Bambi and Tequila's house of madness

For someone with the callsign ‘Soap’, Johnny had a bit of a reputation for being a hot mess of a man. Ghost didn’t like to call him a ‘nasty Scottish mutt’ for nothing.

Sex with Soap was downright filthy. If someone didn’t end up bleeding or covered in some form of bodily fluid, it was considered a ‘vanilla’ session. One particularly memorable time, he ended up in medical with a shallow chunk missing from his bicep(his own fault, really, he shouldn’t have dared you to bite him after edging you until your head was spinning).

This time, it was like he had something to prove, fresh off a mission with his blood singing hot and wicked in his veins. Your sheets were ruined, no doubt about that after the third(fourth?) time he made you cum on his face.

“Aw, ye missed me.” He grinned up at you before dipping his head to press a tender kiss to the inside of your thigh that was enough to make your trembling legs jerk. He chuckled, low and sinful, before prowling up your body to run his tongue up the pulse in your throat. “Dinnae worry, missed this too.”

If death came for you while John MacTavish had you trapped under him, somehow, you’d probably be alright with it.

He was drooling, or maybe that was just your cum still smeared across his lips. It didn’t matter either way when he slotted his mouth over yours and began rutting his hips against the plush softness of your thigh, his cock drooling pearly precum across your skin with every needy buck of his hips.

“Steamin’ Jesus.” He groaned, dropping his head against your shoulder as he continued rutting into you. “Fuckin’ close already, shit.”

Of course he was close already, he’d been humping the mattress the entire time he was between your legs and, by the size of the sticky puddle he’d left behind, he’d been having just as much fun as you had. Maybe more.

Time was a fuzzy thing when he was draped over you panting like an animal, maybe it was hours until his hips stuttered and he came, maybe it was just minutes. Either way, he didn’t stop rolling his hips, whining like a beat dog as he kept rutting against your skin like you weren’t squirming under him in a desperate attempt to either seat him inside of you or to escape the maddening feeling of too much and not enough all at once.

“Johnny-” His name came out high-pitched and strangled, your entire world narrowed down to him and the burning ache where you wanted him most.

He shushed your whimpers with enough sweetness it made you want to sink your teeth into him, murmuring as he finally hiked your legs up so he could slide into you. He barely got the first inch inside you before his head rolled back with a groan, his brow furrowing as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Fuck me, that’s it.” He dropped his forehead against your collarbone, holding very still as he tried to steady his ragged breathing and calm his racing heart. “Always take it so well.”

He offered a rough chuckle at your responding mewl, slowly rocking his hips just enough to rub the head of his cock against the spot that made you see stars.

Some days Jack went from the front door to the shower to the bed and was snoring before his head even hit the pillow. This was not one of those days.

The draw back of dating a man that worked night shifts in the ER was that he got home about the same time you needed to wake up for work. He managed to make himself into a rather pleasant alarm clock, pressing to your back and rubbing a calloused hand up your side until you blinked awake just to see his tired grin as he slid his hand lower.

He didn’t have the energy for anything more than the slow roll of his hips against yours, his pace languid and unhurried as he kept an arm banded around your waist and his nose tucked into the crook of your neck. Slow wasn’t usually his MO, but his back was aching too bad for anything more vigorous and he really just wanted one quick round before he knocked out for the night.

“Pretty like this.” He mumbled as he pressed gentle, affectionate kisses to your shoulder. Leave it to Jack Abbot to find bedhead and bleary eyes attractive. “And warm.”

At your answering sound, something that was a cross between a moan and a yawn, he chuckled and gave another roll of his hips.

“Could always call in.” He kissed up your neck to the hinge of your jaw, still rocking his hips in that steady, maddening pace. “Stay here with me.”

“Gotta work.” You grumbled in response because no matter how tempting that offer sounded(and it was like having the forbidden fruit pressed into your palm), you did have to actually show up to work if you wanted a paycheck.

He groaned in false exasperation and dropped his forehead against the back of your shoulder as he shifted his hips, the new angle hitting a spot that drew a choked gasp from your throat.

“There it is.” It was downright sinful how smug he could sound when he was dead tired, his voice rough and low as he murmured against your skin. “Stay. I’ll write you a doctor’s note.”

Christ, he could have asked for your left kidney and the answer would probably have been the same strangled whine that clawed out of your chest when he targeted that same spot again.

