Sleepy

It wasn’t just legendary; it was documented. There were actual incident reports.

Like the time Soap and Gaz had turned a simple training exercise into a competition over who could complete the obstacle course faster, which escalated into them sabotaging each other’s runs, which culminated in both of them dangling from a cargo net they’d somehow set on fire. Price had made them write individual apology letters to the base commander. They’d turned that into a competition too, each trying to write the most eloquent apology. Price had been furious. The base commander had been confused. The letters were still pinned to the bulletin board in the rec room as a warning to others.

Or the time Ghost and Soap had disagreed over the best way to clear a building, and instead of just… discussing it like normal people, they’d run the same scenario seventeen times in a row, each trying to beat the other’s time by mere seconds. They’d only stopped when Price physically removed them from the kill house and threatened to make them do paperwork for a month. Even then, Soap had muttered that he’d been winning.

Even Price wasn’t immune. There was a pool table in the officer’s lounge that no one was allowed to use anymore after Price and a visiting colonel had gotten into an increasingly intense game that lasted six hours and ended with the colonel’s transfer request. Price maintained he’d won fair and square. The indentation in the wall from where the cue ball had been hit with unnecessary force suggested things had gotten heated.

They competed over everything: marksmanship scores, mission completion times, who could do the most push ups, who could hold their breath longest, who could spot the enemy sniper first, who could drink the most without getting drunk (that one had ended poorly for everyone), and once, memorably, who could go longest without speaking. That had been a peaceful week for you, right up until they’d all broken at the same moment and started arguing about who had technically lasted longer.

Ghost had won that one by pointing out he never spoke much anyway, so it hadn’t been a challenge. Soap had thrown a boot at him.

The thing was, it made them excellent soldiers. That competitive drive pushed them to be faster, sharper, better than anyone else. They held records across multiple bases. Their mission success rate was unmatched. When Task Force 141 was assigned to an operation, people breathed easier because they knew it would get done.

But it also made them absolutely insufferable when they decided something was a competition.

And they decided everything was a competition.

Which brings you back to Graves.

The rec room was unusually crowded with Shadow Company temporarily stationed at the base. You’d been dealing with Graves and his people for three days now, and while professionally everything was running smoothly, personally you were ready for them to leave.

Graves had a way of taking up space, his Southern drawl filling every room he entered. He wasn’t a bad guy, exactly. Just… a lot.

You were refilling your coffee when he sauntered over, that trademark smirk firmly in place.

“Well, well. Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, leaning against the counter in a way that was probably supposed to be charming.

“It’s my base, Graves.”

“Phil, sweetheart. We’re past formalities, aren’t we?” His eyes gleamed with something that made you tense. “Especially considering.”

Across the room, you felt the 141 paying attention. Price had looked up from his report. Soap’s conversation with Gaz had died mid sentence. Even Ghost had shifted slightly in his seat.

You should’ve known then. Should’ve recognized the signs. The 141 had a sixth sense for potential competitions, and they were already alert, already watching.

“Considering what?” you asked, keeping your voice level even as warning bells started ringing in your head.

“Oh, come on now. No need to be shy.” Graves’ smile widened. “Though you weren’t particularly shy that weekend in Berlin, as I recall. Great even.”

The room went very, very quiet.

You sighed internally. Of course he was going to do this. Of course he was trying to posture and mark his territory. “That was two years ago, Graves.”

“Phil,” he corrected again, clearly enjoying himself. “And I gotta say, you’re looking even better now than you did then. If you ever get tired of the 141, Shadow Company’s always recruiting. I’d be happy to conduct your… interview process.”

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Oh no.

You saw it happen in real time: Soap’s hand tightening around his mug, Gaz going unnaturally still, the way Price’s report crinkled ominously in his grip, how Ghost’s head tilted in that particular way that usually preceded someone having a very bad day.

“I’m good where I am,” you said firmly, trying to de-escalate. “Thanks.”

“Your loss.” Graves straightened, addressing the room now, playing to his audience. “But between you and me, and well, everyone else here” he stage whispered conspiratorially, “totally worth the operation debrief we had to sit through the next morning half dead from exhaustion, if you know what I mean.”

Oh no.

“Graves-” you started.

“I’m just saying.” Graves straightened, clearly enjoying the attention. “But hey, you know where to find me if you change your mind. I’ll make sure to clear my schedule. Maybe we can recapture some of that Berlin magic.”

He winked- actually winked- and sauntered off to join his team.

The silence he left behind was suffocating.

Finally, Soap broke it. “Berlin?”

You shrugged, returning to doctoring your coffee. “It was a joint task force operation. Two years ago, like I said.”

“And you…” Gaz trailed off, eyebrows raised.

“Yes.”

“With Graves.” Soap’s voice was flat.

“With Commander Graves, yes.” You turned to face them, meeting each of their stares head on. “Is there a problem?”

Price folded his paper with deliberate precision. “Did we say there was a problem?”

“You’re all looking at me like I kicked a puppy.”

“We’re just… processing,” Gaz said diplomatically.

Ghost’s voice cut through, dry as bone: “Didn’t take you for someone with poor judgment.”

You snorted. “It was one weekend. Casual. And for the record, it was perfectly good judgment at the time. Mission was over, we were both consenting adults, and I have no regrets.”

“No regrets,” Soap repeated, something dangerous in his tone. “About Graves.”

“Should I?” You challenged, feeling your own temper stir, offended as they questioned your life choices. “I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to have a past.”

“Course you are,” Price said, but his jaw was tight. “Just didn’t realize your past included…”

“Included what? Men you don’t like?” You crossed your arms. “Grow up.”

“How was it?” The question came from Ghost, and everyone turned to stare at him.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Ghost leaned back in his chair. “How was it? With Graves.”

You could’ve deflected. Probably should have. But you’d never been good at backing down, and something about their collective judgment made you want to defend yourself even if a voice in the back of your head said you were just going to poke the bear.

“It was alright,” you said with a shrug. “Better than most, if I’m being honest. Actually…” you paused, taking a sip of coffee, “probably one of the best I’ve ever had.”

The reaction was immediate and visceral.

Soap’s mug hit the table with a thud. “You’re joking.”

“One of the best?” Gaz’s voice had gone up half an octave.

Price’s knuckles were white where they gripped the report.

Ghost had gone preternaturally still.

You blinked at them, genuinely confused by the intensity of their reactions. “What? You asked.”

“One of the best,” Soap repeated, standing now. “Graves. Commander Philip Graves, who can’t shut his mouth for five seconds and wears those ridiculous sunglasses indoors-”

“I didn’t say he was perfect, I said the sex was good. There’s a difference.”

“Better than-” Gaz cut himself off, glancing around the room. They were still in public, even if most people had cleared out when the tension started rising. “Better than most?”

“Are you actually offended right now?” You stared at them. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Soap said hotly. “It’s-it’s-”

“It’s Graves,” Price finished, and somehow that explained everything.

You looked between the four of them and suddenly understood. This wasn’t about you having a past. This was about their egos. Their pride. Their absolute inability to accept being second best at anything, especially to someone they considered inferior.

And especially not at this.

“Oh my god,” you said slowly. “You’re jealous.”

