeah. Cool lore? fuck yeah "In European folklore, white moths like the Ghost moth are thought to be the souls of the departed."

Ghost has wings. White ones.

Ghost moth, they told him, back when hybrid classification still meant something—back when it was all charts and species codes and military forms asking him if he was more sensitive to light during the full moon. Moth hybrid. Order: Lepidoptera. Subclass: Psychidae. Variant: Ghost.

The name stuck too well.

The wings aren’t for flight, most moth hybrids aren’t. They’re soft, wide, delicate things, aesthetic appendages. Decorative. His trail from the top of his shoulder blades down to his thighs, thick-veined and powder-dusted, torn in places from old fights. They move when he breathes. Spread and fold at his command, though he keeps them pretty close. And shimmer when the light hits just right.

He keeps them hidden under coats and gear mostly. There’s nothing tactical or useful about them. They twitch when he’s overwhelmed and curl forward when he’s vulnerable. They’re soft, much too soft for someone like him.

White wings. White mask. Ghost.

The folklore ones were thought to be the souls of the departed, drifting through moonlit graveyards. Gentle omens drawn to light.

Which is why he’s currently losing his fucking mind in the dark rec room trying not to move while Gaz plays with a flashlight.

It’s not even that bright. That’s the worst part. It’s one of the new "tactical pens" that were handed out. They're low-profile, high-lumen, switches between strobe, red light, and UV with a press of the thumb.

And Gaz is flicking it, talking while he does it, gesturing mid-sentence and painting the walls with moving glimmers.

Soap’s half-asleep on the carpet, listening to Gaz go-on about how ridiculous the pens are. Price is in the corner chair with a report open and eyes very not on the report.

And Ghost is clenching his jaw sitting still as stone. His wings flexing ever so slightly.

Don’t look at it.

He used to think it was just reflex. The same way his hands twitch toward movement, the way his breath slows around heat. But it’s more than that. It’s pull, like a magnet. Like the dead drawn to lanterns. Like a lizard to a hot stone. Like... like a month to a flame.

He wants to track it. Wants to lean into the brightness like the damn pen will somehow provide any sort of comfort and warmth.

He’s already failed once. The first time the UV mode came on, he turned too fast. He followed it for a full half-second before wrenching his head away like a beast on a leash.

Now Gaz is suspicious. “You good, Ghost?”

“Fine.”

“Looks like it’s callin’ your name.”

Ghost grunts, folds his arms tighter, shifts his shoulders to press the wings flat against his back.

Soap squints up at him from the floor. “Thought you didn’t get distracted.”

“I don’t.”

“You flinched.”

“Didn’t.”

“Liar.”

Gaz waves the light again, arcing soft red across the wall.

Ghost twitches.

Price turns the page of his file far too slowly. Not a sound from him, just the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

Ghost exhales through his nose. He hates this, not the instinct, not even the wings. The fact that if they knew—if they realized how simple the wiring is beneath his sharp edges and dark masks and high collars and kill count—they’d never let it go.

He can already hear Soap’s jokes and imagine Gaz holding a fucking glowstick until he agrees to play cards.

He looks away.

“You sure you’re alright?” Gaz asks, slower this time.

Ghost doesn’t answer, just sips his lukewarm tea and watches the wall. The light flicks off. The room dims.

A moment passes and his wings settle.

From behind his folder, Price murmurs, just quiet enough: “Used to follow lanterns, didn’t they?”

Gaz furrows his brow. “What?”

“White moths. Ghost moths.” Price doesn’t look up. “In the old stories, they’re spirits. Drawn to light ‘cause they don’t know they’re dead.”

Ghost lets out a little huff. Something like a laugh. Then drains the last of his tea. He doesn’t say anything when he leaves.

Gaz exhales a soft laugh. “You think he’s really that bad with light?”

Soap’s already digging in his gear bag, eyes alight. “D’you reckon we could test it?”

Price just keeps reading. “Do it and he’ll knock your teeth out.”

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boldlyherdream · 10 days ago

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Forming the Pack - In the Field

Soap and Gaz

Autumn Embers Master List

Read on AO3

CW: Omegaverse related primal behavior, hunting, offscreen violence, intentional injury, blood mention, discussion of removing teeth (not graphic, no actual removal)

People worry about Ghost. It’s the size of him, the mask that acts as a soft muzzle, the way he stares from the corner of the room, no movement or scent to give him away until he’s ready. Price can’t blame anyone for being wary, uses the terrifying void of Ghost’s presence to his advantage when the time calls for it.

But of his boys, Ghost is the least of anyone’s worries.

Price doesn’t often let Soap and Gaz off their leashes together. Individually, they’re perfectly attentive to their captain or their lieutenant. In charge of their own privates, they’re sharp, precise, locked onto their objective. But when it’s just the two of them, chasing down the last rabbit in his burrow with Price and Ghost holding the perimeter?

They won’t stop until they taste blood.

“Ground floor clear,” Soap burrs into the comms. “Proceeding to basement level.”

Gaz hums. “On your six.”

“Can hear him,” Soap rumbles, after a moment. “Scent’s fresh. Scared.”

“Should be,” Gaz confirms, just enough to carry. “Real dark down here for a beta, and nowhere to run.”

“Gonna run him plenty,” Soap growls. "He wants a chase, I’ll give him one.”

“Want me to hold the door?”

“Gettin’ lazy, Gaz?” Soap chuckles, and there’s a thump and a bang. “There. Won’t be gettin’ out of that.”

Ghost clicks in, “Soap.”

“Temporary barrier, Ghost,” Gaz jumps in. “Just enough to know if the target tries to slip behind us. Won’t let him bury us.”

“Keep it tactical,” Ghost rumbles.

“Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” Gaz purrs, over the distinct sound of buckles coming loose, a vest being set aside. He snaps his jaw, then rumbles. “We’re just gonna find the target and have a little chat.”

“You can have a chat,” Soap growls, and something thumps to the ground. “I’m feeling distinctly less than talkative.”

In his own nest, Price’s hair stands on end. But he knew what he was doing when he sent the two sergeants into the building. There’s nothing the mark has that they need or even want. He’s been left in the wind by the only ones who might have protected him, after injuring one of Soap’s favorite subordinates.

The comms go eerily quiet. Price would worry that both sergeants had abandoned their mics, but both of them exhale periodically, just enough to hear. It’s three minutes of silence, and then Soap snarls as something - someone - slams into a piece of furniture, or a door. Frantic footsteps fade into the distance, and Soap snaps his teeth, once, with a little growl. Gaz hums, and Price listens as his clothes rustle, just the slightest bit. Silence again, a half minute, and then quick footsteps get close, closer, pass him by.

Gaz barks, and the target squeals, probably in touching distance, then runs again.

Soap chuckles. “First blood?”

“Third,” Gaz hisses.

Their communication goes non-verbal, growls and hums and clicks that make Price wish he was down in the dark and hunting with them. He knows that Ghost is probably rumbling his own interested noises from his vantage point, even if he’s silenced his mic. He wonders, idly, if Wildfire might let them pursue her more literally, one day.

It’s not long before the target yelps again. There’s a scuffle, something falls the the ground with a crash. The target cries out, then stumbles away.

Gaz chuckles. “Scrape, left hand.”

“Bleedin’ from a scant touch,” Soap scoffs, and Price can hear his smile. “Soft.”

“Still a bit of fight in him. Took a lamp.”

“Och, of course you gave him a weapon.”

“Had to give him a chance. ‘S no fun, otherwise.”

Soap snaps his jaw twice, and the line goes silent. Price strains his ears to hear hitching breaths, then the rattle of a locked door. The target curses, the frenzied clattering gets steadily louder. Than a loud slam, and Soap’s laughter as the target yells, indistinct. Something bangs, not loud enough to be a gunshot, and the target darts away again, audibly wheezing and limping.

“Right calf. Dinne onyane teach him to scrap?” Soap rumbles. “Second blood hardly counts. He did it himself.”

“Aw. You want him, Tav?” Gaz purrs. “Kill is yours, if you let me tag him one more time.”

“You’re a gem,” Soap rumbles.

“Want me to pin him?”

“Nae, I’ve got the little bugger if ye just break something.”

“Done,” Gaz says, and then the target screams.

Soap makes a curious noise. “Did you already have him pinned?”

“He thought I didn’t know he was there,” Gaz chuckles, over moans of pain. “Come get him.”

“I have money,” the target wheezes, breathlessly, a full minute later. “I can pay you, whatever you want, I can-”

“You canne,” Soap says, conversationally, and the target starts wheezing and whining. “Because we dinne want fuckall from you except blood.”

“Maybe a couple teeth,” Gaz disagrees.

“This one’s not worth a trophy,” Soap dismisses. “I do fancy his watch, though.”

“It’s a knock-off.”

“Mary and Joseph. Whole hunt was a waste of bloody time, then.”

A wet sound. Gurgling and weak thrashing. For all he says he’s disappointed, Soap gives a satisfied hum. Price hears him kiss Gaz, the playful growls between them as they no doubt smear the blood around. Then he calls, “Captain?”

“Sergeant?”

“Think the wee blonde one likes a chase?”

“Pack it in, Sergeant.”

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boldlyherdream · 10 days ago

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This.

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boldlyherdream · 14 days ago

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Werewolf!Soap who’s tried so hard to keep his dog on a leash for you.

Not that he isn’t still nasty. He is. He’s still burying his nose in your pits every time you come back from hiking. You know what he is— but he’s never let you see him turn. He’s terrified of hurting you, or worse, without even knowing— he isn’t himself when he turns, he can never remember the things he does, so it’s best for everyone if he just stays away.

Until one night after a long deployment. Six months he’d been away— six months since he’d seen you, smelled you, touched you. The pair of used panties he’d taken with him had practically been worn to shreds with how often he fisted his cock with them and felt for them in his pocket. He’s so damned excited to see you, his leg thumping the entire ride home, practically sprinting away once Price dismisses him.

He’s too heavy with anticipation and need. He doesn’t keep track of the date. Of his cycle.

He wakes up at dawn with that sore, tingly feeling that follows his transformations. Once it settles in his brain, he shoots straight up. Your side of the bed is empty, save for some stray specks and one larger pool of blood staining the sheets.

Johnny immediately buries his face in his hands, bearing only to look at the evidence through the gaps in his fingers. He sobs. His worst fear in the entire world has been realized, the monster inside him that’d always hungered for you had finally got what it wanted. His stomach lurched and rolled with the possibilities— what might have ultimately become of you. Where the body was— if there was one. Maybe, if he was lucky, you crawled off and lived and would never want to see him again. But he knows his instincts would have never left escape an option— especially not when it came to you. The ring box that’s been sitting in his coat pocket is proof of that.

His entire body shakes with the torment and grief of it all, teeth clenching, his eyes shut as the tears just keep escaping. Love is over, because he killed it.

He’s so caught up in his despair that he doesn’t hear the footfalls on the floor. He doesn’t hear the clink of a glass set onto the nightstand. He doesn’t feel the dip of another weight on the bed.

Soap almost thinks it’s a trick from his deranged mind, a symptom of lupine madness, when he feels the warmth of a hand comfortingly rubbing up and down his back, another hand at his shoulder in a half-embrace.

“Baby, what’s the matter? Was it a nightmare?”

He had them, on occasion. Nature of the job, you knew that when you got involved. But he’d never seen this bad. It takes a minute or two before Johnny can bring himself to pull his trembling hands from his face, eyes puffy and wet with tears.

“B-Bonnie…? Yer… Yer okay?”

Soap was beginning to care less and less if this was a delusion. He would live in whatever reality kept you with him.

“I should be asking you that… Oh, Johnny—“ you sighed before wrapping him in a tight hug, even though his face and neck were wet and a little snotty from all of his crying.

“But, the blood—“

“Oh my god. Please, I’m so embarrassed… my period started while I was sleeping. I was so excited about you coming home that I totally lost track of the days…”

“So ye were gone because—“

“I left to clean myself up and get water… I wanted to change the sheets, but I didn’t want to wake you…” you start connecting the dots, even more embarrassed from all the worry you caused. “Did you think something happened to me?”