“Can’t, I gotta- oh, fuck.” Any coherent argument you might have offered went flying right out of your head the moment his free hand slid between your legs. Matter of fact, your brain might have just melted a little bit.

“C’mon.” He grinned against your skin and rocked his hips in time with the movements of his hand, his other arm still wrapped around your waist. “Play hooky. We can stay in bed.”

You couldn’t get out more than another strangled “can’t” before you were cumming with a breathy gasp. He followed soon after with a grunt, trailing kisses along your shoulder and the side of your neck while he came down.

“You’re still going in, aren’t you?” He asked when you started squirming away with a muttered curse when you saw the time.

“Gotta make money somehow, babe.” You replied and he dropped his head against the pillow with a sigh.

Jake Seresin has always been the golden boy, the son of a southern baptist preacher, held straight A’s and won two back to back football championships in high school. Then, as soon as he graduated he joined the navy, passed basic training with flying colors, no reprimands,no broken rules, never once called into a superior officer’s office for less than praise. He was perfect. Then, in walked Bradley Bradshaw and his stupid fucking mustache.

If you ask Jake about the first time he saw Bradley, he would tell you that all he felt was hatred. But in reality? It was the first time Jake ever broke form during a push up, his whole body flushed from the tips of his ears to the middle of his chest, and he definitely got off thinking about Bradley later that night. So when not even three months later they ended up falling into bed together after a dogfight, Jake can't make himself be upset about the fact that he is breaking the fraternization policies, can't even be upset that he was raised to believe that loving another man was wrong. 

And it only devolved from there. The golden boy persona became Hangman, and Jake finally did what he wanted to, not what the rules told him he had to. So on the base and in the air, Jake was still perfect. But with Bradley, he was just him. He ignored the fraternization policies, he let Bradely fuck him into any surface he chose, he ate what he wanted, and for an aviator, he cursed like a sailor. Jake was finally Jake. Not the preacher’s kid, not the football star, not the perfect pilot. He was Jake, he was Bradley’s.

And Bradley took advantage of that fact at every opportunity. Jake was his, and he was gonna prove it every chance he got. Even when, eight years after they met, six years after their wedding, they flew home for Christmas with Jake’s family. He fucked Jake in his childhood bed, the bathroom, ate him out on the couch while his parents were out. Everywhere he could get his hands on Jake, he did. And then, Jake’s dad asked them to set up candles for the Christmas service.

Jake should have known, should have felt the way Bradley was looking at him the whole drive to the church. They’re the only ones in the building, and no one is supposed to be there for a few hours. So when Jake is bent over, grabbing candles from a bin, Bradley slides up behind him, laying his palms on Jake’s hips. Jake jumps at the feeling, and gasps as Bradley presses his hips forward letting Jake feel how hard he is in his jeans. 

“Really Bradley, here?” Jake asks, but he makes no move to pull away. In fact, he pushes back just enough into Bradley’s hips to let him know that he's okay with this, that as much as he may complain, he wants it. 

“Yeah baby, wanna fuck you over the altar.” Bradley rocks forward as Jake stands up further, already a little desperate at the thought of it all. So as soon as Jake tips his head back onto Bradley’s shoulder, he reaches forwards to palm at him, feeling how much Jake likes the thought as well. They know that really, anyone could walk in at any time, so they’ve gotta be quick, but with the way they are both already keyed up, that won't be a problem.

“It’s the Lord’s Table, not an altar, Bradshaw.” Jake bites out, turning to press his lips to Bradley’s and pulling them until the back of his hips press into the table. Bradley gets his hands up under Jake’s thighs and lifts him until he is sitting on the altar, and he drops to his knees in front of him. 

“Don’t care what it's called, I'm way more concerned about worshiping you on it.” Bradley murmurs as he pulls Jake’s pants off mouthing at his thighs. “Gonna take my fucking time with you. Worship you the way only I can. Show you how fucking perfect you are baby.”

Jake gasps at the feeling of Bradley's lips ghosting over his things, and moans when his teeth clamp down hard enough to leave marks. But as soon as Bradley pulls his teeth back he laves his tongue over the mark to soothe it. He works his way up Jake’s left thigh, leaving bites and hickeys as he goes. Jake can’t even form words at this point, is just whining from his perch on the altar. When Bradley finally puts his mouth on Jake’s cock, he throws his head back and moans, low and reverberating through the room.