“We’re not jealous,” four voices said in unison, which was probably the least convincing denial in military history.

“You are.” A laugh bubbled up despite yourself. “You’re actually jealous of Graves.”

“Not jealous,” Ghost corrected. “Competitive.”

“That’s the same thing!”

“It’s really not,” Gaz muttered.

Soap had started pacing. “One of the best. One of the bloody best. What does that even mean? Top five? Top three?”

“I’m not ranking my sexual encounters like a mission debrief, Johnny.”

“Why not?” he shot back. “Seems like useful information.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Can we not do this here?”

“Do what?” Price was genuinely curious now.

“Have a breakdown because I slept with someone and thought they were good.”

“It’s about-” Gaz gestured vaguely. “Standards. You have standards, right? And if Graves meets those standards, then what does that say about-”

“About you?” You finished. “Nothing. It says nothing about you because you’re not in competition with my past.”

The look they exchanged said otherwise.

“Don’t,” you blurted out preemptively.

“Don’t what?” Soap asked, voice too casual.

“Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t.”

“We’re not thinking anything,” Gaz said, which was absolutely a lie.

You knew that tone. You’d heard that tone before, right before they’d decided to turn a simple reconnaissance mission into a competition over who could get the most actionable intelligence. It had been effective but exhausting.

“It was two years ago,” you said firmly. “It was fine, it’s over. Can we please move on?”

“Fine?” Soap pounced on the word. “You said fine? But Graves was great.”

“It was an exaggeration.”

“Was it though?” This from Ghost, who had actually stood up now. “In my experience, Graves is many things, but he doesn’t usually undersell his own accomplishments.”

You stared at him. “Are you defending Graves right now?”

“I’m establishing accurate parameters.”

“Parameters for what?”

The look they all exchanged was brief but telling. In that single moment of silent communication- the kind they’d perfected over countless missions- you saw them come to some kind of collective decision.

“Nothing,” Price said, but his slight smile suggested otherwise. “Just thinking it’s interesting, that’s all.”

“What’s interesting?”

“That you considers Graves some of the best you’ve ever had,” Gaz said thoughtfully. “Makes a man curious about the standards being applied and if someone can raise them.”

“Oh my god.” You could see where this was going now, clear as day. “No. Absolutely not.”

“No what?” Soap asked innocently. Too innocently.

“Whatever competitive insanity you’re all cooking up right now, the answer is no.”

“We’re not cooking up anything,” Price said. “Are we, lads?”

“Nothing at all, Cap,” Gaz agreed.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Soap added.

Ghost said nothing, but his silence was somehow the most ominous of all.

You pointed at each of them in turn. “I know how you people think. I’ve seen you turn loading supply trucks into a competition. You’re not turning my sex life into another one of your challenges.”

“Your sex life?” Price raised an eyebrow. “No, love. This isn’t about your sex life.”

“Then what’s it about?”

He moved closer, and despite everything, your breath caught. “It’s about performance metrics. Ensuring quality control.”

“Quality control,” you repeated faintly.

“We’re the 141,” Soap said, appearing at your other side. “We don’t do second place. In anything.”

“And if Graves-” Gaz made a dismissive gesture, “-thinks he’s set some kind of benchmark, well…”

“Someone needs to correct that misconception,” Ghost finished.

You looked around at all of them, these competitive, stubborn, absolutely impossible men who apparently couldn’t stand the thought of anyone- especially Graves- being considered the best at something.

Even this.

Especially this.

“You’re all insane,” you managed.

“Probably,” Price agreed easily. “But you’re still here.”

You were. God help you, you were still here, and you weren’t walking away, and they all knew it.

Which is how you would up on Price’s bed with Soap’s head between your legs.

One second you’re in the rec room and the next you’re ushered upstairs, Soap’s mouth on your cunt, and your whole body jerks like someone plugged you in.

It’s wet and hot and pressure. Not a fluttery kiss, he seals over you and pulls, drawing your clit into his mouth and your hips come off the mattress a good inch. His hands slam to your thighs and push, spreading you wider and pinning you at the same time.

“F-fuck- oh god- Johnny.” That’s when your pulse drops, leaves your throat and settles between your legs in a hard, responsive beat. Every time his tongue flicks, it kicks. Every time his mouth sucks, it swells. The nerves there go loud, drowning out everything else.

You can feel your own slick on your inner thighs now, warm and a little messy. When he drags you closer, you slide on it. The sheet under your ass is going to be damp.

He angles his head and finds the exact spot.

You know it because your calves tense and your fingers curl. You try to close your legs around his head, curl around the pleasure, and he just laughs into you, low and smug, and forces your knees apart again. Your hip flexors burn from the stretch. You can feel the tremor start in them.

Above you, the bed dips; someone leans in. A broad, callused palm plants over your lower belly and holds you down. That single extra point of contact changes everything; now you can’t roll, can’t run, can’t arch away. All you can do is feel.

Soap increases his tempo.

Slow at first; long, wet licks from your entrance up to your clit, pausing there, circling. Then tighter, faster, little pulls of suction. Then when you gasp right, he adds tongue and lips and pressure and it becomes this relentless little engine of sensation, over and over, no mercy.

Your stomach knots. Your thighs start to shake properly now, not just twitch. Your nipples rub against the fabric of your bra every time you breathe, and they’re hard, throbbing, needy from the rubbing.

You make a sound.

It’s not pretty. It’s a half choked, wet, needy thing, and it spills out without permission. Someone coos at you for it. A thumb strokes your cheek. Fingers thread through your hair. It all blurs together because the center of you is flooding with heat.

He pushes two fingers inside you and the stretch is immediate; fullness to match the drag of his tongue. A sharp, perfect ache along your inner walls where your body says yes, there. Your cunt clenches around him like it’s trying to pull him in farther. The wet sound is obscene. You hear someone suck in a breath and say “Fuck, look at ‘er.”

Your chest heaves. Your ribs can’t expand enough. You can’t get a full breath because every time you try, Soap does something with his tongue to take it.

You’re right on the edge of that bright drop and your thighs try to close again. He forces them open again.

Your hips try to lift. The hand on your belly forces you down.

Your head tosses side to side, too much, too big, too good. Fingers- whose? Price’s? Gaz’s?- catch your jaw and bring you back to center.

“Look.”

So you do. You blink through the blur and look, and there’s a pair of baby blue eyes watching you come apart, and that alone tips you.

You break.

It’s hot and it’s fast. Your whole pelvis locks, then pulses. Your cunt clamps around his fingers in hard, greedy squeezes. Your clit is burning from the drag of his mouth and you are so wet you can feel your slick slide down toward your ass. Your toes curl, calves cramping, thighs shaking. At the crest, your vision goes white at the edges and your ears rush.

You come hard.

He stays on you.

That’s the killer. He doesn’t back off. He gentles, yeah, but he doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, slow, teasing, gathering everything he pulled out of you, making you feel every last pulse.

Your body shudders in aftershocks. Little heat flares. The muscles in your stomach flutter. You can’t do anything but take it.

Someone’s hand comes up to your chest and rubs, grounding. Another slides under your knee and bends it, easing the strain in your hip. Another strokes the inside of your thigh where his stubble has made it pink.

