All Welcome!!

He tries to drop you off at home, but you demand he come inside and at least shower off so he doesn't have to drive back to the barracks grimy with sweat, sunscreen, and sand. Of course he agrees - the man has never said no to you in his life, even before he finally had the courage to ask you out - and he turns eggplant-purple when you casually shuck your swimsuit to join him.

You're stupidly horny for him after seeing him half-naked all day, so you take your sweet time lathering your vanilla bodywash into his skin. He sighs beneath the steam of the shower and the ministrations of your hands, shoulders slumping like his joints and tendons finally realized he's no longer in a combat zone. Blissed out and half way to falling asleep on his feet.

But he wakes right the fuck up when your fingers creep lower and you begin to massage his cock.

König loves your handjobs. He says you're unbelievably good at them and he never needs to worry that his size is hurting you - a frequent insecurity of his when you first became intimate. While you languidly work his hardening member back and forth, you rest your head between his pecs as the water pours down on you both.

He makes the most pathetic little whimpers as your lazy tugs turn into proper pumping. One of his hands flies against the tiles to keep himself steady against the urge to turn into a puddle at your feet.

When you tell him its time to wash his hair, he seems perfectly willing to accept that the handjob is over without having come. But when you ask him to get on his knees so you can reach his head, he quickly picks up on what's actually happening: a perfect excuse to smush his face into your tits.

König may love your handjobs, but he worships breasts.

You squirt some shampoo onto his head and begin to spread it through his short hair while König attends to your chest. Sucking, rubbing his face, thumbing your nipples, and whispering breathless gratitude into your cleavage. It's not terribly long before he picks up where you left off, the wet noises of his hand sliding over his cock speaking to something primal in your cavewoman brain. "I'm so lucky," he says over and over again. "So fucking lucky."

It doesn't take long for him to empty his balls, splattering your legs as he leans so hard into your body you nearly topple. The shower quickly washes away the mess as he plants a final kiss beneath the swell of one breasts.

He quickly asks what you'd like in return - he's happy to lick your pussy for the rest of the night, or he could sit you on his lap and use his fingers - but all you really want right now is a nap. There's something so satisfying about pampering this man, who got dealt a shit hand in life but is somehow still the type to fumble his way through a homemade mojito recipe if he thinks it'll make you smile.

Neither of you bother to put clothes back on as you collapse into bed and wrap your bodies around each other. You think to yourself, not for the first time, what a wonderful father he would make. You can picture with ease König's big hands spreading sunscreen over a little boy who has his eyes and your hair.

A goal for next summer, maybe.

===

I dont usually do requests, but I would literally jump off a bridge for @the-californicationist ❤️💕🧡 Thanks for the prompt, Cali!!

“I'm making sure you want this because it's called being a bloody decent person!” Gaz huffed in between desperate kisses to you as you nearly ripped each other's clothes off.

“And when the fuck have you ever been decent?!” you snapped right before you sucked his delicious lower lip between your teeth.

His long, dark lashes fluttered along his cheeks as his whimper filled your mouth. Pulling away, his hooded gaze blazed with irritation. “Why can't you accept any bloody ounce of kindness?!”

“Why do you insist on treating me like I'll shatter and break at any given fucking moment?!” you snorted in disbelief.

“Maybe because I fucking wanna spoil you?! Madness, I fucking know!”

“I'm not yours to be spoiled in the first place?!”

Gaz threw up an irritated hand while his other one hauled you in by the back of your neck so you could capture his mouth in another brusing kiss. You were forced to retreat first, catching your breath as he swore against your lips, “Well, you fucking should be, you bloody hellion!”

You rolled your eyes, “Fuck you!”

“Not when I'm gonna fuck you first!”

“Well then, get the fuck on with it!”

“All you had to do was bloody ask!”

His smile was feral, the gleam of his teeth dangerous in the moonlight streaming in through the bedroom window as he drove into you with a precision unlike anything you'd ever known.

“You piece of shit!” you whined as he hoisted your ankle up to his shoulder to change the angle of his fucking into you. This way, he hit your sweet spot with every frantic thrust without a single miss.

“Yeah?” he panted with a wicked roll of his hips that sent you squealing. His twisted laugh echoed around you. “But I'm your piece of shit. ‘Cause who's dick are you falling apart on right the fuck now, princess?”