“Thought I fockin’ killed ye!” He says with a new wave of tears rushing to him, this time in relief. He pulls you in about as close as he can.

“Well, uhm… you basically did with like the dozen orgasms you gave me when you turned. I didn’t… I didn’t know your cock would do that thing, uhm, where it swelled up and… god, it was so hot,” you murmur, face feeling a bit warm just recalling it. A shiver runs through Johnny’s spine— your confession would have him thumping his tail if he still had it.

“Marry me.”

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boldlyherdream · 16 days ago

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the hottest thing about john price is that he’s stripping every ounce of millennial-grey paint off of your dream fixed-upper. he’s on his hands and knees in the kitchen, going at the cabinets with a scraper like a madman, grumbling about “what happened to craftsmanship” and “gotta restore her to her former glory, peanut”

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boldlyherdream · 23 days ago

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“Utterly devoted”

Simon “Ghost” Riley x You

What to expect: first time, gentle dom!Simon, emotional smut, soft praise, sensory intimacy, protective restraint, size kink (kinda), aftercare, implied established relationship

────── ⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹ ───────

It had been a long time coming.

Simon knew it the moment he walked into the bedroom, the soft lamplight gilding your skin in shades of gold as you sat curled in the middle of the bed, his dog tags resting heavily on your chest. You’d borrowed one of his shirts again – this one nearly swallowed you whole – and that did something dangerous to him.

But it wasn’t just lust.

It was the ache. The kind that crawled behind his ribs whenever you smiled at him like that. That open, quiet trust. Almost like you had never once doubted he’d take care of you.

He swallowed hard, standing still at the doorframe, hands clenched at his sides. The door clicked shut behind him. You didn’t flinch.

“You're starin’,” you murmured, voice a little shy, head tilted.

He crossed the room slowly. “You look like you’ve been waitin’ for me.”

You nodded, and something about the honesty of it – the soft answer, the way your eyes didn’t waver – made his heart skip a beat.

“I was,” you said.

He exhaled sharply, tension rippling down his arms. His hands found your waist when he bent to kiss your temple. “Fuck, love…”

You reached up, cupped his face in both hands, your thumb brushing over the faint scar at his cheekbone. He leaned into it – unconsciously – letting his forehead rest against yours for a long moment.

“We don’t have to rush,” you whispered.

He smiled softly, eyes fluttering shut. “No, we don’t.”

But God, he wanted you.

The need pressed up behind his ribs, thick and warm. It wasn’t the kind of need that begged to take – it was the kind that wanted to give. To touch, to worship. To show you how long he had waited, how many times he had imagined this moment – you – every night he curled into those cold sheets without you.

His lips met yours – soft, slow. Just the slightest brush of mouths. When you sighed into it, he kissed you just a little deeper, hands still steady at your hips, thumbs trailing the hem of his shirt where it hugged your thighs.

He murmured your name between kisses, asking ever so gently, “You sure?”

You gave the faintest nod, fingers clenching into the fabric of his T-shirt. “I want this. I want you.”

A small sound caught in his throat – something between a groan and a laugh – and he caught you gently, laying you back against the pillows. He was careful, reverent. Yet you could feel the tremble in his arms as he hovered above you, chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths.

When he kissed his way down your throat, he savored each one – his lips pressing heat into skin, lingering at your collarbones, the edge of the tags. His hands slid up under the oversized shirt you wore – his shirt – fingers calloused but tender.

“Not gonna go fast,” he murmured, voice low and thick. “Not tonight.”

You nodded breathlessly.

He pulled the shirt off you in one smooth motion, being careful with the sleeves, folding it behind your head like a pillow before letting his eyes roam. His gaze didn’t leer – it lingered, drinking you in as if you were art. As if you were sacred.

“Beautiful,” he breathed. “Didn’t think it was possible to love someone like this.”

You cupped his cheek again, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. “Then show me.”

He did.

He touched you slowly, patiently. When his mouth found your chest, it was with a quiet hunger – one that never overwhelmed you, only built, kissed after kissed, as he whispered praises against your skin: “Sweet girl... my birdie... you're doin' so good...”

When he finally settled between your legs, pressing the thick length of him against your heat, he paused – forearms resting on either side of your head, nose brushing yours.

“Still okay?” he asked.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. “Please.”

“Deep breaths,” he coaxed, and the tip of him slid inside.

You gasped at the stretch, and his entire body froze.

His forehead fell to your shoulder. “Christ,” he rasped. “Tight-‘m not gonna last long if you keep squeezin’ me like that…”

But he didn’t move. Not until you did – a tiny, slow shift of your hips, coaxing him deeper.

“Simon,” you whimpered. “Please…”

That did it.

He buried himself fully with a choked groan, chest pressed to yours, lips at your temple. He held himself there, trembling with restraint.

“Let me just—fuck... stay here a second,” he pleaded. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You’re not,” you whispered.

But he still waited.

Only when your fingers made soothing lines up and down his spine – only when he felt you settle, truly settle – did he start to move. Gentle. Rhythmic. Slow enough you felt every inch of him. Every thrust came with a soft grunt into your hair, a low whisper of your name.

“Good girl… so warm… takin’ me so well…”

You clung to him, moaning his name between kisses. The heat built slowly – like honey pooling low in your belly. He kept checking on you, his thumb brushing your cheek, forehead resting against yours when he felt you clench.

“That too much?” he asked.

“More.”

His breath hitched. You could feel him fighting it – holding back, making each roll of his hips measured and tender, like he was scared to break you. Like you were glass. And in that moment, you wanted to be. You wanted to shatter under him, in his arms.

“Can’t stop thinkin’ about this,” he confessed, voice ragged. “Thought about it every night. Every fuckin’ night without you.”

“Then don’t hold back,” you whispered. “Just… stay close.”

So he did.

────── ⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹ ───────

When you came, it was with a quiet cry of his name, and he followed – hips stuttering, buried deep with a guttural moan into your neck. He didn’t pull away. Just stayed inside, arms wrapped tight around you, holding you close as the aftershocks passed.

Silence settled. His breath slowed. You felt his lips press to your forehead, then to your cheek, then to your lips – a soft, almost bashful kiss.

“Didn’t hurt you, did I?” he murmured.

“No,” you smiled. “You were perfect.”

His throat bobbed. “Wasn’t too much?”

“Simon,” you beamed, fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. “You made love to me.”

His arms tightened, pulling you against his chest, dog tags still resting between your breasts.

“Guess I did,” he groaned softly, burying his face in your neck. “Guess I really fucking did.”

─────── ⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹ ───────

A/N:

He could fuck. Simon Riley knew how to fuck. But making love like this? Slow, with his entire soul trembling in his chest? That was more than sex. That was him giving every haunted part of himself to the only person who ever touched him without fear.

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boldlyherdream · 24 days ago

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There was fic posted back in I wanna say October where TF 141 had been basically cloned post mission gone wrong and gave the same mouth as Mileena from Mortal Kombat, I can’t find it anywhere but if the author sees this please know your story lives rent free in my head months later.

#simon ghost riley #cod #john price #kyle gaz garrick #johnny soap mactavish #mortal kombat

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boldlyherdream · 24 days ago

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welcome home

ghost x reader x soap

when soap and ghost return from mission and find you, a civilian medic working on base, curled up on the rec room couch, you end up giving the boys a thorough welcome home.

18+ only. plus size fem reader. scent kink. the guys are dirty (literally). mild bush/ball/cock worship. threesome.

The rec room is dim, lit only by a stingy bank of ceiling fluorescents that flicker slightly whenever someone leans on the wrong bit of wall. The overhead lights are switched off, replaced with the softer, amber glow of a crooked floor lamp someone had dragged in from god knows where. You liked it better this way; made the place feel less like a barracks common space and more like the kind of living room you'd grown up in. Well-worn couches, stained coffee mugs no one claimed, the faint whirr of the old mini fridge in the corner humming like a tired cicada.

You're unwinding there in your favorite crewneck, the fabric a muted russet that brings warmth to your features, its oversized fit far more comfortable than the scrubs you quickly shed after your shift ended for the night. The fleece lining on the inside is wearing thin at the cuffs, but the familiarity of it grounds you. In black leggings speckled faintly with lint, you sit curled up on the worn sofa, your socks mismatched but thick, the wool catching slightly against the cushions beneath your feet. You're halfway through a tepid mug of builder’s tea when the door bursts open behind you.

The scent hits you before the sound does. Sharp, brackish sweat cut with gunpowder and oil, layered under something deeper: leather, steel, the dry stink of sand and smoke. Your head turns instinctively.

Soap strides in like he owned the place, flushed and gleaming from exertion. His dark shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, translucent with sweat in places, and there's a scrape on his forearm that hasn’t stopped bleeding yet. His tactical vest hangs open, bouncing against his hips as he moves. He has that look again—eyes alight with residual adrenaline, skin pink from wind and heat, hair still damp and pushed messily back from his brow. He's chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too broadly, which means he has something stupid or dangerous in mind. Probably both.

“Christ, it’s warm in here,” he mutters, toeing off his boots near the radiator, which clangs faintly with old heat. “Were you lot tryin' to boil yourselves alive while we were gone?”

Ghost follows him in, quieter. He peels off his gloves without a word, the black fabric damp in his hands. He isn’t even out of his gear yet, still dressed in his reinforced trousers, boots caked with dried mud, black compression shirt clinging to his back and chest. His skull mask is pushed up, exposing the lower half of his face; the mouth veneath is drawn, his jaw flexing beneath a few days’ growth of stubble. You can see the faintest smudge of something dark on the side of his neck.

Neither of them have showered.

And yet your stomach flutters.

“Back already?” you ask, voice lower than usual, though you hadn’t intended it to be.

“Early extraction. Ghost didn’t even break a sweat,” Soap drawls, flicking the fridge open and extracting a bottle of amber liquid from the back like it's his reward. “Which is bollocks, ‘cause I’m about two degrees from heatstroke.”

He unscrews the cap with his teeth and fishes out three glasses from the shelf: one a chipped mug, another intact, and a clear plastic cup with the England crest on it.

“C’mon, love,” Soap says, sliding onto the couch beside you with the practiced ease of a man who both doesn't understand personal space and feels he doesn't need any, especially with you. “You’re off shift, yeah?”

You nod. “Just.”

“Then drink with us. Celebrate a job well done." He wears a wide, slanted smile, one that makes your belly flip when it conjures the memory of him wearing the same expression above you, his ID disc swinging from the chain around his flushed neck, skimming the valley between your bouncing breasts. "No bullets in my arse this time,” he adds, and you blink the haze of the memory away, left warmer as you roll your eyes playfully the way you know he wants you to.

You've shared a bed with him more than once, during late nights when the air was too heavy to sleep, long stretches between assignments, moments stolen in the lull between your worlds. It was easy with him. Good. Sometimes rough, sometimes slow, always welcome. And never more than what it was. But lately, your eyes had started to wander to the sergeant's looming shadow: the man who never touched and rarely spoke, but always seemed to be watching you whenever you were near.

And Johnny had noticed; he wasn’t the jealous type. He’d seen the way your glances caught on Ghost, too, how the room felt just a little too loaded when he and the big man visited medical or you crossed paths with them at the rec. He knew, too, that Ghost had heard the sounds you made together through the paper-thin walls of their bunks. That he had listened. Johnny told you so once, voice low and filthy while he fucked you slow, laughing when it made you go all soft and squirmy underneath him.

But Ghost never said a word. Because Ghost, the reticent bastard, wouldn’t make a move.

Not unless coaxed.

And not by his sergeant.

You glance toward Ghost, who has folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, his gaze cool and unmoved. The amber light flickers against his cheekbones, casting sharp shadows up the bridge of his nose. His dark eyes are on you again, and you shiver at the quiet intensity there.

“He’s not joining,” you murmur, more an observation than a question.

Soap flashes you a devilish grin, leaning closer. You can smell the salt on him, the heat rising from his skin like a slow exhale. “He never joins. He just sulks and stares.”

“I can hear you,” Ghost says flatly.