You sag.

You’re warm everywhere now, skin buzzing, limbs heavy. Your cunt still pulses in little sympathetic squeezes around nothing. If Soap slid his cock in right now, you’d pull him in to the hilt, no resistance.

They move you, fabric drags over your oversensitive nipples and you hiss, arching away, and someone laughs softly and unhooks your bra, slipping it away, soothing your nipples with their thumb. The bed squeaks, wood complaining. A knee slots between your legs and you ride it without meaning to because there’s still ache there, still want.

Another mouth finds your throat. Teeth scrape, gentle. A hand cups you, broad and warm, palm pressing over your still wet clit.

You were still shaking when they decided one orgasm didn’t prove anything.

The bed dipped and shifted around you, weight moving like a tide. You were on your back, knees loose, underwear somewhere halfway down one thigh, trying to remember how to breathe, when a warm hand slid up your stomach and settled just under your ribs. Big palm, callused, heavy enough to say stay right here. Price, then.

“Easy,” he murmured, more in tone than words. You felt it in your skin, not your ears. “You’re alright.”

You were. Your muscles, though, hadn’t caught up. Your thighs had that post release tremble, the one you couldn’t command away. Your belly kept fluttering in little afterpulses. Between your legs you were hot and slick and sensitive, pleasure still fizzing under the surface like it hadn’t decided to leave yet.

And they were all still there.

You were aware of them the way you’re aware of heat behind you. Soap, breathless and smug near your knees. Gaz, closer to your head now, arm along the pillow so you could lean if you needed. Ghost, solid at the side of the bed, one knee on the mattress so he could reach you without crowding.

Four men. Four sets of hands. Four different temperatures of want.

Your body knew it before your brain did: we’re not done.

Price’s hand slid down from your ribs to your hip, then lower, thumb brushing the still damp inside of your thigh. He hummed, quiet, pleased. “Good,” he said like he was noting it for the record. “Soft and wet.”

That should’ve been embarrassing. It wasn’t. Not with the way they were looking at you- like this was data, yes, but also like it was a gift you were like this for them.

Gaz tipped his head, watching your chest rise and fall. “She’s coming back,” he said, the way he might’ve said her vitals are up. “Look.”

You opened your eyes. The room swam into focus- concrete walls, rain on the window, four shadows leaning over you.

Soap grinned down at you, face flushed, mouth a little swollen. “So?” he said. “Better than Graves?”

You meant to snap at him. You really did. But the second your mouth opened, a thumb- Ghost’s, gloved and warm- smoothed over your cheek, and whatever retort you’d had melted.

“Don’t make her talk through it,” Ghost said, voice low. “She’s floatin’.”

You were. Your head felt light, your limbs felt heavy, and under all of it, your cunt still pulsed, slow and needy, because that first orgasm had taken the edge off but not the want. If anything, the want had gotten worse; looser, lazier, more give me more of that.

They saw it.

Price shifted, sitting on the edge of the bed so your back could rest against his thigh. The fabric of his pants was rough against your bare skin, but his palm was warm, moving in soothing circles over your belly. You let your head fall back against him without thinking.

“There we are,” he said voice like gravel. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

Comfortable was relative. Comfortable meant supported while we do more to you.

Soap crawled up again, this time on your left, bracing a hand beside your shoulder, his body radiating heat. Gaz mirrored him on the right, thigh pressed to your hip. Ghost stayed at your feet, big hands sliding up your calves, over your knees, pushing your legs apart again with maddening patience.

Your thighs quivered under his hands. He didn’t let them close.

“Look at that,” Soap said, and there was honest admiration in it. “Still shiverin’.”

“Sensitive,” Gaz agreed, eyes crinkling. “Makes it a fair fight.”

A fair fight. You almost laughed. Nothing about this was fair. It was four world class overachievers deciding one loud American didn’t get to be the gold standard in your head.

Ghost’s hands were firmer now, thumbs pressing into the tender spot where thigh met hip, easing you open inch by inch. You felt the cool air on you again. Felt your own wet, slick and warm against the inside of your thighs. Felt the ache start to build again, low and heavy, because even being held open like that sent a pulse of want through you.

He didn’t touch you right away. That was almost worse. He just kept you open and looked, head bent, breath brushing your inner thigh through the mask. His gaze flicked up to yours, unreadable.

“Still want more?” he asked.

You swallowed. Your throat felt dry. “Yes.”

Price’s hand on your belly stilled for a beat, then resumed, slower. You could practically hear the satisfaction in his silence.

“Good,” Ghost said. “Because we’re not lettin’ Graves win on a technicality.”

Then he touched you.

He dragged two knuckles through your slick and the sensation was so sharp after what Soap had just done to you that your hips tried to jerk away. Price’s arm across your middle kept you exactly where you were.

“Easy,” Price murmured, mouth close to your ear. “Breathe for me.”

You did. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Your body settled, but only in the loosest way. Every nerve from your navel down was on.

Ghost circled you first. Slow, deliberate, dragging wet over the most sensitive part of you in lazy, cruel little loops. It made everything there swell, throb, wake up. It made the ache bloom again, hotter, until you were whimpering into the air, panting from the heat of it.

Then, when you were looking at him, when he had your eyes, he slid two fingers into you.

You gasped. Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t hold it back.

It felt deep immediately. You were still soft and open from the orgasm and your body took him to the knuckle. You could feel your walls flutter around him, a helpless, greedy squeezing. You could feel just how wet you were, how easily he moved, how the motion made obscene, slick sounds between your thighs.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap breathed. “Listen to her.”

You heard it too. The wet. The way you caught on his fingers on the way out, then sucked him right back in. Your cheeks burned. Your body didn’t care. Your body wanted more.

Ghost set a rhythm- deep press in, slow pull out, lazy twist at the top that nudged right where you were still sensitive. Every stroke made your hips roll, made your breath catch, made moans spill out past your lips, made that warm, liquid feeling in your belly spread.

Price’s hand slid up to your breasts, fingers curling over the weight of them, thumb brushing your nipples. They were already sensitive and the touch made them tingle more. You arched into his palms without thinking and he made a pleased sound low in his chest.

“Responsive,” he said, mostly to himself. “Like that, do you?”

You managed a nod. Your voice was somewhere under the bed and you could only answer him with moans.

Gaz leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth. “You look wrecked already,” he murmured, smile against your skin. “That’s good. That’s how we like you.”

Ghost crooked his fingers inside you.

The pleasure changed. Went from warm and spreading to sharp and right fucking there. It sent sparks up your spine. Your thighs tried to close again and Gaz and Soap clamped their hands on the fat of your thighs, held you wide and open, while Ghost worked that spot over and over.

Your breathing went ragged. Your hips started to chase. Your toes curled in nothing. Your hand flew up, searching for something to hold, and landed on Soap’s forearm. You clamped down hard. He just laughed, turned his arm so you could get a better grip.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, eyes hungry on your face. “Hold on.”

You could feel yourself climbing again. Already. So soon. Your body didn’t care. It liked his fingers, liked the way they filled and dragged, liked the way Price’s thumbs kept circling your nipples in lazy counterpoint, liked the way Gaz’s mouth kept brushing your jaw, your cheek, grounding you.