“D-did you just agree with me that you're a piece of shit?!”

“I…fuck no!...w-what-?!”

Your purposeful clench around him made him stutter and groan out your name, those soft lips pursed as he squeezed his eyes shut. The fucker had no right to look this beautiful so lost in your depths.

“Aww, look at that,” you jeered. “Poor, pretty, Kyle, all pussy drunk on this cunt,” you desperately thrust your hips up to meet him.

“Damn right. My cunt,” he swirled his thumb around your clit, making you beg out a broken moan, “‘Cause who else is gonna make you pop all over my big, fuckin’ dick, love?

“Fuck!”

“Wrong answer, babes,” he purposely stilled in you. “Who does this tight ‘lil pussy belong to, hmm?”

You vainly tried to get him to move again by pressing the heels of your feet into the back of his thighs and ass. It got you absolutely nowhere with a frustrated curse. He was too broad, too strong, too disciplined to let your annoyed kicking at him move him even a centimeter. Honed muscle easily trapped you in place.

Leaning over you, he pinned your wrists to the mattress above your head. “Who does this,” he slid his fingers along either side of your clit with such deliberate slowness that tears of frustration started leaking out the corners of your eyes, “Pussy. Belong. To?”

“I don't-!”

“Wrong answer, again,” he hissed into your ear as he shoved his hand from your lower lips. Bringing it up to his mouth, he sucked at his fingers like a man starved, honeyed eyes narrowed with predatory focus on your face. 

⸻

John Price had made one catastrophic mistake.

He’d downloaded TikTok. It started innocently enough. Kyle had sent him a video. “Sir, just download the app. It’s easier than sending links.”Five words. Five stupid words.

Now it was two weeks later, and John Price was lying awake at one in the morning watching videos of someone pressure-washing driveways.

Then military edits. Then cooking videos. Then relationship advice. Then…

Relationship trauma. The algorithm knew too much.

⸻

One evening he was curled up beside you on the sofa while you showered upstairs. His phone buzzed.

“People you may know.”

Your username appeared. He smiled. “Didn’t know they used this much.” He tapped. Your current account was adorable.

Cat videos.

Random recipes.

You dancing terribly while making coffee. His lips twitched. Then he noticed a link in your bio.

Old account.

Curious, he clicked.

⸻

The first video hit him like a train.

“I genuinely hate my boyfriend.”

John froze.

Next.

“I wish he’d disappear forever.”

Next.

“Being with him makes me feel disgusting.”

Next.

“He makes me hate myself.”

Next.

“I’m so tired of pretending everything is okay.”

His stomach dropped. There were hundreds.

Hundreds. Video after video after video.

Crying.

Angry rants.

Sleepless nights.

“I wish he’d just die.” John stared at the screen. His chest felt tight. “…Christ.”

⸻

He couldn’t stop scrolling.

Every video sounded like…

Him.

He worked too much, missed anniversaries, forgot dates, didn’t compliment enough, sometimes disappeared on deployment. He’d always worried he wasn’t enough.

Now…

Apparently you agreed.

⸻

The next morning—

The briefing room. Price looked like absolute death. Of course Ghost noticed immediately.

“…You look like shite.” Soap nodded. “Ye look like ye’ve buried someone.” Kyle frowned. “You alright, sir?” John rubbed a hand down his face.“…Need to show you something.”

He slid his phone across the table. Soap watched one video.

Then another.

Then another.

Silence.

Ghost’s jaw clenched. Kyle’s eyes widened. “…Those are…”

“Mine.”

“What?”

“My partner.” Another video played. “I hope he never comes home.” Soap’s eyebrows shot up.“Oh, absolutely not.”Ghost looked murderous.“The fuck?”Kyle blinked. “They’ve…they’ve never acted like this around us.”John just stared at the table. “I didn’t know.”

Soap slammed the phone down. “No.” Ghost stood. “We’re going.” John looked up. “…Going where?” Ghost was already grabbing his jacket.“To your house.”Kyle sighed. “We should probably hear them out.”Soap looked scandalized. “Hear them out? They’re wishing the captain dead!”

John stood slowly.

“…Need answers.”