“Jesus.” Jake whines, and Bradley pulls back long enough to smirk and murmur “Pretty sure I’m the one worshiping you here.” He spits in his hand and starts working Jake over, keeping his mouth free as absolutely filthy words start to pour out.

“This is right where you belong, isn't it? Right on a goddamn altar for me. Above me, lit by these stained glass windows. God, never seen anything better.” He moves his hand faster, and can hear how close Jake is getting at just the words and touch. “Want you to come in my mouth, like its fucking communion. You’re my religion Jake. You're all I will ever need, allI will ever fucking want.”

Jake tips his head forward to look at Bradley, on his knees in front of the altar, mouth almost pressed to Jake's tip, ready and waiting to swallow his come. Jake has kneeled in that exact spot many times for prayers, and now watching as Bradley claims Jake as his religion, he can't hold back. His hips thrust forward, and Bradley opens his mouth to take him in, swallowing everything he can when Jake’s cock pulses as he comes. He holds Jake in his mouth through the aftershocks, and smiles widely when he pulls back. “Amen, baby.” he murmurs, voice rough.

Jake is breathing heavily, and he winds his hands into Bradley's hair to pull him to his feet and into a slow kiss. “I love you. So much.” He murmurs into Bradley’s mouth. 

Jake has an oral fixation. It’s the first thing most people notice, the toothpicks, pen caps, straws. Whatever he could get his mouth or teeth on he’d keep in his mouth till it was destroyed. Bradley was no exception.

The day started out like any other of their month-long leave: a slow morning, a few rounds of sleepy sex, breakfast and coffee,  painting rooms in their new house, plans for dinner and a movie in the living room. But it's only noon and Jake is restless. He's supposed to be painting the trim, the only one between the two of them that can focus long enough to do a good job. Instead, he's chewing on the end of his paintbrush and staring straight at Bradley, every muscle tense, toes wiggling restlessly in his socks. He tries to focus, he really does, but Bradley is shirtless, his muscles rippling as he paints the walls, so Jake drops his brush and moves towards him, wrapping his arms around Bradley’s waist. 

“Hey darlin’.” Jake mutters softly into Bradley’s shoulder, his accent thicker in a way that Bradley knows screams want. Bradley jumps at the sudden touch and the words, but he sets his paint roller down and turns in Jake’s arms to face him.

“Hey baby,” Bradley mutters back, dropping a soft kiss to Jake’s hair. “Why’re you so tense?” He lets his hands wander over Jake’s shoulders and back, trying to soothe him. 

In lieu of a response, Jake presses his lips to Bradley’s neck, biting marks that are definitely against regulation, but are always present when they have time off. His mouth moves slowly over the tanned, sensitive skin, like he just needs something, anything in his mouth right now. Bradley’s breath hitches, but he doesnt pull back, just lets Jake mouth at him like he has nowhere else he would rather be, and he doesn't. But after a few minutes, when Jake hasn’t settled, Bradley knows what Jake is looking for.

“C’mon baby, let’s head to the couch, I’ll give you what you need.” Bradley’s voice comes out low and a little breathless, and Jake whines at having to pull back, his teeth toying with his lip the entire walk to the living room, but as soon as they make it to the couch Jake drops to his knees in between Bradley’s thighs. Bradley tugged his shorts off before sitting down, naked as he spreads his thighs to make room for Jake’s broad shoulders. 

Jake starts mouthing at Bradley's thighs first, not to tease, just to taste as much of Bradley as he can. But intention doesn’t matter as Bradleys breath speeds up, his hips rocking forward. His hand moves to grip Jake’s hair, tugging until his mouth is finally on Bradley’s cock, and he gets to work immediately. They’ve been together for years, Jake knows how to make it last, but he also knows exactly what gets Bradley off as quick as possible, and from the way his tongue runs right under Bradley’s tip, that's the goal right now. Quick.

Bradley’s hands tighten in Jake's hair, pulling him down until his nose is buried in Bradley’s skin, until all Jake can taste, hear, or feel is Bradley. Jake breathes through his nose, moving his tongue as much as he can while deepthroating his husband’s cock. It’s barely five minutes before Bradley is pushing his hips forward, thighs shaking on either side of Jake’s shoulders. Normally that would have settled Jake, would have allowed him to release the tension in his shoulders, but it didn't. So, Jake doesn't pull back, not as Bradley tugs at his hair, not as he starts whining at the overstimulation. Jake just presses his hands into Bradley’s thighs, holding him to the couch as he takes control back, working his head up and down, lips already swollen and spit-slicked.