“Still with us?” Price asked quietly.

“Yes,” you got out. Barely.

“Good girl.”

Your cunt clenched around Ghost’s fingers at that. Hard. Instinctive. You felt the heat in your face flare.

He felt it too. “Oh, you like that,” he said, tone gone velvet dark. “That what he said to you?” A pointed reference- Graves? Did he say it like that? It should’ve annoyed you but it didn’t. It just sent another pulse of want through you.

“Doesn’t matter,” Gaz said, amused, kissing your temple. “She’s gonna hear it better from us.”

You were too close to answer with a retort. The pressure was right there, sitting low, throbbing. Your thighs were fully trembling now, little uncontrollable shakes. Your belly was tight. Your breath came in hot pants. You knew if he just-

He did.

He added his thumb.

The extra point of pressure on your clit lit you up. It was too much and exactly enough. Your head tipped back on Price’s shoulder. A sound tore out of you, high and helpless.

“Let it happen,” Price said into your hair. “Let it.”

You did.

It rolled over you harder than the first, because your body was already primed, because you were being held this time- one hand at your throat, another at your breast, hips braced, legs kept open. You didn’t have to hold yourself up. You didn’t have to be quiet. You didn’t have to pretend you weren’t falling apart for them.

Your climax ripped through you in tight, fast pulses. Your walls clutched around Ghost’s fingers like you were trying to keep him. Slick flooded out around him, hot and embarrassing and perfect. Your thighs shook, heels digging into the mattress. You might’ve said someone’s name; you weren’t sure which.

They talked but it washed over you. What stuck was touch: Price’s hand on your sternum, grounding; Gaz’s thumb catching a tear you didn’t realize had slipped; Soap’s palm tightening on your knee like there you go, that’s our girl; Ghost’s fingers slowly, carefully easing out of you when the aftershocks got too sharp.

You sagged back, boneless.

Your cunt still fluttered, slow little squeezes in the afterglow. Your thighs glistened. Your skin hummed. You were warm all over, skin prickling, heart finally starting to settle.

Somewhere near your ear, Price chuckled. “That’s two,” he said, smug. “He give you two?”

You huffed a breath that was half laugh, half groan. “Oh my god.”

“She’s not arguing,” Soap crowed.

Gaz leaned his forehead to yours. “That’s because we’re winning,” he said, delighted.

Ghost wiped his fingers on the sheet, then rested his big hand over the inside of your thigh, thumb stroking once, slow. “We’re not done,” he said, and the promise in it made your already overworked nerves spark again.

You believed him. Every part of you, flushed, wet, and trembling, believed him.

Price shifted behind you.

“Alright,” he says, voice low, that command layer threaded through it. “My turn.”

You feel him move, feel the bed dip differently, feel his thighs open so there’s room for you. A hand slides under your knee and guides your leg over his until suddenly you’re straddling one of his legs, back against his chest, his arm a wide band across your front, holding you steady.

He’s warm everywhere you touch him. Solid. Bigger than you in all the places that matter for this. You can smell him, too, smoke, wool, the faint metallic smell of weapons oil. Familiar. Comforting. Infuriatingly hot right now.

You’re still soft from coming. Still wet. When he palms your hip and pulls you backward over him, you feel just how wet; you slide on yourself, on the inside of your thigh, on the sheet. You make a small, uncontrolled sound at your own slickness.

“Yeah,” he murmurs against the side of your face. “That’s what I thought.”

There’s movement below you: a belt unbuckling, the soft metal jingle, zipper down. You don’t have to look to know what he’s doing. Your body knows; your muscles get ready. Your hips go loose and expectant. Your cunt gives a slow, hungry little pulse like yes, now.

He fits his hand between your legs first, checking like he didn’t just watch Ghost make you flood. His fingers drag through you, gather you, stroke you. The touch is gentler than Ghost’s was, not searching for a spot, just confirming you’re ready for weight.

You are. God, you are.

“Still open,” he says, and you can hear the approval. “That’s good, sweetheart. Gonna make this easy.”

You don’t even realize you’ve tipped your head to his shoulder until his beard scrapes your temple. His mouth is right there, breath warm, words for you, just you. That alone makes your chest go hot.

“Hands on me,” he says. “Hold on.”

You do. One arm goes back around his neck, dragging his collar down so you’ve got something to grip. The other braces on his thigh. You can feel the muscle there, hard even relaxed.

The others have gone quiet.

They’re still close. You can feel Soap at the edge of the bed, practically vibrating. You can feel Gaz leaning in to see. You can feel Ghost standing sentry, watchful, but there’s a charged waiting in all of them now; the kind you get right before breaching.

Price angles his hips.

You feel his cock thick, hot, and heavy pressing against you from below. It’s blunt at first, just a nudge at your entrance, sliding in your wet. Your breath stops. Every muscle lower than your ribs goes tight, held in that exquisite almost there.

He hears it. “Breathe,” he reminds you softly. “Don’t lock up on me.”

You force air into your lungs. It shudders on the way out.

Then he pulls your hips down.

It’s a slow, controlled push. He’s too big and you’re too sensitive for him to just drive in, so he eases you over him, inch by steady inch. The stretch is immediate and deep. You feel it all the way up your spine. Your body parts around him because you’re open and slick and primed, but it still burns for a second and tells you you’re getting full.

“There’s it is,” Soap said somewhere off to the side, almost reverent. “Look at how she’s takin’ him.”

You felt it even with your eyes closed: three men leaning in, watching the way your body gave for Price. You were too busy feeling it to be shy.

Because once he got past that first thick resistance, your body just… went. The muscle ring eased, the wet did its job, and you sank. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the heat of him. You could feel the difference between the blunt, stretching first half and the deeper, thicker second half. You could feel your own slick being pushed up around his cock.

Your breath came out on a shaky, “Oh-”

“Good girl,” Price said in your ear, voice gone rough. His arm tightened around your middle to keep you from scrambling away from the intensity. “Knew you’d take me.”

That praise lit you up. Your cunt clenched around him hard. He groaned low in his throat, vibrating against your back where you felt it more than heard it.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz muttered, delighted. “She’s squeezin’ him already.”

“Course she is,” Soap said. “She’s still warm from before.”

Ghost didn’t say anything, but you heard the small, sharp inhale he always did when something impressed him.

Price held you there for a beat, fully seated, your ass on his thighs, your back to his chest, his cock buried in you to the hilt. It was a lot. Full, hot, so deep it nudged at places Ghost’s fingers hadn’t reached. It made your stomach feel heavy and your chest feel light. Your body wanted to move, to rock, to chase, but he didn’t let you. Not yet.

“Feel that?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, too breathless to speak.

“Tell me.”

“S’full,” you slurred, cheeks hot. It felt silly to say, but it was the truth. “You’re- full.”

“That’s right.” He sounded indecently pleased. “That’s the bit he couldn’t give you.”

Your back arched when he pulled almost all the way out.

The drag was obscene, long and slow, your walls gripping, reluctant to let him go. You could feel the way you narrowed again around the thickest part of him, the way your wet clung, glistening on his cock. At the top of the stroke he stayed right at your entrance, head just inside, letting you feel the emptiness he’d leave if he pulled out.