⸻

Twenty minutes later— Your front door swung open. You blinked. “…Why are all four of you standing on my porch?”Ghost folded his arms.

Soap looked furious. Kyle looked deeply uncomfortable and John wouldn’t even meet your eyes.

You frowned.

“…John?”

There was silence for what felt like 30 minutes. Finally he spoke. “…Did I do something?”

“…What?”

“You can tell me.”

“What are you talking about?” He handed you his phone. You looked down. “Oh.”

“…”

“…”

“…OH.”

Your eyes got bigger. “Oh my God.”Nobody spoke. You started laughing. Soap looked offended. “What’s funny?” You looked at John. “Babe.”He looked miserable. “…Yeah.”

“Read the date.”

“…”

“…What?”

“The date.”

John frowned. He looked.

Then looked again. Tiny grey text underneath the username. August 2022.

He blinked.

“…”

Your smile slowly disappeared. “…John.”

“…”

“…John.”

He kept staring.

Then swiped.

Every video.

His ears slowly turned red.

Ghost leaned over.

“…”

Soap leaned over.

“…”

Kyle leaned over.

“…”

There was a very long silence. You finally asked— “…You thought…” John closed his eyes. “…Aye.”

“…You thought these were about you?”

“…Aye.”

“…”

“…”

Then you burst into laughter. Not a little giggle. Full-body, wheezing laughter. You had to lean against the doorframe. “Oh my God!” Soap looked between the two of you.

“…Wait.”

Kyle squinted.

“…That was your ex?” You nodded “the abusive one.”Ghost’s expression changed instantly.

“…”

Soap slowly looked back at John.

“…Captain.”

John refused to look at anyone. “…Don’t.” Soap started laughing too. “No, no, no—”

Ghost actually snorted.

Ghost.

Snorted. Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sir…” John muttered, “…I know.”Soap wiped tears from his eyes. “Ye marched us over here because ye cannae read a date?”

“I said don’t.”Ghost’s shoulders were shaking. “The old man got cyberbullied by archived posts.”

“I said—”

“Archived.”

“I know!”You stepped forward, still grinning, and cupped John’s face. “You absolute idiot.”

“…”

“I’ve been with you since 2024.”

“…”

“How could posts from 2022 be about you?”John opened his mouth.

Closed it. Opened it again.

“…Didn’t…think.”“No,” Ghost agreed dryly. “You really didn’t.”Soap was still laughing. Kyle had actually sat down on your porch because he couldn’t breathe.

You kissed John’s forehead. “For the record…” He finally looked at you. “I adore my current boyfriend.”His cheeks somehow got even redder.

“…Yeah?” “I make TikToks about you too.” His eyes widened.

“…You what?”

You pulled out your phone. Opened your current account. Scrolled.

“When your boyfriend brings you tea before you’ve even asked.”

Next.

“POV: your grumpy military boyfriend secretly loves cuddles.”

Next.

“He’s pretending not to smile.”

Next.

“My favorite person.”

John stared. “…Oh.” You smiled softly. “Those are about you.” He looked like someone had physically restarted his brain.

Soap groaned dramatically. “Oh, that’s disgustingly sweet.” Ghost headed back toward the truck. “Crisis over.” Kyle patted John’s shoulder.

“…Maybe next time read the timestamp before assembling the task force.” John sighed so heavily it sounded painful. “…I’m deleting TikTok.”

You laughed. “No, you’re not.”

“…No.”

He wasn’t.

Ghost knew very well what they'd done - it had broken through any veil of reasonable deniability the alcohol may have provided - but Soap didn't have to know that.

"Drank, it seems," he replied, quickly tugging one of the rough, government-furnished blankets from his bunk to wrap it around his waist. "Not that I much care for privacy since phase one, but do you mind?" He kept his back to Soap, in spite of the flames licking his shoulders and neck in a no-doubt visible curtain of pink over his skin.

"Same here," Soap replied, taking the remaining sheets and wrapping them around himself. A glance over his shoulder told Simon that both men were afflicted by the same malady: morning wood and a hangover.

Soap's usually bright visage had dulled somewhat to a pallor that made Ghost grimace.