“Don' I know it,” Soap says wickedly, looking at you pointedly before pouring two fingers of whiskey into your glass, then his own. “Here. Just one.”

The glass is cool in your palm, slightly sticky from whatever surface it last sat on. You raise it, hesitate, then throw it back. The burn is immediate: sharp, medicinal, tinged with something smoky and a little sweet. It settles in your chest like a hot coal.

You exhale, lips parting with a soft hiss.

Soap watches your mouth the entire time.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s a look,” he murmurs. “You always this good at takin’ it down?”

You shoot him a glance, more amused than offended. “You’re shameless.”

He leans in again, voice low now, warm as the whiskey. “Only when I’ve earned it.”

You don’t move when his fingers brush the hem of your sweatshirt, nor when he looks past you, over your shoulder, to where Ghost still stands unmoving. Sharp like a snap decision, Soap leans back and catches his index in your mug, dragging it with a scrape of porcelain across the table to meet his plastic cup for another drink. He pours with more ceremony this time, angling the bottle like he's showing off. The whiskey catches the low lamplight, shining golden as it sloshes into your mismatched glass. He fills it higher than before— definitely more than a shot— and slides it across to you like a challenge.

“One for my glorious return,” he declares, raising his own. “And one for the quiet bastard over there.”

You glance over the low back of the couch again, but Ghost still hasn't budged.

Soap tips his head toward you. “You’ve gotta drink both, since he won’t.”

You scoff, your eyes returning to the Scot. “That hardly seems fair.”

“But it’s fitting,” Soap says, nudging the rim of your glass. “You look like you can take it.”

You hold his gaze as you lift the second drink, the burn still humming low in your belly from the first. The rim clinks against your teeth as you knock it back, the heat sharp enough to draw a quiet gasp as you swallow. A trickle escapes the corner of your mouth, trailing down the curve of your chin and catching at your soft jaw before dripping slowly toward your neck.

You move to wipe it— too slow.

Soap is already there.

“Messy, that,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your jaw before he drags the tip of his index finger up the length of the droplet. He raises it to his lips, tongue darting out, slow and shameless, as he sucks the whiskey from his skin.

You don’t mean to stare, but your eyes can't help but linger on the wet pink of his mouth. And when they flick up, his are waiting.

“You’ve not eaten, have you?” he asks, voice lower now. Not concerned. Curious. Maybe a bit wicked. “Changin' colors on me. Whiskey’s gone straight to your cheeks.”

You shake your head once, feeling the heat settle high in your face, ripening your complexion. “Snack on the way out. Didn’t have time.”

Soap makes a low sound and taps the glass again, watching the way your fingers curl around it.

Ghost still hasn’t spoken, but you can feel the weight of him in the room— feel the press of his attention even if he pretends to be indifferent. But you dont look at him again, afraid any sudden movement might break his trance and send him stomping.

Soap leans back against the couch, legs spreading slightly, shoulder brushing yours. “He’s not lookin’,” he bluffs, just loud enough for Ghost to hear. “Not even glancin’. Could be all over you right now, and he’d just stand there, arms folded, like a fuckin’ statue.”

You smile, ducking your head slightly, a little drunk already. Not on the alcohol, though that helps, but on the smell of him. The salt and earth, the heady stink of his undershirt, still damp from the field. Sunbaked cloth and body heat and grit.

Without thinking, you tilt closer, let your nose skim his collarbone. Your lips barely brush his skin as you press your face to the crook of his neck.

He stills. Just for a moment.

Then: “Christ, you are drunk.”

“I’m not,” you murmur, voice muffled against him. “You just smell really fucking good.”

That makes him laugh, his chest rising underneath your palm. “Filthy, you mean. Sweaty. Like I’ve not washed in days.”

“Exactly.”

He hums, his hand sliding across the back of the couch, heavy and warm behind you. He doesn't touch you, but the implication is there, all that muscle close enough to make your scalp prickle.

“Look at her,” Soap says suddenly over his shoulder, lifting his chin toward Ghost. “Look at how she’s already meltin’. S’all big-eyed and dewy, lips parted, pressed into me like she’s tryin’ to crawl inside my shirt.”

You go still, both afraid and thrilled that Soap might keep running his mouth like this, burst the whole bubble open after all.

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t want to touch her?” Soap continues, that teasing lilt sharpening just a little more. “Pretend you didn’t notice how she looked at my mouth when I licked my fingers clean?”

You feel your pulse flutter; you listen for it, but Ghost doesn't answer.

Soap’s voice drops to a hush, loud in your ear but meant only for Ghost. “Pretend you don’t picture what her thighs look like wrapped around one of us— both of us— drunk off the smell of it?”

Your breath catches— not just from the words, but from the way Soap’s arm shifts behind you, his forearm brushing the small of your back, possessive without pressure. Your cheeks burn hotter than the whiskey.

You lift your head, just enough to peek out from the crook of his neck. Ghost stands across the room like a statue carved from shadow: arms crossed, shoulders squared, chin tilted down just enough to obscure his eyes in the dim light. But you can still see the tight set of his jaw, the way his throat works when he swallows, the faint glisten of sweat around his nose.

You look at him, and you feel... seen. Whether he returns the gaze or not.

And yet Soap is the one touching you. Soap is the one letting you lean into him, letting your weight settle against his side like he wants to hold it.

“You’re so bloody soft,” he murmurs then, just for you. His palm slides down your back, slow, sweet, to rest at the curve of your waist. “All warm and squishy and fuckin’ lovely. Like a proper bed after weeks of concrete floors.”

You blink slowly, that ache between your thighs growing bolder.

“Bet you’d let us sink into you,” he goes on, lips brushing your hairline now. “Let us get all tangled up in this sweatshirt and those pretty thighs. Be better than any mattress we’ve had since we enlisted.”

He lets his hand settle lower— just at the edge of where soft belly meets waistband— and then he stills again, as if daring one of you to stop him.

“You’d let me have a nap right here,” he says, nuzzling your temple. “Wouldn’t you, love? Let me fuck you slow, then pass out on your tits like a man who’s earned it.”

The breath shudders out of you.

And when you looked again at Ghost, you see it: the clench of his hands where they grip his biceps, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the heat blooming behind his eyes like something primal, barely contained.

He is watching.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek back to Soap’s shoulder. “I do want that,” you murmur, voice low and intimate, but not shy.

Soap’s breath hitches just enough to tell you he heard.

He pulls you onto his lap without hesitation, strong hands guiding your hips into place like he’d thought about it already, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. The denim of his trousers is rough beneath you, the hard line of him unmistakable beneath the worn seam. His palms settle over your thighs first, then slide up to squeeze at your hips and the softness there, wide fingers digging in just enough to claim.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass…” he breathes, softer than you'd expect. “You feel so good. Like you were made for this.”

And those words, that tone, make you sink right into it. You drape yourself over Soap’s shoulders, your arms loose and lazy with drink and heat, fingers threading into the thick hair at his nape. His skin is warm there, damp still with sweat and tacky with the remnants of field-dust that hadn’t yet been rinsed away. You nose along the side of his throat, breathing in the raw, masculine scent of him— salt, smoke, leather, the tang of metal and blood. Faint cologne still clings in the hollow of his throat beneath the grime, like it's soaked into his skin after too many missions and too little rest.

God, he smells like something that had survived.

You press a kiss there, just a brush of your lips. And when he lets out a quiet, clipped groan, you smile.

You don’t need Ghost to move to know he's still there.

He stays where he is, propped against the far wall near the door, one shoulder pressed to the plaster, half-shadowed by the dull glow of the crooked floor lamp. But you can feel the tension from here, can see it in the rigid lines of his body, the way his arms hang loose at his sides now instead of folded, fists clenched like he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

He can’t see Soap’s hands anymore, you knew; can’t see where they’ve slipped beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. Could only guess what Johnny is doing from the way your body shifts when your hips roll and your thighs tense around him.

But you know he can see your face. And oh, do you want him to see it.

You let your head loll back a little, exposing your throat, and your lips part around a sigh that could have been a breath or a moan. Soap is teasing you now, his hands slow and roving beneath your sweatshirt, thumbs circling just above your waistband, not yet touching anything obscene, just feeling. Mapping the soft swell of your belly, the dimple at your hip, the curve where your flesh overflowed his grip. His voice is a rumble against your ear, low and hot.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, breath catching as you shift in his lap, brush against the hard ridge of him pressing against the zipper seam. “All plush and warm, makin’ a mess on me already. Can’t even fuckin’ see what I’m doin’, can he? Poor bloke’s gonna lose his mind.”

You bite your lip hard enough to feel it throb.

Your skin buzzes under the low light, humming with the lingering warmth of the whiskey, the teasing drag of Johnny’s hands, and the fever-dream heat of being watched so closely. Your lashes droop, your mouth soft and slack with pleasure that hasn’t even peaked yet.

And always, your eyes drift back to Ghost, pulled there as that nervous thrill tightens in your chest until the heat and the alcohol finally make something snap.

Lifting your head, arms still loose around Soap’s neck, you find him across the room. You don’t say a word, just let your eyes lock with his.

And then— languid, dreamy— you open your arms again. Fingers spread, palms exposed. A silent but clear invitation.

Ghost doesn't reply. But his jaw clench hard enough you can see it twitch, even from here.

You feel Soap chuckle where your chests press together, his voice molten.

“She wants you to see it, Ghost,” he purrs, unable to help himself from teasing. “Wants you to feel what you’re missin’.”

Then, to you, as his hands finally slide lower, gripping your hips:

“Tell me, love. You want me to make you come while he watches? Want him seein’ your face when you fall apart?”

You don't answer right away; instead, your gaze stays on Ghost across the room, watching the stoic man closely. And the signs are there: the muscles in his jaw are visibly flexed now, his fingers still clenched tight by his sides. His whole frame looks wired, like he's barely holding something inside, his eyes dark and fixed to your face as if trying to read every twitch of your lips, every shift in your breath.

Behind you, Soap’s hands squeeze, fingers digging possessively into your hips, rocking you gently over the hard ridge of him beneath his trousers. But you don’t look at him. Not yet.

Your voice, when it comes, is husky, warm with heat and whiskey, but clear.

“No,” you say, loud enough to carry across the room, soft enough to sound intimate. “I don’t want him to watch.”

There's a beat of silence.

Soap’s brow arches, his lips quirking like he's about to tease again—

And then you add, your tone slipping into something velvet and filthy, “I’d like him in my mouth.”

The room goes still.

Soap lets out a bark of laughter— low, delighted, breathless. “Fucking hell, love.”

You feel his hands clench again, tighter now, just shy of bruising as he pulls you down harder onto his lap, grinding you against the firm line of him. His breath is ragged against your ear, his chest rising fast beneath your weight.

“You hear that, Ghost?” Soap calls, his voice all bright amusement and dark hunger. “She doesn’t want you over there, sulkin’. She wants you down her fuckin’ throat.”

Still, Ghost doesn’t move. But you see it— the shift in his stance, the widening of his eyes, the way his chest expands with a deeper, slower breath like he's trying to ground himself but isn't succeeding. His knuckles are pale now, clenched so tight his veins rise stark beneath the skin.

And you know he's imagining it. Imagining your mouth on him. Imagining how you’d take him: on your knees maybe, or still warm from Johnny’s lap, lips kiss-bitten, eyes half-lidded and wet. You can see behind his gaze how badly he wants it.

How badly he wants you.

When he steps forward, it's without a word.

He doesn't rush— just steadily closes the space between himself and the couch, cautiously, controlled. It's the kind of movement a man makes when he’s already lost the argument with himself and is just trying not to lose his grip on everything else.

His boots barely make a sound across the concrete floor, his eyes on you the whole time. But not just you— he looks between you and Soap, the press of your bodies, the way your thighs frame Johnny’s lap, the bruising grip of his broad, tanned hands on your hips, the way they slip lower to knead your wide ass. His expression is unreadable, but his body betrays him.

Because by the time he reaches you, the thick ridge beneath his trousers is unmistakable: heavy, straining against the front of his waistband. And when you reach out with one hand— slow, like he might startle— you feel the subtle flinch in him.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your finger traces along his belt, featherlight, then circles the buckle. You feel him tense; his cock twitches visibly beneath the fabric when your knuckles brush over it.