Your whole pelvis tipped, chasing him back.

Price laughed, low. “Oh, you liked that.”

Then he pushed back in, a little faster.

It rocked your whole body every thrust translated through his thighs and into your spine. Your breasts jostled; his forearm across your chest pushed them up. Your head fell back on his shoulder, mouth open.

He found his pace quickly, not jackhammering- he wasn’t showing off for the lads. He was demonstrating. Deep, confident strokes, bottoming out every time, giving you the full length so you couldn’t accuse him of holding back.

Every thrust pressed you down onto the mattress and up into his chest at the same time. Every thrust made your clit drag against the heel of his hand where it was braced on your hip. It stacked sensation- deep stretch inside, blunt friction outside- and your nerves lit right back up.

Your thighs tried to close and his big hand slid down and caught the inside of your knee, pushing it back open, letting the others see him inside you.

“Look at that,” Soap said, voice gone hoarse. “Fuckin’ hell, Cap.”

“She’s made for it,” Gaz said, softer. “Look at her.”

You were half gone already. Your breathing had gone high, breathy, those quick little pants that always came out of you when you were being taken instead of doing the taking. Your hands had locked on him, your cunt fluttering around him every time he bottomed out, that desperate, helpless squeezing.

He felt it. “There she goes,” he murmured. “She’s climbing again.”

You were. Faster than before. It hadn’t even been five minutes since Ghost worked you over and already your body was stringing itself tight again because now you were full, now you had weight, now you had rhythm. Your clit, still tender, zinged every time he drove you down. Your belly tightened. Your toes curled.

Price angled his hips a fraction and suddenly he was hitting a spot that made your vision blur.

You made a sound- high, keening, moaning.

“There?” he asked, voice tight.

“Yes- yes- don’t stop- please-”

He hit it again. Again. Held you down this time so you couldn’t wiggle off it. Your mouth dropped open. Heat flooded your face, your chest, your whole pelvis. Your legs shook against his hand.

“That’s the one,” Gaz said, almost delighted. “Right there.”

“Keep her there,” Ghost said. “Make it clear.”

He did.

You couldn’t run. You couldn’t even think of running. His arm was a bar across your chest; his hand was a clamp on your thigh; his thighs were solid under you. He just kept driving up, slow and merciless, right into that spot, each stroke punching a breathless sound out of you.

Your first and second orgasms had been waves. This one built like pressure. Tight, hard, insistent. Your cunt started to clamp in short, frantic squeezes. Your nails dug into his shoulder. Your head tipped back, baring your throat.

He bent and bit you there making you gasp.

That did it.

You broke around him, muscles locking and then spasming. Your walls gripped him so hard it dragged a groan out of his chest. Heat rushed down through you, out along your thighs, up through your spine. Your whole body shook. You might’ve said “Cap’in,” you weren’t sure.

He didn’t stop. He rode you through it, pace steady, letting your spasms milk him, letting you feel every inch of him inside you while you were at your most sensitive as he groaned and spilled deep into your cunt with a groan.

“That’s three,” Ghost said, satisfied. “He do three?”

You couldn’t answer. Your brain was white noise. All you could do was gasp and babble and hold on and feel.

Price finally slowed, then stilled, cock still deep, arm still locked around you. You were limp against him, boneless, chest heaving. Sweat was cooling on your stomach. Your thighs were a mess between wet and shaking and being forced open.

He kissed the side of your head. “Good,” he said, praise thick. “That’s my girl.”

Around you, the others moved.

You felt Soap climb onto the bed properly now, not just hovering. Felt Gaz shift closer to your knees. Felt Ghost come around the foot, big and quiet, watching you with that evaluating look.

“You want a turn?” Price asked, still inside you, not even pretending he’d pull out yet.

“Oh, absolutely,” Soap said, hungry. “She’s soft as fuck now.”

Gaz laughed. “You just want to see if you can top that.”

“Mate, I know I can top that.”

Ghost’s eyes flicked over you, taking in the flushed face, the trembling legs, the way you were still clenching around Price even as you came down. “She can take more,” he said.

You made a weak, protesting sound that wasn’t really a protest.

Price chuckled into your hair. “Hear that?” he said. “She wants it.”

Price kept you on him for a moment longer, big arm banded across your front, chest to your back, thighs snug under your ass. You were still pulsing around him in little, involuntary squeezes, and every one of them made his breath hitch warm against your ear.

“Well?” he asked the room, smug. “That feel like Berlin to you?”

Ghost shifted at the foot of the bed, mask tipped like he was taking notes. “So far,” he said, dry as bone, “that’s us: 3. Graves: fuck all.”

You managed a laugh, weak and breathy. “You’re all… ridiculous.”

“Competitive,” all four of them said at once.

Price finally eased you off him. You felt every inch of it; felt the drag, the last thick stretch, the way your body tried to hold him and then had to let go. You gasped softly at the loss, hips twitching. He steadied you with both hands, murmuring, “Easy, love,” as he guided you forward.

The second you were clear, Soap was there.

“C’mere, then,” he said, hands already on your waist, warm and eager. “My turn.”

Soap pulled you onto your hands and knees near the middle of the bed, the mattress complaining. You were loose limbed and shaky, so he did half the work himself, tucking your knees under you, keeping a palm between your shoulder blades so you didn’t fold.

“Oh, look at you,” he said, a low whistle in his voice when he got a full view. “Messy wee thing.”

You flushed hot. You were messy: your slick on your thighs, Price’s cum dripping out of your on the blanket, thighs still trembling. You would’ve dropped your head in your arms if Gaz hadn’t reached in and tipped your chin up.

“Don’t hide,” he cooed. “We wanna see you.”

Ghost made a little approving sound. “That’s the point.”

Soap looked over your shoulder. “So?” he challenged. “Cap do good?”

Price, still catching his own breath, wiped a hand over his beard. “She came,” he said, a little too pleased.

“Then I’ll make it four,” Soap said. “An’ then we can tell Graves to get fucked.”

“You did tell him that,” Gaz reminded him.

“Aye, but now I can tell him why.”

You felt Soap line up behind you, heat against the back of your thighs, chest to your back for a second as he reached down to guide his cock towards your entrance. His left hand stayed right in the small of your back, keeping you in position.

Soap pushed in.

He wasn’t as patient as Price- he was eager, and you felt that in the way he rolled his hips, in the way his hand tightened on you when he felt how easily you took him. You were wet enough, and already open; your body gave. You gasped- couldn’t not, after being so full already. Your arms shook. Gaz immediately slid closer on the bed and let you grip his wrist.

“Right there,” Soap breathed, voice gone hoarse. “Fuck. She’s soaked.”

“Price did the hard work,” Gaz said, but he was grinning, cupping your cheek with his free hand so you’d look at him. “How’s he feel, love?”

“S’ good,” you got out, words breaking on a breath. “He’s-”

“Better?” Soap said, smug, starting to move for real now.

You couldn’t answer right away because Soap fucked differently than Price. Price was heavy and deep and sure. Soap was energized. He rolled through his hips like he fought, like he danced, like he couldn’t keep still if you paid him. Every stroke had a little snap at the end, a little lift of your hips, a little grind that dragged over every sensitive place Price had already woken up.