They shuffled around the small, under-furnished room that served as Ghost's officer's quarters, uncharacteristically quiet as they accidentally swapped shirts, then swapped again. Ghost swallowed heavily when the fabric covered his friend's firm stomach, recalling how it had pressed against-

"I'm going to get some coffee," Soap scrubbed at his temple, eyes shut tight against what looked like a sharp headache. "See you in the mess."

"See you," Ghost agreed too softly as the other man shuffled into his trainers and out the door.

The mess was an assault on Ghost's senses. Overhead lights that seemed to threaten his temple with a slim, sharp knife, waves of conversation crashing over him with an almost physical force, and a floor that wouldn't stay still no matter how he commanded it to settle.

This hangover was bad.

He shuffled over to the line, nabbing the single piece of toast he figured he could keep down and a cup of black coffee. He pondered whether or not taking up smoking would help or hurt at this point in the game vis a vis nausea.

Shrugging off the thought with a roll of his shoulders, Ghost turned and scanned for a seat. Nearly every table had three to five men scattered about its length. He sighed, contemplating going back to bed, and trundled toward the nearest table with just two new recruits discussing the details of their upcoming operation. He didn't have the energy to chastise them about OpSec.

Running a hand over his face and through his hair, Ghost stared down at his sad breakfast. The toast was a light golden-brown, and for some godforsaken reason it reminded him of-

No.

Nope.

Not happening.

It was a drunken mistake. A boondoggle of epic proportions. If it taught Ghost anything, it was that Soap was about as bad at flirting as he'd expected.

And yet you went along with it. Saw the whole thing through. And you enjoyed it. You more than enjoyed it.

Another shake of his head left his temple throbbing sharply. He slumped over his tray, shoving toast in his mouth and chewing hastily. Swallowing the toast in record time, he chased it with scalding coffee and bused his tray. He needed to go for a run.

"Oh, hey, LT!" He felt a hand on his forearm and tensed. Soap was seated with a few other sergeants, his thick fingers curled around the arm of Ghost's sweatshirt the same way they'd been curled around his-

"Mm?" Ghost grunted.

"The boys wanted to see your grouping on the range. You got some time that you could give 'em a show, today?"

Give 'em a show. That was a phrase that would lodge itself in Ghost's mind, alongside the shimmy of Scottish hips as denim parted to reveal-

"Not today," he replied, "try me again tomorrow." And with that, he left, more visibly hunched than he'd ever been before.

The cool air of the nearly-winter air allowed Ghost to finally, blissfully, forget himself. Too focused on the burgeoning ache at the tips of his ears and nose, too focused on the burning in his lungs and legs, and the blessed lack of burning anywhere else.

It gave him time to really think it through. What had happened?

A gust of wind lifted Simon's blond hair off of his forehead, revealing those deepening wrinkles between his brows. Here he was, nearing forty, sleeping with his best friend, a man, a man in his twenties. (Okay, Soap was nearly thirty, but still.) He shuddered to think of all of the tropes he'd seen through the years - some older man in power preying on some young thing who didn't know any better.

...but that's not what this had been.

Brokeback Mountain hadn't meant much to him as a kid. He was fifteen. He and his buddies had had their fun taking the mick: grabbing one another around the chest and whispering lines to one another only to then cuff the other lad for being a poof. He'd wrestled them, laughing, to the ground for the offense.  But this wasn't that, either.

So, what was it then?

Just as the answer began to light the horizon, a grating, irritating voice broke his reverie.

"Ghost! Fancy meeting you, here!" Soap pounded the track beside him, catching up with no small effort. "How long have you been at it?"

Ghost checked his watch, "...'bout... twenty minutes."

"So you're nearly done, then?"

"Nah," Ghost glanced toward Soap, whose smile was unreadable. No sign if he remembered. "Finishing with me, then?"

- the flash of warmth across his stomach -

"Sure, sir," Soap took a breath through his nose, sighing contentedly as he found his rhythm.

The remainder of his run was filled with mindless chatter from a cheery Scot.

---

Thank god for officer's quarters. Your own private shower, and with Ghost's reputation, no roommate. There was no way that blue-eyed bastard could assault him in his shower.

...unless he picked the lock.