“C’mon baby. Gimme a minute, least let me catch my breath.” Bradley whines, voice breathless and desperate. But he knows that unless he says the word ‘stop’ Jake will keep going until he is done, until he finally feels like he’s back in his own skin. And he can see how bad Jake needs this, so he stills his hips, grips the couch cushion and lets Jake take what he needs. 

And isn't that something, Jake really should be considered the giver here, hasn't even thought about touching himself while Bradley is already nearing his second orgasm of the hour. But Bradley knows exactly how in control Jake is of the situation, knows that he is the one that wants this, that needs this. Bradley is simply along for the ride, something for Jake to keep in his mouth to satiate the oral fixation, something for Jake to mouth at until he is as destroyed as the toothpicks he gnaws on. And if this is how it happens, Bradley would gladly let Jake destroy him every day for the rest of their lives. Bradley’s second orgasm builds fast, the constant stimulation not giving his nerves any time to settle. Every breath is a punched out whine, a desperate, soft noise that only spurs Jake on further. 

“Please, please baby. Close, feels so good. Love your fucking mouth. Wanna come down your throat again, please.” It’s barely coherent as it falls from Bradley’s lips, little more than a string of words as Jake moves his mouth as far as he can and swallows around the head of Bradley's cock. His orgasm hits hard and fast, his chest having every breath. Jake keeps working him as he comes, letting him ride out the aftershocks before pulling back just enough to whisper. 

“One more, gonna give me one more, darlin’.” Then his mouth is back on Bradley, not enveloping him, just mouthing at the shaft as Bradley shakes apart above him. One hand comes up to grab at Bradley’s balls, rolling them in his hand as all the spit that has dripped from Jake’s mouth eases the friction. 

“Can’t, can’t, Jake please, can’t. Oh fuck. Please, Please.”Bradley is past coherent sentences at this point, just whining and shaking his head as he begs. But Jake just shakes his head and keeps going, rubbing his free hand up and down the meat of Bradley’s thigh reassuringly as he doubles his efforts. Bradley whines high in his throat as every muscle in his body tenses and he comes for the fifth time since he woke up. 

As Jake feels the tension bleed out of Bradley after the last orgasm, it's like it pulls the tension from his shoulders too. He finally slumps between Bradley’s thighs, but his mouth never leaves his skin, moving to mouth at whatever is available. As Bradley comes down, he sees Jake curled between his legs sucking and biting marks into the meat of his thighs.

Simon Riley was not a good man.

He’d made peace with that. He’d had to make peace with it sometime between carving men open and being carved open himself. All the good men in his line of work ended up dead. Or worse.

So he was unapologetic and rude. Harsh. Cold. Distant. He was Ghost, the monster carved from snapping bones and gravedirt and the screams of dying men. Teeth always bared, hackles always raised, ready to lunge for the nearest throat at any moment.

Every once in a while, the creature he kept caged in his ribs would fixate, latch on to someone like a dog hunkered snarling over a prized bone. Price. Soap. Gaz. All of them. What he decided was his, was his.

So when he’d gone to Price inquiring about the new pretty thing that had caught his attention with that all too familiar look in his eyes, Price(the only man who could really give Ghost orders) knew that it was a fight he’d already lost. And when his captain gave him the green light, Ghost went hunting.

Sweet and good and all too easy to ruin. At least, that’s what he’d thought the first time he’d had them in his bed with their soft underbelly exposed to his snapping jaws and greedy hands, the pitch of their voice climbing with every vicious thing he did to them. All that sweetness split open on his cock like flesh parting beneath a knife, warm and wet and yielding. The way they squirmed when he gripped just hard enough for skin to go purple beneath his fingers. The way they were always chasing more even when tears slid down their face.

None of that was as exciting as when he discovered they had teeth of their own.

The best word for it was 'messy,' but 'desperate' and ‘brutal’ also came to mind. One of their legs was slung high over his hip, their nose tucked into the hollow of his throat as his grip dimpled the fat of their thigh and his other hand cradled the back of their head. They were far past words or coherent thoughts, puffy and sore and already so full of him from earlier in the night that the only thing they could do was dig their nails even deeper into his shoulders and weakly buck their hips up into his.