Your arms almost gave. Your elbows dipped. Gaz caught you around the shoulders and pulled you up, settling you half against his chest so you weren’t bearing your whole weight. It changed the angle, your back curving, your hips tipping, and Soap groaned when he felt it.

“Oh, that’s better,” he said. “Fuck, that’s better.”

Price moved in behind him, one hand landing on Soap’s shoulder like, pace. “Don’t blow your load in five seconds, Sergeant.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain,” Soap said, but he slowed just enough to keep you from being overwhelmed.

Your body, though, was already there. Every thrust pressed slick heat up where you were still tender. Every time he bottomed, you felt that deep, aching fullness, your walls clinging to his cock. You could hear yourself wet, obscene, a steady rhythm under the creak of the bed. Your thighs started to shake again, traitorous.

“She’s goin’ again,” Soap said, awed, angling his hips, his dick pressing deeper and making you whine against Gaz’s throat.

“She’s not gonna last long with you showboatin’,” Price said.

“She doesn’t have to,” Gaz said, mouth at your ear. “That’s the point.”

Ghost had moved closer, right at the foot now, one knee on the mattress, watching you from the best angle. You could feel his eyes on where you were joined. You could feel the heat of him even not touching you.

“Look at that,” he said, voice gone low, almost hungry. “That’s four. She’s taken two cocks and she’s still asking for it.”

You were. Your hips were pushing back to meet Soap’s, small desperate motions. Your hand on Gaz’s wrist had gone from holding to clutching. Your breath came in high, sweet bursts.

Soap slid his hand around your front, over your belly, down.

“Johnny,” Price warned.

“Relax,” Soap said. “I’m helpin’ her.”

His fingers found your clit, already swollen and slick and went straight to steady, tight circles, timed with his thrusts. Your whole body jolted.

You made a noise that wasn’t words.

“There she is,” Gaz murmured, holding you upright. “There we go. Let it happen, pretty girl.”

Soap laughed, ragged. “Aye, let it- fuck- listen to her.”

You couldn’t hold it back. Your body was too ready, too worked, too wet. The combination- full inside, rubbed right there, held and watched and praised- ripped another climax out of you. This one was messy and loud, your muscles going tight-tight-loose, thighs shaking so hard Soap had to clamp his arm around your middle to keep you from dropping as he buried deep and came, flooding your sensitive cunt with his release.

“That’s four,” Ghost said immediately. “Graves: still nowhere.”

You dropped your forehead to Gaz’s shoulder, breath tearing in and out of you. He cupped the back of your head, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “Good girl,” he said. “So good. You with us?”

“Yeah,” you panted, tears sliding. “Yeah.”

“Need a minute?” Price asked, voice back to that command soft.

You thought about it. Your body was thrumming, muscles liquid, thighs sore in a good way, your cunt still fluttering around Soap where he’d slowed to a lazy grind to keep you from getting shocked. You could have taken a minute.

You didn’t want to.

“No,” you said, surprising yourself with how sure it came out. “Don’t… stop.”

You felt all of them react to that.

“Fuck, I love her,” Soap said, groaning, pulling out slow, another long, obscene drag that made your eyes roll. “Right. Trade.”

Gaz laughed, delighted. “My go.”

He was smoother about it.

While Soap eased out, Gaz was already shifting you, rolling you gently onto your back again, then tugging your hips toward him. His hands were warm, steady, different from the other two: less force, more coaxing. He bent, kissed you once, slow and deep, like a palate cleanser.

“How we doing?” he asked against your mouth.

“Fuzzy,” you murmured. “Good. Fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy’s good,” he said. “Means we’re doing it right.”

He pushed your knees up, opening you again, and glanced back at the others. “You lads want to see?” he asked, shameless. “Come round. She’s gorgeous like this.”

They did.

Price came to your left, hand braced by your head, beard shadowed, eyes heavy. Soap flopped to your right, still flushed, watching like he wanted to dive back in the second he got the nod. Ghost stayed at the foot of the bed, looming, mask down, eyes dark.

Gaz stroked you first, just fingers, slow up your slit, spreading your slick and Price’s and Soap’s cum along your cunt. “Still so wet,” he said, low. “God, you’re perfect.”

Then he pushed into you.

He was between Price’s deep and Soap’s eager. He sank in steady, watching your face, slowing when you gasped, pushing when you relaxed. Your body welcomed him, open and dripping and aching for it. Even so, the stretch made your breath stutter and your hands grab for whoever was closest.

Price gave you his, lacing his fingers in with yours. “Here,” he said, and you held on.

Gaz bottomed out and stayed. You could feel him everywhere, thick inside, pressing low, your walls hugging him after so much use. Your belly fluttered again.

“Fuck,” Soap whispered. “She’s still clenchin’.”

“Means we’re not done,” Gaz said, beginning to move.

His pace was cruel in its own way. Not the driving authority of Price or the showy roll of Soap, this was measured. Just fast enough to keep you on the high, just deep enough to hit where you were tender. He knew he didn’t have to prove he could make you come, Price and Soap had already done the heavy lifting. He wanted to prove he could keep you there.

He did. Within a minute you were right back on the ledge, breath short and hiccuping, thighs trembling, slick loud between you, hands switching from Price’s wrist to Soap’s forearm, back to Price’s shirt, sobbing and sniffling with each thrust. Your clit was throbbing, begging for touch.

Gaz gave it, of course. Thumb down, gentle circles, perfectly in time.

“Yeah,” he murmured when your mouth dropped open and your back bowed and lewd desperate sound fell past swollen lips. “There she is. Gimme another.”

“Another?” you gasped, half pleading, half hysterical laughing.

“You said Graves was ‘one of the best,’” he said, smiling through the words. “We’ve got to bury that score, love.”

You couldn’t even argue because you could feel it right there again, that tight, spiraling tension building from the inside out; because the others were watching you like they were cataloguing every twitch; because Price was murmuring, “C’mon, love,” and Soap was chanting, “There ya go, there ya go,” and Ghost was saying nothing but looked satisfied.

You shattered again.

It rolled over you like a breaking wave, less sharp than the last, but wide, everywhere, making your toes curl and your back arch and your fingers dig into whatever you were holding. Your cunt spasmed around Gaz in hot little pulses. He groaned, hands tightening on your thighs, but kept moving slow to draw it out until you were scrambling and wiggling and sobbing from the sheer pleasure of it.

It was the wild look in your eyes, the near frantic pleasure at being overstimulated, blubbering into the air as Gaz kept thrusting, prolonging your orgasm into too much, that broke him, pushing in deep and stilling with a groan as he added his cum to Price’s and Soap’s.

“That’s five,” Ghost said, finally sounding impressed.

You whimpered, overstimulated now, hips trying to twist away. Gaz caught it immediately and slowed, then stopped, still inside you but not moving. “Okay,” he said softly. “There we are. Breathe.”

You did, trembling all over now, thighs, stomach, even your arms. Sweat dripped on your neck. Your hair stuck to your cheek. You were aware of everything: the wet between your legs, the steady heat of a cock still buried in you, the weight of hands on your knees, your chest, your cheek.