No, no, that wasn't going to happen. Simon let the thought swirl down the drain. It wasn't like Soap was going to try and catch a glimpse of Simon naked. He'd already seen that and more last night, and in spite of the way he fronted, he wasn't the type to saunter in and ask if Simon needed help washing up.

...was he?

"No," Simon huffed, "no, he's not."

A deep sigh folded his body over itself, forcing him to lean one palm on the textured plastic surface of the shower stall.

Guilt still rocked him, that he'd gotten pissed with his protege and let him think-

There it was, clear as day.

It was Soap.

Not just Soap, but Johnny.

Johnny was his responsibility, and he took that seriously. The kid had come on to the scene grinning and spouting nonsense in that affected cheerfulness and Ghost had known from that moment on that if he didn't keep an eye on him he'd be on the pavement with his brains painting Ghost's mask in a matter of moments. Nobody, no matter how young they were when they passed selection, could survive with an attitude like that.

No, they always died. And they died fast.

Simon shut off the water and heaved one more sigh. This conversation was going to suck.

---

"Johnny," Ghost rapped on the door to Johnny's dorm, "you in?"

"Yeah?" Ghost could almost hear the shuffling as Soap got up from his bunk. "What's up?" Soap wrenched open the door.

"Walk with me," Ghost didn't wait for Soap to agree, already turning and walking toward the path outside the barracks.

"What's up?" Soap asked again when they finally made it out of earshot of near everyone.

Simon steeled himself, licking his lips before he asked, eyes fixed on the path ahead, "Do you remember what we got up to last night?"

Soap stiffened, froze for a half-second, and then continued apace, forcing a smile, "I recall we got about as sloshed as I've ever been," he hedged.

"And do you remember our conversation?"

"That cheeky thing about fuckin' arse? Yeah, I remember." Soap's voice was strained. Ghost had to be the one to say it, then.

"And you remember fucking me."

Soap turned sharply to suddenly look about and ensure they were truly alone. But they were. Ghost was good at his job.

"...aye," Soap finally admitted quietly.

"Do you regret it?" Simon risked a glance aside, taking in the lines of strain evident in Soap's posture and grimace. (The grimace was about as subtle as fireworks on Bonfire Day.)

Silence stretched for about ten paces before Soap admitted, "No, sir." The deference made Ghost's chest ache.

"Me neither," he said, sounding far more confident than he felt.

"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" Soap's gait made it look for all the world as though he'd been the one fucked so thoroughly not fifteen hours prior.

"No," Ghost replied, gathering his thoughts, "I..."

Was this how he felt?

"I'm sorry," Soft as snow, it fell between them, "for not putting a stop to it. Not because I regret it, Johnny, but because..." He stopped. Turned. And looked at those striking blue eyes direct when he finished the thought, "...I've signed your death warrant."

Soap's eyebrows rose, then furrowed, then twitched between the two expressions as he grappled with Ghost's nonsensical admission.

"...my death warrant," he repeated slowly, "do tell."

"Attachments get good men and women killed," Ghost asserted, "and our... friendship was bad enough. But adding this? It's the end of you, Soap." Not Johnny. Soap.

Johnny planted one hand on his hip, scowling, "I take offence to the idea that one poke up the arse has me thinking of iron fences and lavender by the front door."

"...Practical Magic?" Simon huffed out a chuckle in spite of himself.

"Aye, you know it too, ya fairy." Johnny ribbed him lightly. "But I know what this is. I know what we are. I'm not gonna suddenly risk my life for you on the field just because you have a tight arsehole."

Simon was suddenly glad for the balaclava he'd donned for this conversation, as it hid the sudden flare of his nostrils as he realized that Johnny didn't-

"I was always gonna do that." Johnny flashed him a crooked grin, "so you're no more danger to my life than when you were as my CO, or my friend." He took a step forward, reaching up too comfortably for Ghost's mask.

Simon let him peel it upwards, disgusted at the way his lips parted and trembled before Johnny kissed him, persuasive as last night.

There was no clutching, no passion, no declarations otherwise. Just that soft, almost chaste kiss, another grin from Johnny, and a wave.

Simon was left standing on that path watching the man he'd kill for, the man he'd die for walk back to the barracks, humming a tune as though nothing had happened.

"...bloody hell," Ghost muttered, tugging the mask back down.