You look up at him, heat pooling in your belly, your voice low.

“I meant it.”

Soap hums low in his throat, one hand slipping under the waistband of your leggings to grope at your ass as your fingers work open Ghost’s belt slowly. The buckle clinks, its metal warm from his body. You mouth at the front of his trousers through the fabric, catching the scent of him now, and god, is it thick. Deep and musky, soaked with sweat and the faded presence of gun oil.

You drop your jaw, dragging your tongue over the rough fabric, and Ghost hisses through his teeth.

Beneath you, Soap begins to rock you more deliberately now, the denim of his jeans rough against your leggings, his cock straining against the fabric, grinding up between the softness of your thighs.

“Go on, love,” he murmurs, voice hot and wicked in your ear. “Show him how pretty you suck cock. He’s been dyin’ to know.”

You drag Ghost’s waistband down with practiced slowness, hands trembling slightly from anticipation, from need. His cock springs free— thick, flushed, heavy. Your breath catches at the sight. And you can't help it; you steal a moment to bury your face against the coarse, sweaty curls at the base, inhaling greedily. He smells like sex and tension and everything that makes your mouth water.

You kiss the root, nuzzling, tongue darting out to taste the salt of his skin, the sweat collected there. Ghost groans— a low, guttural thing— and finally, finally, touches you, resting one large hand at the back of your head. It's heavy, dizzyingly large, cupping the curve of your skull with the sort of latent power you know could crush the bone if he wanted to.

But he doesn't; doesn't even tighten those thick, rough fingers. Ghost just holds you there, letting you taste him for the first time. You lose yourself in it for a moment, so much so that when Soap shifts under you, pulling your leggings down to mid-thigh, you sigh out a startled moan against Ghost's silken skin.

Soap groans when the curve of your ass presses down harder against his lap. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his tone almost awed as he bucks up to answer you. “You’re soaked.”

You don't reply, just open your mouth for Ghost, lips wrapping around the head of his cock, your tongue teasing the underside as you suck him in slow. Johnny shifts even more beneath you now, likely working his pants open, but it can't pull your attention from Ghost's cock. Its weight is obscene, stretching your mouth, and you revel in it— the taste, the heat, the way his thighs tremble slightly as you drag your tongue beneath the crown.

It's only when you feel Soap's blunt head bump clumsily against your pussy, red hot and eager, that you begin to quiver with need. Your hole flexes when he presses up, and your mouth drops open, and then they both slide into you in the same moment— your body welcoming them in, already open and wet, your breath hitching as your throat fills and your cunt does too. The angle is perfect: Soap buried deep from beneath, Ghost pulsing against your tongue, the two of them claiming you in tandem.

Ghost’s hips roll once— slow, cautious— and you moan around him in encouragement, the vibrations making him shudder. You keep one hand at his hip, grounding him, and reach the other to cup and knead his balls, slick with sweat, musky and perfect.

You're surrounded by them. By the scent, the weight, the breathless grunts and quiet curses and the heavy slide of Soap’s cock as he rocks up into you from below, forcing Ghost a little deeper into your mouth each time. Their rhythm syncs around you, your body nothing but sensation, exquisite and aching.

And Ghost—God, Ghost.

You look up at him, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, eyes wet with want. And he looks as wrecked as you feel. Silent, but his breathing is ragged, his lip caught between his teeth as he watches your mouth work him over with filthy reverence. The sight makes you moan softly, the weight of him thick on your tongue, the heat of him flooding your mouth. His foreskin slides wet and slow with every pass of your lips, and you tongue beneath it deliberately, learning the contours of him by feel. His taste is already blooming over your tongue: clean salt and musk, the silk of his skin steeped in the scent of sweat, fabric, and restraint finally slipping loose.

Soap shifts his grip, pulling you closer into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him fully now, your knees braced on either side of his hips, thighs spread, his cock sheathing deep inside you with every grind of your hips. The denim rasps against your skin, hot and textured, a perfect counterpoint to the slick glide of his cock.

He rocks into you again and again, slow and deep, his hands gripping your back like he can’t decide if he wants to fuck you or hold you.

And your mouth is still full of Simon.

You arch slightly over the back of the couch, low enough to give you leverage, high enough for him to stand comfortably before you. One of his hands grips your skull, gentle but anchoring, while the other braces against the backrest beside your shoulder. He's staring down at you now, jaw tight, chest rising hard.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny groans, his hands traveling up under your sweatshirt again, splaying even wider over your back, kneading more intently at your softness. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

You make a sound around Ghost’s cock: half moan, half admission.

“Having us both,” Johnny continues, voice velvet-rough. “Just like this. Me fuckin’ you full while you suck him off. God, you’re fuckin’ tight.”

You moan again, louder this time, and Ghost bites off a curse above you, soft and gritted. His cock twitches in your mouth, so you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, drag your lips slowly up the length of him before descending again, tongue tracing every ridge.

Johnny’s eyes never leave your face.

Your brow is damp with sweat, your skin glowing with heat, mouth stretched open and wet. You know how you looked— fucked-out, wanting, nearly wrecked— and knowing Johnny can't get enough of it just increases your pleasure.

“You love it, don’t you,” he pants, his voice rougher as he begins to fuck up into you harder now, making the slap of your bodies echo softly in the low-lit room. “Love bein’ between us like this. Mouth full, cunt full. Don’t even know who to come for.”

You whimper.

Then, just as he slams into that spot inside you that makes you jolt, you pull off Simon’s cock with a wet gasp, strings of saliva clinging to your lip as you drag your hand down to wrap around him instead. Still working him. Still letting him feel the slick grip of your worship.

Your voice comes out cracked and hoarse, eyes fluttering half-lidded as your body bounces in Johnny’s lap.

“Fuck, Johnny…” you breathe, loud enough to make Ghost shudder above you.

You jerk him slow, tenderly, your thumb rolling over the swollen head, still flushed and slick. Your free hand cradles his balls, gently tugging, letting your tongue drag along the underside of his cock as you look up at him, lashes damp.

“You can let go,” you whisper. “I want you to. I want to hear it.”

Simon’s mouth parts slightly, and something in your chest leaps, yearning for his answer. But no words come. Just a quiet, bitten-off grunt and the tremble in his thighs.

And all the while, Johnny keeps fucking you, his hips driving up into you from below, his voice spilling constant praise in your ear.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy, babe,” he whispers, biting your shoulder. “So fuckin’ perfect. Can feel how much you’re lovin’ this— fuck. Grip me like that again and I’m gonna come.”

You can feel it rising in you too, tight and dizzying, but it twists when he says that. And the sound you make, the sound that feeling squeezes out of you, is so desperate and raw it shocks even you.

The pace turns frantic.

Johnny's thighs flex beneath you now, solid and unyielding, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare skin, biting at the soft swell of your ass as he fucked up into you with brutal rhythm. Every thrust jolts you forward, makes your thighs and belly wobble with each bounce, your whole body alive with friction and heat. Sweat pools against your sides, between your breasts, slicking the waistband of your leggings where they cling around your knees.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass—” Johnny growls into your neck, his voice strained and ragged.

You're panting, moaning, arms limp around his shoulders as you take it, want it, so very badly.

But your mouth needs more.

It needs him.

You turn back to Ghost, eyes hazy, lips wet, and opened for him again.

His cock slides back over your tongue with no hesitation this time, just need. Your arms wrap loosely around his hips, holding him close, grounding yourself to the sharp lines of his body as Johnny bounces you hard enough to rock his cock deeper into your throat.

Simon doesn’t move anymore, doesn't thrust. just holds you, both of his hands gripping your head now, fingers flexing, breath hitched in his chest.

And still you moan. Louder now. Tighter.

Each of Johnny’s thrusts forces Simon deeper, and each inch of him against your tongue makes your head spin. Your jaw aches, your cunt aches, your mind spirals.

You can barely think.

You only know that you want them, both of them, to fill you, to unravel for you, to give you the evidence of their pleasure, that last piece of themselves.

You whimper around Simon’s cock, eyes glassy, drool slipping from the corners of your mouth, needing—

And then—

Low. Hoarse. Like it's being torn from him, Ghost speaks.

“Fuck— love, I’m not gonna last—”

It breaks you open.

You clench around Johnny so hard it makes him gasp. His hands fly to your hips, anchoring, his next thrust wild and uncoordinated as his orgasm slams into him.

“Jesus fuck—” he chokes, buried deep, spilling inside you with a low, broken moan.

You sob around Simon’s cock, grinding down hard on Johnny as your own climax overtakes you— wet and fierce, like your body can't hold it in anymore. Your legs shake, toes curling in your socks, pleasure crashing through you with dizzying intensity.

And Simon—

You feel him pulse on your tongue, thick and hot, his hips bucking forward in a stuttered jerk as he comes hard down your throat, voice breaking in a guttural moan.

“Shit, love— fuck—”

You hold him, let him give it all to you. Swallow what you could, the rest slipping from your lips, dripping down your chin as you whimper through the aftershocks. Your thighs tremble, muscles twitching, your whole body flushed and shaking with exhaustion and satisfaction and something more you can't begin to name.

Gradually, everything slows. Softens.

Simon’s hands ease in your hair, smoothing it gently now. One slips to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the mess with startling tenderness. Johnny is still beneath you, arms wrapped around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder, breath coming in hard, hot gusts.

And you stay there, bodies tangled in the low flicker of lamplight as your skin begins to cool. The room is quiet now, save for the slow, exhausted inhales of three people too wrung out to move just yet. Johnny’s face is still tucked against your shoulder, his grip slack but lingering, like he didn’t want to let go. Simon’s thumb is at your cheek, still smoothing gently along the bone like he hasn’t realized he's doing it.

Your voice breaks the silence— thin, rasped, but unmistakably smug.

“Welcome home.”

There's a beat.

Then Ghost huffs out a short laugh, almost a scoff, though still fond. He ducks his head slightly, one hand rubbing his face like he can’t believe you.

Johnny lets out a wheezy breath of a laugh beneath you, hands squeezing your waist.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, voice still hoarse. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“Good timing, right?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself sink into their warmth.

Simon’s hand moves to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading wide, grounding. Johnny’s thumb traces slow circles into the softness of your hip.

And for a while, none of you say anything more.

You don’t need to.

You're all home.

668 notes · View notes

boldlyherdream · 26 days ago

Text

soft body, meet sharp teeth

price x plussized!reader x nikolai

content: dubcon; reluctance, power imbalance, manipulation, coercion. reader is from the us (brief mention). inexperienced reader. many descriptions of reader's fat body; reader has body image issues, but price and nik view her body positively. degradation, objectification, brief humiliation; rough sex, spitroast, rimming, edging. aftercare, implied kidnapping /pos (bc apparently I can't help but write some tenderness into every fic lol)

—

You're nervous before you even knock.

You feel a bit silly over it, actually. After all, it's just a quiet little operation tucked inside a very expensive evening, one you're only tangentially involved in— here for a handoff, and nothing more. You’re a cog, not a player.

No one's gonna remember your name.

But the hallway still feels too long, the plush carpet too quiet under your heels, the hotel’s art deco lights warping your reflection almost mockingly in every gold-edged surface as you walk. You've adjusted your blouse three times between the revolving door and here, tugging at the fabric where it clings too tightly to your belly, worrying over the way the waistband of your skirt bites into your soft sides. Maybe it's because this is your first time going solo into the field, or because you'd only been given the assignment late last night, like it'd been meant for someone else and you were just a fill-in. But when you walked by the front desk, saw the pretty concierge tuck her hair behind her ear and reach delicately for the ringing telephone, you couldn't help but imagine yourself a tubby little girl playing dress-up in someone else's clothes.

Your steps trail off as you approach the suite number you memorized this morning, and forcibly, you push those thoughts from your mind. Tonight isn’t about you or your insecurities; you have a job to do. You allow yourself one last centering breath before you knock. The door opens almost immediately.

It isn't the handler you’re expecting.