“So fuckin’ fragile.” He grunted as he ran his nose from the crook of their shoulder and up the side of their neck, just as mean with his cockhead grinding deep inside of them as he was when he spat hellfire at them over comms. “Bloody wonder you’re not dead yet.”

The only response they could muster was a pitiful whine against his shoulder, clawing at his back more out of desperation than any sort of revenge. His fingers tangled in their hair, tugging their head to the side just enough for him to press his masked face into their throat and huff in a deep breath of sweat-slicked skin.

“Could fuckin’ do it now.” He murmured as he drove his hips into them relentlessly and lapped at their fluttering pulse through his balaclava. “With my cum still drippin’ out of you an’ everything. Jus’ cause you’d let me.”

Their hips gave another weak buck at his words, grinding into his pelvis just enough to make them whimper. He chuckled smugly and bumped their jaw with his nose as he continued mouthing at their throat through the fabric of his balaclava.

“Yeah, you’d fuckin’ let me.” His grip on their thigh shifted to hike their leg higher on his hip, making it easier for them to get friction where they needed it most. He always took good care of his things, after all. “Let me cut you up, prove I own you.”

Their head lolled against his shoulder, the grinding of their hips growing more desperate while his thrusts punched breathy, strangled gasps out of their throat.

“Put my initials righ’ here.” He squeezed their thigh hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises as his pace started to stutter. “Carve ‘em right in, nice and big.”

That did it. The threat(promise? Either way, they enjoyed it) of being branded was enough for them to cum with what would have been a shriek if they hadn’t buried their teeth in the meat of his shoulder deep enough to taste blood.

And it was never too late for a man to discover new things about himself because the sting of their nails raking down his back combined with the sharp, startling pain of his skin splitting under their teeth sent his hips slamming into theirs with a grunt as he filled them yet again.

When he returned from the bathroom with a wet rag(after a rather short crisis where he stared into the mirror and questioned everything he knew about himself), they were gone. They’d run away back to their own quarters with their proverbial tail tucked between their legs and the knowledge that they had just royally fucked up.

Or so they thought. Because, three weeks later, Ghost was sporting a brand new tattoo in the meaty curve where his neck met his shoulder. A brand new tattoo that just happened to be their bitemark permanently inked into his skin and peeking out from under the edge of his balaclava. A brand new tattoo that he pushed them into a supply closet just to show off before crowding them against the wall so he could yank their pants down to their ankles and drop to his knees in front of them.

“Let me make good on my promise, yeah?” His eyes glinted with the smirk that curved across his lips beneath his mask as he produced a rather wicked-looking knife and braced his other arm against their hips to pin them back against the wall. “Hold still for me, wouldn’t want to nick anythin’ important.”

Because what he decided was his, was his.

Spring break at the X-mansion. It was sunny and warm, the grounds were blooming, the birds were singing, and almost all the students had fucked off for a whole week. Truly, the most wonderful time of year, Christmas be damned. At least, it was that way for the mansion’s two resident feral degenerates who finally had the time(and freedom) to indulge their wilder sides.

The game was simple. Don’t get caught. The setting? The woods surrounding the mansion’s campus. The prize? Their animal urges finally satiated, one way or another.

Even as competitive as she was, she always let him win. Just not without one hell of a fight. What was violence to two mutants who healed instantly if it wasn’t foreplay?

She could feel her ribs cracking under his weight as he pinned her with the full weight of his body, the bones healing in seconds as she twisted and bit down on his bicep hard enough to taste the copper tang of his blood.

“Goddammit.” Logan never gave up that easily, growling as he pressed his hips further against her ass and grabbed for her wrists.

“Come on, Logan.” She whined dramatically and slammed her head back into his jaw hard enough to fracture her skull and leave a stinging ache in his jaw.

“Stop playing.” He snarled, his nose pressed behind her ear as he finally pinned her wrists on either side of her head and ground down into her. “And settle down.”

She snarled back wordlessly and snapped at him again, lifting her hips into his as she felt the familiar tingling warmth of her skull knitting itself back together.