Then there was Ghost.

“Shift,” he said quietly.

No one argued. Gaz eased out carefully making you whine- God, you felt that- and ghosted back. Price and Soap moved enough to give him room. You were boneless, pliant. You watched him take off his gloves, one finger at a time, setting them on the nightstand.

He came to the foot of the bed and took your ankles in his bare hands. His palms were hot, big enough to wrap nearly around. He slid you down toward him, closer to the edge. Your ass met the edge of the mattress, thighs spread over his forearms, knees kicked up, your back arched because there was nowhere else to go.

You were already wrecked.

Everything from your navel down felt wet, hot, loose. Skin clammy from sweat. Inner thighs slick where your own arousal had dried and then been replaced and then smeared again. Your muscles had that aftershock tremor- little twitches in your quads, belly fluttering, shoulders quaking when you tried to push up on your elbows.

He took one look at you and huffed behind the mask, low and satisfied. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s more like it.”

He wasn’t rushed, but he wasn’t delicate either. He hooked your right leg up over his shoulder; high, opening you farther than the others had and the stretch at the back of your thigh burned.

“Easy,” Price murmured from somewhere by your head, palming your shoulder. “He’s got you.”

Ghost caught your other knee and shoved it out with his hips, there was nowhere to put him. He took up the whole end of the bed, arms, shoulders, chest, all of it. You were small against him now, laid out, thighs spread over a frame that could pin three people if he wanted.

You felt his size before you felt him.

His shadow blocked the ceiling. His thigh brushed the mattress and the whole thing groaned. His hands spanned your hips like they were handles. When he bent a little, bracing one palm beside your ribs, the bed dipped like someone had dropped a sandbag.

“Want more?” he asked.

You nodded, breath already short.

“Good.”

He dragged his cock through you once and that alone nearly short circuited you.

Because you were soaked now, used and soft, and he was thick. Thicker than Price. Different shape than Soap. Longer than Gaz. He slid through your mess in a long, slow stroke, head bumping your clit, smearing heat everywhere. Your hips jumped like you’d been shocked.

“Oh-”

“Christ,” Gaz breathed, watching from beside your knee. “She’s still that wet?”

“Yeah,” Soap said, all wonder. “We did that.”

Ghost lined up.

You saw it only in a flash- cock big, flushed, heavy in his fist and then it was gone, pressed to your swollen cunt, right where you were open. You felt the blunt head nudge and everything in you locked, not from fear but from pure instinct: big, big, big.

“Breathe,” he said, like he’d been waiting for it. “Or it’ll hurt.”

You pulled air. Chest rising, shaking. Price’s hand slid up to your throat thumb under your chin to tip your face up so he could see your eyes.

“Right here,” he said. “With us.”

Ghost pushed.

There was zero give for the first second. You were open, but you were also swollen and sensitive, and he was a lot. The pressure was deep, powerful, like someone slowly forcing a fist into clay. Your mouth fell open in a silent oh, eyes going wide.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap said again, because apparently that was his phrase tonight. “Look at her-”

“Johnny,” Price warned, but his voice was tight too.

Ghost didn’t slam. He didn’t have to. He just leaned his weight in, inch by relentless inch, and let your own wet do the rest. Your body had to yield. And that was the moment your brain just… flickered.

Because it was too much.

Stretch, deep in your pelvis. Burn, not sharp but huge. Fullness that pushed on places the others hadn’t. Your back arched hard, heels digging into his shoulders, trying to find leverage that didn’t exist.

“Si-” you gasped, name torn out of you.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, pleased. “Say it.”

He was halfway in and you already felt full. Crowded. Your cunt squeezed around him in shocked little spasms, trying to pull him in and push him out at the same time.

“Fuck,” Gaz said, softer. “She’s clamping down on him.”

“’Course she is,” Price said, hand still at your throat, thumb rubbing your jaw. “He’s wreckin’ her.”

He was. He absolutely was.

Ghost gave you maybe two seconds to adjust, then he pushed the rest of the way.

It knocked sound out of you. A strangled, punched out cry that wasn’t even a word. Your vision went hot white at the edges. Your hands flew out, grabbing for anything- blanket, shirt, wrist. Soap shoved his forearm under your palm on reflex so you had something solid to claw at.

“Got you,” he said, eyes wide. “S’okay, s’okay.”

Your body took Ghost’s cock, because it had no choice, because you were so wet he could’ve slid forever, because the three men before him had already made you pliant. But where Price and Soap and Gaz had felt like they fit, Ghost felt like he filled. Like there was nowhere he wasn’t.

He bottomed out and held.

You could feel him in your belly- cock heavy, hot pressure low and deep. You could feel him nudging at your cervix, you could feel your own slick squeezed around him, you could feel your pulse beating against the underside of him.

Your brain went white.

Not “I can’t think of a comeback.” Not “wow, this is good.” Actual blank space. Everything narrowed to he’s inside me, he’s so big, I can’t- I can’t- oh god-

You stared up at the ceiling, mouth open, chest stuttering. Sound was distant- men talking, praising, swearing- but it was like it was happening down the hall. The only thing close was his weight and the bed and the way your body was struggling to remember how to relax around him.

“Breathe,” Price said again, firmer. “C’mon, love. In. Out.”

You dragged air. It trembled.

Ghost’s big hand slid down your thigh, over your knee, to the underside of it. He hitched your leg higher over his shoulder, angle changing, hips dipping so he wasn’t ramming your cervix, just pressing deep.

“Good girl,” he said then, and you felt the words more than heard them. “Took me. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your eyes rolled a little. Your fingers dug into Soap’s arm; he hissed and let you.

“Look at her,” Soap said, voice gone soft with awe. “She’s floatin’.”

Gaz laughed under his breath, gentle. “She’s gone.”

Ghost started to move, a slow, dragging pull, to the point where you could feel every ridge of him, your own walls clinging desperately, and then a steady, heavy drive back in that rocked your whole body. The mattress creaked. Your breasts bounced. Your mouth kept making these little punched out sounds you couldn’t control.

The best and worst part was the weight. Every time he came down, his hips met the backs of your thighs with a solid, meaty thock, and because he had your legs hooked over his shoulders, it pinned your pelvis to where he wanted you. You couldn’t lift to meet him. You couldn’t squirm away. You could only take that deep, filling stroke.

Your eyes unfocused.

Your mouth went wet and open.

Your thoughts- what was left of them- ran in circles: big, deep, can’t, yes, yes, yes-

“Yeah,” Soap murmured, almost proud. “That’s the one, Ghost. That’s the one that’s gonna wipe Graves right out of her head.”

Ghost’s eyes flicked up at him, dark and amused. “That the brief?”

“Absolutely the brief,” Gaz said. “Mission critical.”

“Then hold her,” Ghost said. “She’s slippin’.”

Price’s arm came under your shoulders and lifted you partway so you weren’t flat, so you had him to lean on. Your head flopped to the side against his chest, lips parted. He cupped your jaw, thumb on your cheek, steady.

“Come back,” he said quietly. “Want you to feel him.”

“I-” you managed, voice thin. “I feel him.”

“Oh, I know you do.”