In their place is a man who fills the frame like it was made for him. Broad in the shoulders, bearded, brows heavy over pale eyes. His sleeves are cuffed at the forearms, shirt slightly wrinkled but neat, like he'd rolled them up himself rather than letting anyone touch him. He looks like someone used to giving orders even when off the clock.

“You’re early,” he says, before you can even think to speak. His voice comes like gravel under boots— English-accented, calm but severe, like the cadence in your training videos. It doesn't matter how quiet he keeps it; authority coils inside every syllable.

“I, um… built in a buffer,” you reply, your voice doing that too-bright thing you hate. “Just in case. You know. Something happened.”

He doesn’t respond. Just looks at you, his sharp eyes sweeping over you, taking in everything from the careful pin at your collar to the way your kitten heels shift slightly on the tiled floor, not quite able to stay still during his examination. You’d dressed to blend in: black pencil skirt, opaque tights, a fitted blouse in a soft green that matched the pigment in your eyeshadow. Professional, understated, but different enough from your usual attire that you can't stop feeling aware of it. You’d worn a trench coat over it on the way in, but that’s folded over your arm now, no longer offering protection.

You feel exposed under his gaze, like your body is saying something about you before you have the chance to speak for yourself.

“She’s not Jacobs,” comes a voice from behind him. Lighter, accented. Russian, you think— lilting, playful in the way it curves up at the end. A second man steps into view, and you have to swallow twice before you can breathe properly again.

This one is even taller; broad-shouldered like the first man, though leaner through the chest, with a long face and sharp nose that gives the impression of someone who knows how to smile and get away with it. His eyes are blue-grey, murky where the other man's are bright and cold, but they're cutting— smirking at you, even if his mouth isn’t.

“You’re not Jacobs, are you?” he says again, like it amuses him personally.

His amusement makes something tighten inside you. Ignoring the feeling, you shake your head. “No. I’m her backup.” You look between them, almost beseechingly, adding quickly, “I've been fully briefed, and I have the dossier—”

“That’s fine,” the first man says, cutting off your spiral. “Come in.”

You step forward, obeying on instinct. The door clicks shut behind you.

“Captain John Price,” the first man says, jerking a thumb toward his chest. “This is Nikolai. You’ll be handing off to us.”

“Pleasure,” Nikolai says with a smile that flashes teeth, gesturing toward the seating area just beyond the doorway. You choose one of the two armchairs, avoiding the couch across. As soon as you sit, he cocks his head just slightly. “Do you always look like you’re about to bolt, or are we just that frightening?”

“Nikolai,” Price warns, tone flat but not sharp.

“What?” Nikolai raises his hands, still grinning, though it’s more cheshire-like now. “She’s cute, all nervous like that. Takaya kisa. Sweet kitty.”

“She’s here for the file.”

You look on helplessly as they go back and forth, unnerved by the Russian Nikolai used that you don’t understand. And there’s something in the tone of Captain Price's voice now, something buried underneath that top note of authority, that you can't quite decipher. It tickles at your hindbrain, feels off-key like a sour note, though you can't pinpoint why.

“And I’m here for the ambiance,” Nikolai retorts easily despite the warning in his superior's voice. “What a lovely little team we make.”

They exchange a look, and you sense there's an entire conversation in it, one that leaves you entirely— unpleasantly— in the dark. Reluctant to draw attention to yourself, you move subtly, draping your coat over the arm of the chair and pulling the satchel with your files into your lap. WIth your pulse hopping in your throat, you look around instead.

The suite is immaculate in the way expensive places always are, gilded by the light filtering through long curtains in muted sheets, turning gold against the walls. The floors are stone tile with warm rugs underfoot, and everything smells faintly of citrus polish and fresh linen. A tray has been set on the low table with two glasses and a decanter already sweating condensation, ice cubes untouched in their crystal bucket. The whole thing feels… unreal. More like a set than a hotel room, suspended in quietude as if waiting for something to begin.

You fidget in your seat, suddenly conscious again of how loud your clothes feel— how every shift of your thighs rubs fabric together, how every breath catches under your blouse like it isn't meant to move that much. You want to sit still. You want to do this right. But you just feel wrong.

“You’ve done this before?” Price asks, pulling your attention to him. He hasn’t moved from the door, but the weight of him follows you.

“Not—” You're about to say ‘alone,’ but pivot at the last second. “—with you. But I’ve run support for this unit before.” Wanting to move on quickly, you add, “My supervisor said you’ll be getting the greenlight for insertion after the gala.”

“Mhm.” He rubs his jaw, sharp eyes still on you. “Where’s the list?”

“In the folder.”

You open your satchel, hands steady even if Captain Price's discerning stare has your stomach in knots. As you reach inside, you feel Nikolai shift closer, see the shine of his belt buckle in your periphery, hear the sound of ice clinking in a glass. Leisurely, he moves to sit across from you, one arm slung over the back of the low couch, sipping his drink like this is a post-dinner chat and not a pre-op intel briefing.

While you gather your documents, you hear the captain approach from behind, but when you open the folder, smoothing it across your lap, Price stays standing at your back rather than taking the second chair like you would have expected. He looms over you like a steady wall of heat and judgment. You clear your throat, doing your best not to be unnerved.

“There’s a ballroom on the second floor, accessed through the main atrium,” you say, tapping the printed map. “Security’s clustered there and at the service corridor junctions. Your entry point should be the staff elevator through the south kitchen. It has the least camera coverage, and no guards are posted there after 8 p.m.”

Price grunts, reaching down to skim a fingertip along the page beside yours. His skin brushes your knuckles, warm and rough; your hand twitches, but you keep it there. You want to look unbothered in front of them, like you’ve done this a million times.

“What’s on the third floor?” he asks.

“Private rooms,” you answer. “A few penthouse suites. VIP bookings. You’ll find the target there— Suite 3C. It's not marked on the hotel’s guest registry, but I cross-checked with event vendors.”

“And backup?”

“Two guards posted outside, unarmed but trained.”

Nikolai hums. “Where are you from?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“You,” he says, gesturing lazily with his glass. “You’re not from here. American, right?”

“Oh. Um. Yes.” There’s a pause, and you realize he expects more. “Long Island.”

“Aha. I thought so.”

He smiles like he’s won something. You try not to fidget under the weight of it.

“I lived in Brooklyn once,” he goes on. “Russians love Brighton Beach. All the food, none of the Russians.”

He grins, clearly amused with himself, and Price shoots him a look. Not annoyed—just dry. Familiar.

“She’s giving us the layout, mate.”

“I’m listening,” Nikolai says, shrugging. “I just like to know who I’m working with.”

“She’s a contact. Not part of the team.”

“Even so. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friendly.”

You stay quiet, lips parted like you aren’t sure whether to keep talking or wait for permission.

Nikolai’s smile lingers. Price says nothing. Neither of them look away.

And you, to your credit, do your best to quash down the roil of emotions inside. You try to keep things professional, return to the page. Try to ignore how your blouse feels tighter than it had earlier, how the elastic in your tights is digging deep into the soft crease of your belly now that you’ve sat too long. You chose the skirt because it’s black and structured— because it holds things in. But the waist is unforgiving, and your legs have always been wider when seated. You can feel the fabric strain where the hem sits flush against the underside of your thighs. Not riding up, exactly, just… tight. Pressing.

You don't tug on it or adjust your posture, not wanting to draw more attention to it. But you know they can see, and it's hard to ignore that.

“Like I said,” you continue, hoping your voice doesn’t sound as small as it feels, “you’ll want to avoid the ballroom and access through the service corridor. It’s a clean path from there to the elevator, and—”

“What time does the gala start?” Price asks, still looming behind you.

“Half seven. But VIPs start trickling in around six.”

“And no one else has this intel? Staff, guests?”

“Just me.”

Price makes a sound low in his throat, and for a moment, you feel his fingers brush the back of your chair, like he might adjust it, or even reach over it toward you. But he doesn't. He just stays there, standing close enough that if you were to lean your head back even slightly, you’d graze the front of his thighs.

You stay very, very still.

“She’s not used to this,” Nikolai says suddenly.

Startled, your gaze snaps from the page up to him. His expression is amused when you scan his face, trying to puzzle out such an odd remark. He’s relaxed in a way that makes it more unnerving, not less.

“Used to what?” you ask, too quickly.

“Being looked at.”

The silence that follows is deafeningly loud. Your stomach turns cold and hot at once as it lingers— as Price doesn’t contradict him, redirect him like before.

“That’s not—” you start, but trail off. There’s no version of denying it that won't make it worse.

Because he’s right. You aren’t used to being looked at like this, and certainly not by men like them— the kind with square hands and deep voices and war behind their eyes. You’ve grown used to being invisible in your softness, to letting sharp, pretty girls handle the face-to-face work. You know your place: smart, reliable, and firmly in the background.

But now—

Now Nikolai is watching you with a wolfish kind of patience. And Price hasn’t taken a single step back.

“It’s alright,” Nikolai says, voice smoothing out into something velvet-soft. Knowing he can see your thoughts written all over your face is embarrassing enough, but then he adds, “Some of us like a girl with a little more to hold onto.”

Your mouth drops open.

Behind your chair, Price lets out a quiet exhale, something too short to be a laugh. “You want to finish the briefing, love?” he asks mildly, acknowledging nothing of what Nikolai said.

It doesn’t feel like an invitation. It feels like a test.

Reeling, you swallow hard and nod, trying not to show how your palms have started to sweat. But your voice wobbles. Your fingers smudge the paper. And when Price leans down again— this time placing one firm hand on the armrest beside you— your whole body tenses like it expects to be chastised for taking up too much space.

“Easy,” he says, low and close. His breath stirs the fine hairs near your ear. “We’re listening.”

You take a steadying breath, nod again, gratefully latching on to the opportunity Price provides to pretend this situation is still completely normal. Because to acknowledge the strangeness is to acknowledge your discomfort, your insecurity— your shame— and everything in your body rebels against the idea.

Yet, tangled up with those are other feelings. And now, you can't meet Nikolai's eye for a different reason. Not with your cheeks burning, your thighs pressed together under the desk, and— you realize with a flash of mortified heat— your cunt pulsing low and traitorous between them.

Oh, sweet, soft you. Once again, you try to steer the conversation, keep it focused on the mission, you really do try. But something has shifted. Your body may have begun to betray you some time ago, heating under their stares, under the ghost of Price’s breath behind your ear, but now, it's impossible to pretend you’re unaffected.

When you finally drag your gaze from the papers on your lap, you see that Nikolai has already set his glass aside and leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his knees, the shape of him loose but intent. Not lounging anymore; still smiling, but quieter now.

“You’re sweating,” he murmurs, like he’s noting the weather.

You blink, embarrassed all over again. You hadn’t even noticed, but he’s right. All at once, you can feel the inside of your elbows are damp, the band of your tights sticky against your lower belly. Unconsciously, you press your thighs together again under the folder in your lap. You don't notice the way the motion draws their eyes— fluid and silent, like the swing of a trap that's already set.

“It’s warm in here,” you explain quickly.

“Mm.” Price's voice rumbles behind you. “Or maybe you're just feeling the pressure.”

You turn your head slightly. Not enough to meet his eyes, but enough to make him out in your peripheral vision.

“I’m fine,” you say.

It's clear they aren't convinced.

“Let’s take a break,” Nikolai declares, already rising from his seat. “You look like you could use a breather.”

“I’m okay,” you say again, reflexive, hands tightening on the folder like it might anchor you.

“I didn’t ask if you were okay, kotyonok kitten,” he replies lightly, stepping toward you. “I said you could use a break.”

He extends a hand, rough-worn and lined. A soldier's palm. The offer, paired with more Russian he has to know you don’t understand, makes your brow knit tight. With what emotion, you don't quite know. But the feeling hovers there just like his hand, quiet and yet unignorable.

You look up at him.

His shirt is fitted but open at the collar, unbuttoned too far down, showing off a gold chain cradled in a dark nest of hair; his sleeves are rolled, more carelessly than Price's, his thick forearms lined with more of that dark hair and prominent veins. Your eyes dart back to the v at his collar, watching as his chest rises slow and steady, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you.