“Hold the hell still.” He buried his teeth in the back of her neck like an animal scruffing its young and she went pliant beneath him with a breathy gasp. He grinned triumphantly, his teeth still digging into her skin as he released one of her wrists so he could unbuckle his belt and shove down his jeans.

He grew impatient when it came to her pants, just extended his claws and shredded a hole in the fabric with one hard tug. She yelped in response, her hips jerking when the adamantium carved into the tender skin of her inner thigh. The wound sang with pain for just long enough to make her breath stutter, her nicked femoral artery pouring blood before the skin closed without so much as a scar.

“Bastard.” She snapped and his teeth clamped down tighter on the back of her neck with a low, warning growl that vibrated in his chest. She answered with one of her own that quickly pitched into a whine when he retracted his claws and shifted his hips enough to nudge his cock against her clit. He growled again, this time out of frustration, as he canted his hips again and finally managed to notch the head of his cock against her entrance with a satisfied grunt.

“There we go.” He murmured smugly into her skin as he hit home and started thrusting like an animal, lapping at the healing bitemark he had left behind on the back of her neck to clean it of the drying blood. 

“Fuck, Lo.” Her nails grew into claws that sank into the ground beneath them as she scrambled for purchase, her back arching like a cat in heat. “C’mon, c’mon, please.”

“I’ve gotcha, girl.” He crooned gruffly as one of his hands crept around her front, his arm keeping her hips lifted at the angle he wanted while he rubbed tight circles on her clit. “Gimme a quick one, yeah?”

“Logan, shit, shit, harder.” Her hips bucked into his movements as she reached a hand back to tangle in his hair and tore at the dark strands. He obliged, driving into her hard enough that the friction scraped her cheek open against the ground.

He grunted in response, dipping his head to nose behind her ear again before nipping at her pulse just to hear her squeak out an indignant ‘fuck’. His fingers circled faster, almost like he was desperate to feel her tighten around him and squirm when she came. “C’mon now, I can smell it comin’.”

“Lo.” She whined and bucked her hips into his hand, every roll of his hips knocking breathy little noises from her throat and driving her further into the dirt below. Logan was right(of course he was, if there was one scent he knew better than anything, it was that), because it wasn’t long before she was whimpering and squirming desperately as her eyes rolled back. “Fuck.”

“Atta girl.” He rumbled against her skin appreciatively, nuzzling into her affectionately like he wasn’t mounting her on the forest floor like they were actual animals. His pace didn’t even stutter, he was still pounding into her mercilessly while he chased his own orgasm. “That’s it.”

“Fuck, fuck, too much.” She was an utter wreck, filthy and sweaty with tear tracks starting to carve through the dirt that had smeared on her face.

“You can take it.” He replied and his steady rhythm faltered before he pressed his full weight into her one final time with a grunt, his nose still tucked behind her ear as he slumped on top of her. “Yeah, that’s right. There we go.”

“You’re fucking heavy.” She huffed a few minutes later when the fuzzy afterglow of sex wore off and she became aware of her ribcage being compressed again.

“Too bad.” He grumbled, shifting just enough that she didn’t suffocate beneath him. “You’re soft.”

“So are you.” She snorted drily, unable to resist the opportunity to make a bad joke just to rile him up, her laughter quickly fading into a bitten off moan when he rocked his hips into her again just to prove her wrong.

The ‘morning after’ as some douchebag had so eloquently named it was usually a shameful affair. Get kicked out of a stranger’s bed in the early hours and just hope they had the decency to call a cab while pulling on the discarded clothes from the night before. But these weren’t strangers, and she had the creeping feeling that there was no cab waiting outside. Not because they didn’t care, but because they were going to keep her.

“Now, jus’ look a’ that, Johnny.” Ghost rumbled to Soap, his thumb catching the hood of her clit and tugging up to expose the flushed pink, demanding, little pearl. “Reckon she wants another?”

“Looks like it t’me.” The Scot replied, his grin feral enough to make her shiver as Ghost slowly fed his cock into her. “Cannae get enough. Bird’s drippin’ for us.”

She barely had the decency to flush, mewling as she buried her face in Ghost’s shoulder and shuddered when his calloused thumb began making smooth passes over her clit he had taken such tender care to expose just moments before.

Ghost was slow, gentle, but insistent, like plucking out notes on a prized violin. He had a pretty little thing trapped beneath him, a sweet doe-eyed lamb laid out beneath him ready for slaughter while another wolf watched on, fisting his cock, and he wasn’t supposed to bite down? Simon didn’t believe that.