Ghost changed the angle again, just a small shift of his knee, a deeper drive of his hips and that was it. That was the key. Suddenly he was stroking over that spot inside you the others had found, but from lower, heavier, fuller, and your whole body spasmed.

“Oh- oh, fuck-“

“There she is,” Gaz breathed. “There it is.”

Your climax came up like a sucker punch.

No build. No slow climb. Just here. Your cunt clenched around him so hard it wrung a low, filthy sound out of Ghost. Your back bowed against Price’s arm. Your legs tried to close around his shoulders and couldn’t, he was too broad, he kept you open, made you take every pulse of it.

It was the kind of orgasm that blanks a mind.

Sound dropped out. Vision whited at the edges. Your ears filled with rushing. Your body just contracted around him over and over, pulsing, milking, trying to drag him even deeper. Hot slick spilled around him, down over your ass, onto the sheet.

“Fuckin’ look at that,” Soap said, half-laugh, half-disbelieving. “She’s squeezin’ the life outta him.”

Ghost’s jaw flexed. He held your hips down, taking it. “That,” he said, voice gone rough, “is better than Graves.”

Price laughed, low and triumphant, hand stroking your cheek as you rode it out. “There we are,” he said. “That’s the record.”

You could only whimper, body shaking, cunt still fluttering around the thick length still buried in you. You weren’t thinking about Berlin. You weren’t thinking about Graves. You weren’t even thinking words. You were just full, and held, and done.

Everything cut to soft static; weightless, cotton wrapped nowhere. Sound went muffled, like you’d ducked under warm water. Your body was still humming on some deep, molten frequency, but your mind had…let go. Like someone had hit the breaker.

You felt big hands moving you, but from far away.

Your leg was lifted- careful, careful, don’t cramp her- then lowered. Cool air on your thighs for a second, then something warm pressing in. You twitched, a tiny reflex, and a palm smoothed down your hip right away.

“Shhh. S’alright.”

You heard it as vibration, not words.

Your body knew them, though. Knew the cadence of their voices, the way each one sat in your bones. Even floaty as you were, they were still buzzing in your nervous system. Nobody else could’ve touched you right then.

You were rolled, whining because you were sore, onto something broad and warm. A chest. Hair rough under your cheek. Beard bristle against your temple. Arms closing around you, not tight, just there. A heartbeat under your ear, deep and steady. You made a small noise, half sigh, half childlike hum, and melted.

“There we are,” Price murmured, and even though you barely heard it, your neck relaxed. “That’s it. Got you.”

Everything else turned into hands and heat.

Someone at your legs, wiping between your thighs in slow, respectful strokes. He paused every time you flinched and whimpered, waited, then kept going. Someone else tugging the sheet away and swapping it for a cleaner blanket. Someone tucked the blanket under you so you stayed warm. Someone lifting your limp hand and putting a bottle in it, then guiding it to your mouth.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Ghost said, low and uncompromising. “Need water.”

The rim tapped your lip; you didn’t open.

A thumb stroked your jaw, firmer now. “Open.”

Your mouth parted on reflex. Cool water slid in, shocking compared to all the heat. You swallowed slow, almost lazily. It dribbled from the corner of your mouth; someone thumbed it away.

“She’s barely there,” Gaz said, voice soft with that pleased note medics get when a patient is post op and not distressed. “Look at her eyes.”

“She’s lookin’ right through you,” Soap said, proud. “We sent her to fuckin’ space.”

You weren’t following the words, but you were following the touch. Every time you slipped a bit deeper- down, down- someone reeled you back just enough. A hand over your sternum. Fingers in your hair. A palm cupping the back of your neck. You didn’t have to do anything. They were moving you like a sleepy doll.

Your arms wouldn’t work. Your legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Your whole pelvis was one slow, warm ache, like the echo of being filled was still there even though you felt…empty? Clean? You couldn’t tell. Everything was soft.

“…never seen her this quiet…”

“…you almost did break her…”

“…well she asked for it…”

“…Graves couldn’t do that…”

You drifted lower, your nervous system had finally decided, oh, we don’t have to do anything now. We can just exist. Your breathing slowed. Your mouth stayed parted. Your eyes blinked slow and out of sync.

“Christ, look at her eyelashes,” Soap repeated, grinning. “She’s fuckin’ gone.”

Price huffed a laugh, hand big and slow on your back. “Yeah. She’s ours now.”

Ghost was the only one still a touch clinical. “She’s pale?”

“Flushed,” Gaz said, checking your cheek with his knuckles. “Warm. She’s good.”

“Heart?”

“Steady. Bit fast.”

“Yeah, well.” Soap’s grin turned sharp. “We were spectacular.”

That actually tugged a weak breath of a laugh out of you, more an exhale with a shape. Four heads turned toward you instantly, like you were a radio that had just crackled.

“There she is,” Price said, pleased. “Back with us?”

You were and you weren’t.

You could hear them better, now that you’d taken water and your brain had floated a smidge closer to shore. But your body was still out in the warm sea, rocking. Every sound was filtered through cotton. Every touch was in slow motion. You had no urge to move. No urge to talk.

You were aware mostly of warmth. Warm arm under your shoulders. Warm thigh under your hip. Warm palm at your nape. Warm blanket over your legs. Warm, satisfied men around you like a wall.

“Alright,” Soap said, mischief back, because of course he would ruin the soft moment. “Moment of truth, then.”

“Johnny,” Gaz said in warning.

“What? We have to know.”

“We already know,” Ghost said, perfectly calm. “Look at her. She can’t remember her own name.”

“Yeah but I want t’hear it.”

“Ask her later,” Price said. “She’s milk-brained.”

Milk-brained. That made you want to laugh again. It came out a tiny smile against his shirt.

Soap saw it and crowed. “See? She’s not dead.”

“Fine,” Price sighed, indulgent, rubbing your shoulder. “One question. Then you let her sleep.”

“Deal.” Soap leaned over you, upside down in your vision, eyes bright, hair a mess. “Hey. Sweetheart.”

Your eyes slitted open. Barely.

“You with us?”

A slow blink. “Mhm.”

“Gonna ask you a very important thing, yeah?”

Another blink. You were so tired. But his tone was playful and your body trusted him, so you let the sound out: “Mm?”

“How,” Soap said, sounding like he could burst from smugness, “do we compare to Graves?”

The name hit your fogged brain like a stone dropped in deep water- plop… sink… gone.

Your brows knitted faintly. Your mouth worked. You genuinely searched and came up empty. Not a coy empty. Not a “I’ll say this to boost your ego” empty. A real, floaty, no file found empty.

“Who…?” you mumbled, voice slurry, eyes already sliding closed again.

The room erupted.

“Fuckin’ yes,” Soap yelled, triumphant.

“Told you,” Ghost said, not loud but so satisfied it rang.

“God, that’s beautiful,” Gaz said, laughing, head tipped back.

Price’s chest shook under your cheek. “That,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hair, “is what I wanted.”

You were already gone again, body boneless in their hands, drifting on their voices like sleep:

“…write that down…”

“…next time he shows up I’m tellin’ him…”

“…can’t tell him, we’ll start a war…”

“…worth it…”

Competitive fucking bastards.