And behind you, you feel the air change, and know without checking that Price has shifted— a slight movement, but enough to remind you that you're surrounded.

The pretense of your composure— your ability to act like nothing is happening here— finally falls away.

“I—I should stay focused,” you say softly, almost pleadingly, like a final attempt you don't really believe will work.

“You’re trying too hard,” Nikolai counters, his voice gentle, his eyes gleaming. “You’re not under interrogation, sweetheart.”

The word lands like a thumb on your tongue.

Sweetheart.

“I just want to do a good job,” you mumble, not sure why you say it, or why your voice breaks on job.

“You already have,” Price says. You feel the weight of his hand land firmly on your shoulder; feel both comforted and trapped by it. “We’ve got everything we need.”

“That’s right,” Nikolai murmurs, taking another step closer. “You’ve done beautifully.”

His eyes drop, tracing the curve of your breasts under the blouse, the cinch of the waistband over your rounded stomach, the heft of your thighs where they press outward beneath the hem of your skirt. He doesn't hide it. And for the first time, you realize there’s something like hunger coming off him.

“It’s a rare thing,” he goes on. “A girl like you—”

“What kind of girl?” you ask defensively— a cornered cat, hissing and spitting right before it gets scruffed.

That makes both of them pause.

And smile.

“Soft,” Nikolai says. “Shy. Looks at her own body like it’s a burden.”

“And has no idea,” Price murmurs behind you, thumb brushing once against your collarbone, “how fuckin’ pretty she is when she’s trying not to squirm.”

Your heart thunders in your throat. You want to speak, say something, but your mouth has gone dry. Nikolai’s fingers touch your chin, lightly tipping your face toward him again. With those storm dark eyes looking down on you, and Price’s solid warmth at your back, he says,

“Let us take care of you.”

The words seem to hang in the air. They’re less coaxing than how he sounded before; maybe even, you think, closer to a command than an offer. Again, something in the back of your mind squirms, twisting away from that sour note, even while the heat simmering in your belly flares at the prospect.

It’s confusing; it’s too much. You don’t reply, and the silence that follows is heavy.

Price is the one who steps back first, just enough for his hand to lift from your shoulder and the heat of him to ease off. Finally, you can breathe— sharp, sudden, almost dizzy with the room’s stillness, like you only became aware you were starving yourself of oxygen once you gasped it in again.

“Up you get, then,” he says casually, voice still low but not unkind.

“What— why?” you ask, the question reflexive, almost petulant.

“You haven’t taken that breather. And you look like you need it,” Nikolai says mildly, stepping aside as well, leaving you a narrow path between them. And in that gap, set back against the wall, you see the front door to the suite.

They give you space the way wolves might give a deer a final glimpse of open forest— calculated, careful, almost gracious. But your limbs are too heavy with heat and noise to bolt for it.

Something in you folds instead of flinching.

Slowly, you find your feet. You stand, and your skirt creaks at the hips as it adjusts; your tights cling uncomfortably to the undersides of your thighs now that the fabric has warmed with your body. You feel heavy, clumsy in your own skin. But still, you don’t run.

“There,” Nikolai murmurs, watching you rise. “Better, isn’t it?”

You open your mouth to answer but gasp as fingers brush the fabric of your blouse, just beneath the swell of your breast.

You look down to see Price’s hand there, his thick, squared fingers pressing into the delicate green of your clothing.

“Shirt’s damp,” he says, like he’s pointing out a detail on a map. Like he hadn’t given you that breath of air just so he could press in tighter somewhere more tender. “Warm in here, you said. In’t that right?”

His thumb drags upward, slow as sunrise, pressing into the soft give of your breast through the fabric. You try to step forward, away from the touch, but Nikolai is already there, closing the small gap he’d allowed you like it’s nothing. His hands brace your hips lightly— barely there, but unmistakable.

“I—I really should go,” you whisper, voice thready. “I didn’t think this was… part of it.”

“No? Funny,” Price says, sounding a touch darker now. “It suits you.”

His thumb finds your nipple. Presses once. Not hard, just enough for it to stiffen, traitorous and obvious through your blouse. You suck in a quivery little breath, trying to grasp at the shreds of your composure, to figure out how to get out of this room unscathed, unchanged.

But you’ve already failed in that.

“Sensitive little thing,” Price mutters. “That all it takes?”

You don’t see him move, but you feel it: the weight of his presence peeling away from your back, only for a moment, before he reappears in your periphery. His knuckles graze the side of your throat, calloused and unhurried, as he rounds you with the slow certainty of a turning tide. The shift is subtle, but it leaves you suddenly exposed at the back, your balance teetering.

“She’s shaking,” Nikolai observes, amusement thick in his voice. “Poor thing doesn’t know where to look.”

He's behind you now— when did he get there?— his hand splayed low across your spine like a paperweight, his thumb rising to press at the dimple just above your ass, a barely-there pressure that makes your stomach lurch.

He’s right.

You don’t.

Because Price is right in front of you now, his fingers plucking, teasing the stiffened peak of your nipple through layers of fabric. And Nikolai’s hands are sliding lower— over your hips, down the supple curve of your lower belly, until one snakes under your structured black skirt. It pushes up and makes a home between your legs, cupping, palming the heat that has soaked through your tights. His breath ghosts over the shell of your ear: deep, gravel-warm, and horribly smug.

“You’re wet.”

It isn’t a question.

You whimper.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, flexing his fingers, his palm shifting, rubbing so subtly you could almost be imagining it. “You’re doing so well.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” you start, shame rising hot in your throat.

“You want to be good, don’t you?” Price asks, pinching lightly again. “That’s why you came here, all dressed up. All trembling and sweet. Trying so hard to be professional with a soaked cunt under your skirt.”

“No! I mean, I—”

“Ah, ah,” Nikolai purrs, hand tightening just slightly. “No need to lie. Not to us.”

You can feel yourself unraveling— stomach bunching, breath shortening, thighs twitching to close but held wide by the press of Nikolai’s thick thigh.

“You don’t get looked at like this, do you?” Price asks softly. “Not usually.”

You shake your head before you can stop yourself. Both of them hum.

“Shame,” Nikolai whispers. His middle finger presses more firmly than the others, right along the seam of your tights. “They’ve no idea what they’re missing.”

“But we know,” Price adds, leaning in, the bristles of his beard feathering against your cheek. “Don’t we, love?”

They haven't even taken off a single piece of your clothing, and you already feel stripped bare.

Nikolai is a solid wall behind you, his palm spread over the heat between your thighs, cupping you like it's his. Price stands before you, crowding you in, still thumbing lazily at the stiff peak of your nipple through your blouse. The fabric is growing more damp now, darkening visibly where sweat gathers under your breasts, under your arms. You clench your jaw to keep from making any more noise, lock your knees to keep them from folding.

Despite your efforts, your body betrays you, trembling anyway. And that's when Nikolai’s voice dips, lilting and coaxing, into your ear.

“Let’s see you, darling.”

“What?” you breathe. Panic floods your chest.

“Off,” Price says simply, nodding once to your blouse. “All of it.”

You freeze.

And, though their gazes press in on you, they don't move— don’t poke, or pull, or push. They just wait, almost insultingly patient, letting silence grind against your nerves until your mind finally catches up with the inevitability they already know:

What you're going to let them do to you.

Your chest rises with a deep breath— bracing, for courage — and Price leans back, giving you space.

It doesn’t feel like mercy; it feels like stepping into a snare.

You unbutton your blouse first, fingers fumbling now, and you hate that they can see how nervous you are, how clumsy you become when eyes are on you. The fabric pulls at your chest as you work down the row, then peel it away with a sound like tearing paper. Your bare arms catch goosebumps instantly, not from the air, but from being so wholly seen. Quickly, as if to distract yourself, your skirt follows. You slide the zipper down and wriggle it past your hips, your thighs rubbing as it falls around your ankles. The tights cling more stubbornly— sticky with sweat, dragging over every curve, every soft fold of skin. Your eyes stay on your feet as you step out of the bundle, the goosebumps now racing down over your midriff and the backs of your thighs.

“Weren’t planning on anyone seeing those, were you?” Price says.

Your head snaps up to see he's looking directly at your bra and panties; automatically, you look down at yourself, too.

Your underwear don't match. The bra is blush pink, one of your older ones— worn and plain, a little too small, so that the band bites into your back more tightly than usual. Your panties are dark blue, cotton, and stretched more than you would want them to be. They hug the crease where your belly meets your thighs and dig just slightly into your hips.

No, you weren't planning on anyone seeing them, and that made you a bit sheepish to begin with. But the fact that he’d say it—

“Pulled from the drawer in the dark, was it?” he adds. His voice is light, teasing, but still a little mean— poking a sore spot, for what? His own amusement?

Your whole face burning, you cross you arms, cinch them tight around yourself, like you could cover everything at once—your stomach, your tits, the deep, soft curve of your inner thighs.

Why would I wear these?

Why didn’t I check?

Why the fuck am I still here—

You take a step back, reaching for the blouse you’d dropped on the floor.

“I shouldn't have— I should go,” you grit, feeling utterly stupid and small. Your throat is tight with humiliation over it all— being the last-minute replacement on this job, losing your composure in front of these two men, being so unprofessional that you actually took off your fucking clothes, and especially— the part that cuts the deepest, makes the sting of angry tears finally rise behind your eyes— letting yourself believe that they would truly mean those pretty lines they fed you.

Would actually want you.

“Fuck this,” you whisper, fumbling for the blouse with shaky fingers, ready to tear it on— tear yourself from this snare and retreat to lick your wounds alone.

But before you can lift it, Price’s palm lands flat between your shoulder blades.

“Bend over.”

Your lips part to protest, but you never get the words out.

He presses, and you fold.

The edge of the table hits the juncture of your hips, sharp and unyielding; your arms fold forward to catch yourself, tits flattening against your forearms. You barely have time to inhale before the flat of his hand cracks down between your legs.

A spank, right over your soaked panties.

Crack— and your knees buckle.

Oh my God—

Your gasp is a ragged, dizzying inhale.

It isn’t the pain that leaves you reeling. It's the wet sound it makes, echoing in your ears like a shot; the fact that he’d aimed straight for your cunt; and the blinding, inexplicable heat that blooms instantly between your thighs.

“There she is,” Price mutters, his voice low and pleased. With the hand that spanked you, he palms your ass cheek, kneading it like praise.

“Now be a good girl for the captain, pet,” Nikolai purrs, “and let him see all of you. Hm?”

You don't move. You don't cry. You don't think about your bra and panties, or the job, or the pretty concierge from downstairs. You lay there for a moment with your arms folded up under you and your chin pressed to the wood of the table, just… existing in your body. It's gone molten and heavy in a way you've never experienced before, trembling from deep within, your cunt slick enough now that you can feel it beginning to soak through the fabric, cooling against the air on the back of your thighs.

You know, then, that from the moment you set eyes on Captain Price and Nikolai in the doorway of their hotel suite, you were never going to leave without taking what they would give you.

Your bra comes off first. You unclip it slowly, hands shaking from adrenaline and anticipation, and your breasts bounce free, sagging under their weight, your nipples already stiff from the rush of blood beneath your skin. You see Price’s gaze flick lower. You see him smile.

Your panties follow. You peel them down carefully, trying to avoid any awkward movements, but there is no elegant way to undress with your thighs and hips and belly, all of you so soft, so unhidden, every inch of you marked by your body’s honest weight.

Price doesn't flinch; neither does Nikolai. They look at you— all of you— and move in.

They have you on your back, laid out on the table, in seconds— Price guiding you down, Nikolai lifting your legs by the backs of your knees. They don’t speak to each other, and don't seem to need to. In silence, your arms are gently, firmly pressed to your sides, your thighs parted, your body arranged.

You lay there, rendered limp by the ease of it.