“There’s a girl.” He murmured into her neck, his breath scorching hot and wanting against her skin. A dog waiting to tear apart a doe, a predator with his canines inches away from a fluttering pulse. “Doin’ so good f’ me. Hush now, you’ll get yours.”

And then Ghost started moving his hips and she swore she saw God.

She knew it was God, because the devil’s name was Simon Riley and he was currently setting a slow pace, and somehow still managing to fuck her brains out at the same time. His thrusts were relaxed, almost lazy, but every stroke still felt like he hit her diaphragm, his cockhead nudging against her cervix like it was trying to convince her to let it in.

He was full of contradictions like that, his movements gentle but so sure and his words were sweet but so filthy and it felt like suffocating and flying all at once. Holy hell, she could die happy beneath Simon Riley. And if there were any doubts about that, they were quickly squashed when she came and he took the opportunity to preach his sin directly into her ear.

“There you go, swee’eart.” He growled, his thumb never slowing as he continued the easygoing rhythm of his hips. “Go on, takin’ it like a champ. Atta girl.”

Then she bumped her nose against his and looked up at him with big, wet eyes, whining “please, Simon” so pretty that he slammed his hips forward hard enough to knock their pelvises together as he came.

“Breakfast.” Ghost announced to Soap gruffly as he collapsed beside her and nodded to the mess he had left between her thighs.

Soap didn’t need another word and soon he was shouldering between her thighs and diving in with single-minded fervor, desperate to lap up every drop. After all, Soap had been complaining about needing more protein in his diet, and Ghost had been so generous.

Ghost was slow and methodical, taking her apart with the almost reverent precision he usually reserved to maintaining his weapons. Sure of himself and careful like he was taking apart a rifle and then putting it back together. He saw her pleasure as a mission, a holy conquest, and he would be damned if he didn’t take his sweet time and do it perfectly.

Johnny was a fucking madman. He ate pussy like he hadn’t had a taste of a woman in years, like he wanted to drown in her, like he was going to consume her right down to the bone. Messy and eager and starved for it like he would never get the chance to taste her again. Ghost’s hand in his mohawk, pinning him in place and grinding his mouth down into her didn’t slow him down at all. If anything, it made him worse.

It wasn’t long before she was squirming and trying to climb up the headboard, her hips shifting as she whimpered about “slow down, too much”. But the needy, unintelligible whines tripping out of her throat sounded nothing like “stop” or “no” or even “red” and Soap wasn’t stopping until he had eaten his fill and the arm he banded over her stomach to hold her in place made that abundantly clear.

“Shh, jus’ stay still, yeah?” Ghost shushed her so sweetly it made her head fill with cotton, her eyes fuzzy and unfocused as she jerked and came into Soap’s mouth. “Let ‘im get his.”

She lost count of how many times Soap made her orgasm, she couldn’t tell what day it was or which way was up anymore, she just knew that her head was swimming and her voice was raw and Johnny wasn’t stopping.

“One more f’ me, hen.” Soap crooned as he crooked his fingers inside of her before diving back in and mumbling into her like he was talking to her clit instead of her. “Jus’ one more. Ye ken?”

Ghost usually growled, grumbling filthy words so genuinely it felt like affection as he plowed her into the mattress until his heavy weight on top of her felt like home. 

Johnny cooed, saccharine like honeyed C4. Like he wanted to break her into tiny razor sharp pieces or take her beating heart between his teeth. Like he wanted to crack open her ribs and finger her insides until she shrieked for him.

And, oh hell, did she shriek. A high-pitched, broken, animal cry of “Johnny” that almost sounded scared as she soaked Soap’s face and kicked out like she was trying to fight him off out of instinct. When she actually did manage to knock her knee into Soap’s nose hard enough that his head snapped back, she wasn’t even really aware enough to feel remorseful. Soap’s nose started gushing blood, ‘delicate flower’(his words) that he was, and he grinned up at her with pink stained teeth and a mouth shining with blood and cum.

“Wanna taste, hen?” Soap cooed, crawling up her body before she could really catch her breath enough to respond and all at once his mouth was on hers. The kiss tasted salty-sweet and bloody and addictive, his tongue licking into her mouth greedily.