They unbuckle slowly, almost leisurely, and through it all, you don’t move a muscle out of place. You just watch as they ready themselves: shirts coming unbuttoned or being shrugged from shoulders, hanging open; belts sagging, zippers parting, trouser waists falling slack but held up by the thickness of their thighs. Boxers being tugged down or pushed aside, fabric parting to free what's underneath. The scent of them fills the space— soap, sweat, something like musk and leather. Hair scatters across solid bellies and wide chests, one a shade darker than the other. You look between them and can't decide, from this angle, which of them is stronger, denser, hairier. They both look like more than just men. They look like grizzlies made bipedal.

And they're about to fuck me. The thought makes your head rush in the most wonderful, horrible way.

Then Price steps into your view.

You look down the length of your body—over your jiggling belly, your splayed thighs—and stare.

You'd felt his hand on your shoulder, your waist, your breast; you're acquainted with its width. To now see the way he grips his cock with that hand, how the head stands out from his pale fingers, red and blunt and already glistening as he glides his fist from the crown to the base and back again…

He's stupidly, devastatingly thick.

The sight brings back a sense of reality, of practicality, and with it, a surge of nervous anticipation rises within you. When he steps closer, you grasp for sense. “What about— D-do you have a condom?” you stammer suddenly, voice higher than you mean it to be.

And Price laughs.

He laughs.

Before you can even register it, Nikolai’s fingers are skimming along your temples, thumbs stroking down your cheeks to your shoulders. Gentle. Possessive.

“Don’t worry, kisa kitty,” he croons from above you. You look up at him, see his face upside down, leaning over you. As you stare into his storm-dark eyes, his fingertips press into the hollows of your chest, just below your collarbones— subtly holding you down. “You won't be needing that.”

It's all the warning you have before Price pushes in.

The head of his cock breaches you slowly— hot, silken, impossibly thick, somehow thicker even than it looked. Your cunt seizes around him instinctively, like your body is trying to push him out even as it pulses to pull him deeper. You cry out, the sound punched from your chest at the feeling of him splitting you open. And yes, there is pain, but it's not sharp. Not bad. Just a molten stretch that burns through your whole lower body, stealing your breath as he carves room inside you.

You feel your thighs twitch, your belly rise with each shallow breath as he keeps going, slowly but ruthlessly filling you by inches— dragging his cock through your tight, clinging heat like he’s mapping every dip and fold. And then, finally, you feel his thighs press against the underside of your ass, and know you've taken him to the root.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, flexing his hips to press even more firmly against you, drawing another little cry from your lips. “Grippin’ me like a fist.”

“She’s clenching?” Nikolai asks, voice above your head bright with interest.

“Like she thinks she can stop me.”

He chuckles. “That’s adorable.”

All at once, there are fingers at your lips: Nikolai’s, tapping gently.

“Now, moy kotyonok my kitten,” he says, “let’s keep that mouth busy, mm?”

Attention stolen by the thick, deliberate push of Price’s cock, without thinking, you open.

Nikolai presses in.

It’s awkward at first. The angle is strange; your head is tipped back over the edge of the table, and you can barely flatten your tongue properly. Mercifully, his cock enters slowly, warm and slightly salty, the skin soft but the shape firm. You can feel his foreskin drag against your tongue, unfamiliar and smooth, shifting each time he slides in and withdraws only to come back, pressing further once again.

Your moan around him is wet and open-mouthed— half a sound, half a reflex.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, stroking your jaw as his cock fills your mouth. “Just like that.”

Between your legs, Price starts to move. Tiny thrusts at first, shallow and probing, like he's testing the push and pull of you from the inside. Even that little friction drags fire through your cunt— stretched and slick and full, your pussy gripping around him in twitching, helpless pulses. Every inch he takes and then gives back makes your breath catch, makes your mouth slacken around Nikolai’s cock, makes your thoughts fly apart into something raw and dirty and shameful.

“Told you she’d take it,” you hear Price say, his voice closer now, one hand braced on your belly. “Didn’t believe me.”

“I believe you now,” Nikolai chuckles. “Look at her.”

He pulls back, just far enough to rest his cockhead on your bottom lip. You pant against it, spit-slick and open, your lashes fluttering. A small, sensible part of you tries to make sense of what they mean, until their cocks chase it away again.

“Open,” Nikolai says, looking down at you as he lifts his cock slightly.

At first, you blink at him, confused that he's taking it away from your mouth. Then you feel his hand under your jaw, tilting.

“Open wide for me. Show me how grateful you are the captain’s fucking you so well.”

You obey— mouth wide, throat raw from taking him deep, your tongue falling out like a wet, pink cradle to welcome him back to you. Nikolai lifts his cock and presses it against your chin, then down.

Then he brings his balls to your mouth.

Soft and heavy, they settle against your lips, spreading over your chin, the underside of your nose. You whimper and lick, trying your best, awkward and heat-flushed as you lap at the seam of his scrotum, the sweat-slick skin dusted with coarse, wiry hair, and the firmer swells within it. The salt and warmth of him fill your mouth, your lungs as you work at him. Your thighs shake; your nose knocks gently against his sack as Price fucks you, forcing you to chase Nikolai with your tongue, try to suck the skin between your lips only to lose it again the next second.

But Nikolai doesn’t seem to mind. “There’s a good girl,” he croons, cupping your neck with his other hand, the first slowly jerking his cock against your chin. “So polite. So obedient.”

Price’s thrusts deepen. He grunts low in his throat, hand splayed over your soft belly, pinning you as he fucks up into you harder.

“Jesus, she’s fucking soaked,” he says, almost to himself. “Can feel her fluttering around me. Like she’s trying not to come.”

“She doesn’t want to make a mess,” Nikolai replies; you can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “She’s still trying to be professional.”

They both laugh.

“Darling,” Nikolai says sweetly, brushing your spit-slick cheek with his knuckles. “You’ve got a cock in your cunt and another on your chin, with your face buried in my balls. I think that ship has sailed.”

You barely have time to register how that makes you feel before Price abruptly pulls out of you; the slick, wet drag makes your back arch from the table.

“Switch,” he grunts, wiping his cockhead along the soft underside of your thigh.

Empty now, you whine, cunt twitching helplessly around nothing, already clenching as if begging him to come back. But Nikolai is there immediately, knocking your knees aside with the width of his torso.

And he doesn’t wait— he just presses in.

He is a smaller man than Price, but not by much. Though not quite as thick, his cock is longer, and he doesn’t try to ease you into it, just thrusts into your cunt with a sharp, sure rhythm that rocks your body on the table. The wood squeaks against your shifting softness; your tits bounce with every firm smack of his hips.

“There’s my good girl,” he hisses, wide hands gripping your waist harder than Price had, pressing into the ample give of your body. “Taking us in so nicely. Like you were made for this.”

You can’t answer, distracted as you are, because Price has moved to your head.

His cock hovers above your mouth— wet with your arousal, flushed dark and veined, the crown slick from where he’d just fucked you.

“Open up,” he says, his hand spanning you from jaw to cheekbone. “Want you to taste the mess you made on my cock.”

Mouth slack, eyes heavy lidded, your body buzzing like never before, you don’t hesitate for even a second.

You just obey.

The taste hits you immediately— bitter, musky, salt layered over something slick and unmistakably yours. Embarrassment and arousal tangle inside you until you can't separate them, bouncing you between them just like these men fuck your body from both ends. Driving you quickly toward a precipice that, all things considered, should have been much farther away than it is.

I’ve never come like this, you think wildly, even as your stomach begins to tighten with that familiar feeling. I don’t even think I can—

Nikolai’s cock pistons into you faster, harder, his solid hips slapping against the backs of your thighs. His pubic hair scrapes the tender skin of your folds, his balls plapping rhythmically against your ass. There’s no angle you can squirm into that doesn’t bring pleasure, no breath you can take that doesn't make you whimper.

“She’s shakin’,” Price murmurs, his voice a low hum above you as he holds your head still and fucks your mouth. “Think she’s close?”

“She shouldn’t be,” Nikolai laughs breathlessly. “Haven’t touched her clit.”

He’s right— they haven’t even grazed it accidentally. You’ve had nothing but the constant grind of cock inside your holes, the friction of your back and ass against the table, and the thunder of your own heartbeat in your ears.

And yet—

Your thighs keep twitching. Your cunt spasms around Nikolai with every thrust. Your nipples have drawn tight despite the warmth building in the room, dark with blood, scraping the air with every bounce.

“That it, sweetheart?” Price asks, cupping your face with both hands, digging his fingers into your scalp and canting his hips to drag his cock more firmly against your tongue. “You gonna come just like this?”

You whine, your whole body wound tight, your hips twitching to meet Nikolai’s thrusts, so fucking close—

He pulls out.

You cry out in sharp dismay, the sound garbled around the cock still in your throat.

“Switch,” Nikolai pants, his voice a touch more hoarse now. “Not done with her yet.”

They do it again: Price at your cunt this time, his girth stretching you anew, driving a brutal rhythm into your already swollen hole.

You moan in relief, your eyes scrunched closed, too glad to have someone hitting that spot inside you again to react to Nikolai tapping your lips with his cock. He lets the tip smear prespend across your lips and chin instead, chuckling, “Look at her. Fucked stupid. Face a mess. Is that her mascara?”

“Was,” Price mutters.

“Desperate little kitty,” Nikolai croons at you. “Crying just from cock.”

You hadn’t realized you were crying until he said it, but now you notice your face is wet from every angle— saliva leaking from the corners of your mouth over your cheeks, tears streaking black through your ruined lashes, catching in your hairline. Your mouth has gone puffy from effort, jaw sore and slack. And every time they edge themselves— pulling out, groaning, trading places— they drag you closer too, without even trying.

It’s torture of the most exquisite kind.

You want to scream, beg, tell them to just keep going, to fuck you through it—

But your mouth is full again.

“That’s it,” Nikolai purrs, sliding his cock back into your throat. “Just like that, pet. Show us how grateful you are. Show us what that fat little mouth was made for.”

Price thrusts harder into you, his grip on your thighs tightening. “She’s ready, Nik,” he grits, his voice rough from affect and effort. “Pussy’s fuckin’ beggin’ me to come, mate. Drippin’ all over the goddamn table.”

And you are. It pours from your cunt in strings, smearing his thighs and yours, soaking the wood beneath you. You can feel how wet you are, how slick your skin has become with sweat and arousal; can imagine how far gone you must look, used and wet-faced and wrecked. Laid out across the table, bookended by their masculine frames, twitching and writhing on their cocks like a thing possessed.

Then Price hits something deep, something bright. You squeal helplessly around Nikolai’s cock, a broken, animal sound.

And that makes things escalate quickly.

Price snarls something low and wordless, slamming himself fully inside you, and you scream— muffled, guttural, the sound pulled from the depth of you. Your whole body jolts forward, the force flicking your jaw upwards; not quite a bite, but enough to scrape against the meat in your mouth, which promptly slips free.

Nikolai pulls back with a wet pop, breathing hard. Startled, with a flash of worry, your eyes pop open to see his tip, slick and flushed, hovering above your face as he fists his cock roughly at the base.

“Teeth,” he pants, drawing your wide-eyed gaze to his face. His dark brow is furrowed and sweat-slick, but more from exertion than annoyance. He flashes you a teasing smile. “Didn’t want to ruin my fun just yet.”

Reassured, you manage a nod, gasp in air— but not for long.

Because his balls are suddenly in your face again, and this time, there’s no hesitation.

You latch.

Tongue sloppy, drooling, tasting every inch of him, you suck and kiss and lick with no rhythm, no grace— just sheer want. Your arm even snakes up next to your ear, your hand wrapping around the back of his thick, hairy thigh, urging him closer. You chase the salt and musk of him like you’re starving for it, lavishing him with unspoken praise— a wet, messy, earnest worship.

“Fuckin’... Christ.” You feel Nikolai’s broad hand cup underneath your skull, keeping your mouth pressed close to him. “Filthy fuckin’ thing. Sovsem s uma skhodit. Completely losing her mind,” he mutters, the words slipping rough and low. “Little animal.”

Your hips react to the affect in his voice, bucking out of rhythm with Price’s thrusts. “Hold still,” he growls, voice sharp with effort. Your ankles kick out once, uncontrolled, before his grip steadies your hips again, pressing you down against the table almost hard enough to grind your bones.

He drives into you now like he’s trying to knock the orgasm out of you with brute force, the sound of flesh meeting flesh loud and constant. Your tits bounce violently with the impact, the table underneath you jerking in time with his rhythm. Your softness is everywhere— your belly rippling with every thrust, thighs quaking with the force of it, skin slapping loud and wet in the heat-thick air.

If you weren’t flesh, your body would break into pieces.

You can’t think, can’t make a sound; can barely even breathe. You feel it coming— a white heat blooming in your pelvis, a deep, unbearable twist building in your gut. You whimper again and again, high-pitched and frantic, against Nikolai’s balls, nose buried in the sweaty skin, tongue flattened and desperate. Your toes curl, cramp, slip uselessly against Price’s legs, searching for purchase so you can try to bring your orgasm forth yourself if they decide to take it away again.

If they do… you think you might die if they do.

Please, you wail wordlessly. Please—

“Now,” Price snarls, low and final. “Fuckin’ give it to me.”

You shatter.

It rips through you like a crack in glass— fracturing something fundamental, white-hot and irreversible. Your body stops being yours to control, overtaken by the force of it, the raw inevitability.

It’s not graceful. It’s messy; ugly with need.

Your breath punches out of you in sharp, stuttering gasps, everything pulling taut from the inside out as your cunt clenches in violent pulses around Price’s cock. The sounds you make… you don’t know if you’re begging or thanking or praying. You just know it’s pouring out of you, choked, wordless, and raw, against Nikolai’s sweat-slick skin.

But Price doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow down.

His hands lock around your wrists— one in each fist— and pull.

You jolt, your spine dragged flat against the table again with the momentum of it, and realize with a broken sob that he’s using your body for leverage. Hauling you down into each savage thrust so you don’t slide up from the sheer force of him.

Quickly, your arms begin to ache, stretched taut between them. Your body bucks, tits jerking wildly, belly rippling, thighs slapping wet and slick against his hips. He’s fucking you through the aftershocks like he needs it— like he’s wringing your orgasm out by the root, forcing every last tremor from your cunt.

And your mouth is still on Nikolai’s balls.

The pleasure within you peaks. Your head swims; your vision blurs. You’re licking and moaning around Nikolai’s balls with a mouth too full to close, slick and open, your tongue insistent and hungry. You don’t notice him shift until the angle changes— his hips tilting just enough, the muscles in his thighs flexing against your cheek—

And your tongue slides lower.

Past the seam.

Past the curve of his perineum.

Right to a part of him you never expected to reach.

You realize it at once. But you don’t stop.

You just lick— broad, deliberate, right over the tight heat of his asshole— and the reaction is immediate. Nikolai lets out a stunned, guttural sound, his hand clenching hard in your hair.

“Ohh,” he gasps, his body shuddering.“Ebat’. Bozhe moi. Fuck. My god.”

The Russian makes you freeze, unsure how to interpret it until he adds, voice thick and choked, “Good girl, lyubov’ love.”

You do it again— sloppier, more eager. Nikolai groans low in his throat, the sound almost drowning out the wet shlick of him working his cock. “Good girl,” he repeats. “Just like that— eat my ass.”

You feel Price falter; his rhythm staggers.

“Well, fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, trying for flippant, but his voice is rough, threadbare. “Didn’t even have to be told.” He doesn’t stop thrusting, but now each movement feels heavier, more ragged.

“You know how to pick them, kapitan,” Nikolai throws back, though the words stutter, barely held together as he fists himself faster now.

Because you’re panting through your nose, tongue working desperately to fuck deeper between the clench of his cheeks, your spit gluing your mouth to his skin in wet, filthy strings. You’re so far gone, aching for more of him, any part of him; licking him like you want inside. Like if you can just press a little harder, he’ll let you in.

And then you feel it. With a stifled curse, his thighs tense against your ears, and a hot pulse splashes across your tits.

You gasp, dazed, and keep licking. Keep worshipping. Nikolai grunts again; another spill lands across your skin.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he pants. “Just like that, sweetheart. You’ve earned it.”

He shifts forward, dropping his cock between your tits, gathering them in both hands. Your soft flesh spills through his fingers, slick and shining with his come as he rocks his hips, dragging himself through the heat and weight of you with a low, broken groan.

“Perfect tits,” he murmurs. “Perfect, filthy little tongue.”

A pause, breathless.

“Perfect,” he repeats, and something in his voice makes your lungs pull tight. “Moy kotyonok. My kitten.”

It makes you want— not for you, but for him. He’s still dragging his cock through the come-slick heat of your chest, slow and indulgent, and now, your hands come up to join him. You cover his, your smaller fingers slipping over his knuckles, urging him to squeeze harder, tighter, pressing your breasts together around him. Giving him everything he wants and more.

The effect is immediate.

Nikolai moans low, and you feel the tremble in his thighs as he fucks your tits with slow, indulgent thrusts, each one slicker than the last, the mess of him smeared thick between your breasts.

And Price— he falters. You hear it in the hitch of his breath, feel it in the sudden jolt that interrupts his thrusts. A low curse breaks from him, shaky and raw.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Then, like he’s losing the fight against himself:

“Jesus— fucking hell.”

He surges forward, hips snapping once, twice, before he drives in deep and stills.

The noise he makes when he floods you is nothing like the others— less a growl, more a sound torn out of him. With it, you feel the thick heat of him spill inside you, the rhythmic twitching of his cock as he comes. Reflexively, your walls pulse around him, spent and soaked, clinging greedily to every drop and drawing yet more sounds from him until they finally subside.

And then it’s quiet.

Everything stills except the pant of breath, the tremble of muscle, the soft, sticky sounds of skin parting from skin. Your mouth slips open where it rests against Nikolai, swollen and wordless. When he lifts himself off you slowly, carefully, you gasp in a lungful of air as the weight of him finally eases. The cool air hits your wet skin; you shiver, utterly spent.

Yet, through the haze of exhausted satisfaction that covers you, there’s one last thing you still want.

Your fingers twitch where they lie on the table— reaching, searching. Your mouth opens a little wider, your brow pinching in subtle supplication. Your throat is too raw to form words, but you try to make your intentions clear: you lift your chin, eyes fluttering shut again as you whisper out a breath, a faint hum of desire.

Nikolai murmurs something in Russian; you can’t understand it, but the words sound soft, indulgent, almost amused. Then you feel sticky, heated skin against your lips— his cock, one last time. You hum, mouth twitching into a brief smile, pleased he understood what you were asking for. He presses closer for you, and you suck lazily at the head, tasting the mess you helped make.

Then Price— grunting quietly, still catching his breath— guides himself to your mouth next. You lick at him too, slow and grateful, until he hisses through his teeth and pulls away.

“Insatiable,” someone mutters. You can’t tell who; you’re too tired to even consider opening your eyes.

Helpless, blinded by the dark of your eyelids, you feel hands on you again, gentle this time. You’re dead weight, limp and satiated as you are, the soft rolls of your skin fever-warm beneath a sheen of sweat and spend. Yet they lift you from the table with surprising ease. You feel like a wisp as strong arms gather you close, cradling you against a chest that smells like smoke and salt and sex, the steady thrum of a heartbeat echoing dimly through your cheek.

As you rise, your head lolls, weightless, to the curve of a shoulder. Something ticklish like whiskers feathers your temple; a blunt nose presses to the crown of your head.

With the tiniest of sighs, you slip under— weightless and willing.

—

You wake to the sound of movement: the low rustle of fabric, the metallic clink of gear, the murmur of voices pitched low with purpose. Boots thud softly against tile, measured and unhurried. Somewhere nearby, a strap cinches tight; the teeth of a zipper rasps into place.

You stir, slow and disoriented, your body aching in that deep, satisfied way that makes time feel irrelevant. Your skin is tender-warm, sore and slick, and for a long moment, you can’t place where you are and why the air smells thick with something primal.

Then it returns in a rush— everything they’d done to you, everything you let them do. The hours between then and now blur into a molten wash of sensation, so thick with memory that it almost hurts to breathe.

You sit up too quickly, a dull throb blooming through your thighs. “Shit— I should’ve gone— hours ago—” you murmur, scrubbing shaky hands over your face, trying to wake yourself quicker. “I need to check in, find out what’s next, Laswell’s probably—”

But before your feet can hit the floor, Price is there. He crosses the room in two strides and presses a steady hand to your shoulder, keeping you down with ease.

“No,” he says, quiet but certain. His blue eyes—sharp and unreadable beneath the edge of his lashes—hold you fast. “You’re staying here.”

You blink up at him, still trying to clear the sleep from your head. “But I was only meant to make contact—pass off the intel. I wasn’t supposed to—”

“To what?” he asks, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

You open your mouth, but the words stick behind your teeth. Heat creeps up your chest, writes itself into your expression before you can stop it.

“I didn’t think I was meant to stay,” you finish, weakly.

A second shadow enters your periphery, and then Nikolai crouches in front of you, balanced easily on the balls of his feet. His sleeves are rolled, forearms bare, eyes lit with something almost like humor.

“Darling,” he says with a tilt of his head, “you think you’re getting up and leaving after that?”

You hesitate, brows furrowed, unsure if you should be embarrassed or offended. But he only looks entertained— pleased, even. It catches you off guard. The room has become a different world since you first entered it; now, somehow, you aren’t sure where you’re meant to go next.

Your mind, still hazy, circles back to a line that had confused you when you first heard it— something said while you’d been too far gone to question it.

And you didn’t think she’d take it. Look at her now.

The words bloom with new weight now, taking root.

You look between them, a slow unease beginning to knit itself through your ribs. “You said—” Your voice catches, then steadies. “Back when I was… when I had your cock in my mouth. He said you ‘didn’t think I’d take it.’” Your gaze catches on Nikolai. “But… when—?”

You don’t need to finish the sentence for him to catch your meaning: When could you have said it that I didn’t hear?

Price is the one who answers, offering you the faintest smile. “Laswell called,” he says. “Told us about the change. Jacobs was out; you were in.”

Lightly, Nikolai remarks, “Called us before she called you, I believe.” Your eyes cut back to him, wide and stunned as he grins, sharing a look with Price.

“She said you were solid. Smart. Reliable.”

“Said you looked sweet.” Nikolai’s mouth curves. “That was the part we liked most.”

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens, and when nothing comes, you let it fall closed again.

“And,” Price adds mildly after your silence, “you did take it.”

Nikolai chuckles. “The second I saw you at the door, I knew. You looked like the type who would.” His grin sharpens just slightly. “Soft little thing. Polite. Looked like you’d do what you were told.”

“And you did,” Price echoes with finality. “Right from the start.”

Your heart is pounding again, but not from panic. The heat curling low in your belly is too thick, too delicious for that.

Then Price steps in closer, and suddenly his hand is under your jaw, guiding your chin upward with one rough knuckle. “Get some rest,” he murmurs. “We’ll be back before morning.”

A second later, Nikolai leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth— brief, but deliberate. The kind that lingers long after it’s gone.

And then Price kisses you— slower. Firmer. His mouth claims yours like punctuation, sealing the moment with a heat that startles, even after everything.

You sit there motionless after they pull away, already moving with purpose— jackets zipped, weapons checked, movements efficient and quiet. But before reaching the door, Nikolai turns back.

“Don’t worry, kitten,” he says lightly. “We’ll lock up. No one gets in but us.”

Price glances back too, expression unreadable save for the faint edge of something like amusement behind his eyes.

“And you don’t need to go anywhere, darling.”

You just stare at them, blinking, still reeling from the feeling of their mouths on yours. For the first time, you realize, and the knowledge burns through you, leaves you breathless.

“Wait here,” Price finishes, slinging his rifle into place. “You’re ours now.”

There’s no smirk in it— no hint of smugness, no flourish or performance. Just the certainty of a man saying something he considers self-evident.

Like it’s fact. Like it’s always been.

And maybe it has.

When the door clicks shut, you touch your fingers to your lips. They’re still tingling. And they keep tingling as you sink slowly back into the sheets— to relish the scent of your men still on your skin, and wait for them to come home.

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