C.O.D Enthusiast

His hands are rough but warm and deliberate as he works the lather over you, one palm flat against your lower belly to keep you pinned. He tilts his head, surveying you like a problem he is solving. 

He clucks his tongue, “Not takin’ it all off.” 

And you blink owlishly, “Why not?” 

“Because I like it.” He drags his thumb through the dark curls at the apex of your cunt, appraising. “Leavin’ a clean strip. You'll thank me later.” 

The razor comes up before you can argue. First stroke—slow, precise, the blade gliding through lather and coarse hair with a control that makes your stomach flip. His jaw is set, focused, and there is something unbearable about how steady his hands are when yours are gripping the counter edge so hard your knuckles ache. 

He rinses the blade. Goes again. His knuckles brush bare skin this time and your thigh jerks involuntarily. 

“What’d I say?” His voice is low, flat; his eyes almost bored as they flick up to meet yours. 

“Sorry—” 

“Don’t apologise. Stop squirmin’.” He resettles his grip on your thigh, firm enough to bruise. “Almost done.” 

But you’re not making it easy on him and he knows it. He can see it—the flush creeping down your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, the slick gathering where his hands keep almost-but-not-quite touching. 

“You’re wet,” he remarks, the same way he’d say It’s raining. 

“Can you blame me?” you squeak. 

“No.” Simon finishes the last stroke, rinses the blade, sets it aside. Then he runs his thumb along the neat strip of hair he’s left, then lower, over smooth sensitive skin, checking his work. “Did a bloody good job, if I say so myself.” 

His thumb drags lower. Slides through the slick with zero hesitation, and you gasp loud enough to echo off the tiles. 

“Responsive,” he murmurs, smug. He does it again—slower, more deliberate, watching your face like he’s taking briefing notes. “All this from a shave, love?” 

You nod, voice thick, “From you.” 

Something shifts in his expression; shifts to something darker, hungrier. His free hand grips the inside of your thigh and pushes it wider, and he drops to his knees on the bathroom floor like a man settling into a foxhole. 

“Si—” 

“Shut up,” he growls against your skin. “Let me admire my work.” 

His mouth finds you—hot and wet, and completely unhurried. He licks a long, flat stripe over the freshly shaved skin and groans low in his throat like he’s tasting honey on a warm, buttered toast. Your hand flies to his head, fingers digging into the short hair, and he lets you. 

Then he pulls back, and you almost whine, but he’s not going anywhere. He brings both hands up instead, spreads you open with his thumbs, rough callused pads pressing into soft skin, holding you apart so he can see everything. 

“Look at that,” he murmurs, low and self-satisfied. “All swollen already.”

Your hips buck, but his sheer strength keep you pinned to the counter. “Simon, please—” 

“I heard ya.” 

But then Simin leans back in and his tongue finds your clit—not a broad stroke this time but a quick, focused flicker, right over the swollen nerve. Your hips buck harder and his grip tightens, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your pussy lips, keeping you spread wide and pinned open. 

“Stay. Still.” Spoken directly against you, the vibration making your thighs shake. 

He does it again—that precise, maddening flicker—and you make a sound that’s closer to a sob than anything dignified. He rewards it with a low hum, adjusting the angle, working the tip of his tongue in tight little circles that make your vision blur. 

“Knew you’d be like this,” he groans, pulling back just enough to watch your clit twitch under his breath. His thumbs spread you wider, obscenely so. “All wound up from a fuckin’ razor and a steady hand.” 

Your cheeks are burning while your hole clenches around nothing. “You’re so full of—oh—” 

“Myself? Yeah.” His tongue flattens against you, then flickers again, fast and relentless. “And you love it.” 

You can’t argue. You can’t do anything except grip his hair and hold on. 

He doesn’t let up. That maddening flicker becomes a rhythm—tight, relentless circles over your clit with the tip of his tongue while his thumbs keep you spread open and pinned like a butterfly under glass. You’e shaking, thighs trembling against his hands, and every sound you make earns you another low hum of approval that vibrates straight through your whole body. 

“Simon—Si—I’m going to—” 

“Then fuckin’ do it.” His tone is flat as ever, impatient, like you’re wasting his time by holding back. 

His tongue presses harder, faster, and you come with a choked cry that bounces off the bathroom tiles. He works you through it—slower now, lapping at you in long, lazy strokes while your legs twitch and your fingers go slack in his hair. 

And then you hear it before you see it—the sound of his joggers being shoved down, the slick rhythm of his fist. You lift your head, still dazed, and look down to find him on his knees with his fat cock in his hand, jerking himself in hard, fast strokes while his mouth stays pressed against your inner thigh. 

“Simon—?” 

“Shut up.” His voice is wrecked now. Rough. Nothing clinical about it anymore. “Needed this since I fuckin’ started.” 

He’s close already. You can tell from the way his breathing fractures, the way his free hand grips your thigh hard enough to leave fingerptints. Simon pulls back, angles himself forward, fist working fast and tight, and his eyes are fixed on the mess he’s made of you, all puffy and slick. The neat landing strip dark and matted with your wetness against flushed skin. 

“Fuck,” he grits out, low and broken. “Look at you.” 

He comes across your cunt in hot, thick stripes—groaning through his teeth, forehead dropping against your thigh as his hips jerk into his own fist, massive shoulders shaking against the onslaught of pleasure. You feel it land on smooth skin, on the strip of hair he insisted on keeping, dripping down between your folds, and the sound he makes is almost pained. 

He stays there for a moment. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your leg. 

Then he straightens up, tucks himself away methodically, and surveys the damage with the composure of a man reviewing a mission report. 

“There,” he says, dragging his thumb through the mess on your skin. His and yours, mixed so prettily. “Payment for services rendered.” 

Your eyes roll with fond exasperation as your head tips back to rest on the counter.  

“You’re disgusting.” 

“And you’re welcome, love.” He leans in, presses a single kiss to the landing strip, and stands. “Clean yerself up. Dinner’s in twenty.” 

— K. GARRICK

Kyle notices things. It’s what makes him terrific at his job—reading a room in mere seconds, clocking the miniscule details everyone else always misses. So, when you come home looking like the week has chewed you up and spat you out, he’s already running the bath before you’ve kicked off your shoes and put down your bag. 

“Self-care day!” he announces. “You. Me. Bathroom. Now.” 

“Kyle, I’m fine—” 

“Didn’t ask.” He’s already steering you by the shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you, yeah? Let me do this for you, baby.” 

And that’s the thing about Kyle. He doesn’t ask permission to take care of you—he just does it, like breathing, like it’s the most natural and obvious thing in the world. 

He starts with your arms. 

You’re sitting on the edge of the ceramic tub, warm water lapping at your calves, while Kyle kneels beside you with a fresh razor and a bottle of fancy shaving oil he warmed between his palms. He lifts your arm above your head, long and gentle fingers circling your wrist, and works the oil into the hollow of your underarm with slow, thorough strokes. 

“When’s the last time someone took care of you properly?” he asks casually, like small talk. 

“You did. Last week,” you deadpan, brows furrowed. 

He grins brilliantly. “Doesn’t count. That was just sex.” 

You snort softly, “Just sex, he says—” 

“Hush now.” He draws the razor up in a smooth, careful line. Rinses. Again. His touch is absurdly gentle for hands that can strip a rifle in seconds. “This is different. This is maintenance.”

“You make me sound like a bloody car.” 

“Nah.” Kyle kisses his teeth, then switches to the other arm, lifting it with the same easy confidence. “More like a classic bike. High-performance. Needs the right hands.” 

You snort again, but your skin is already tingling where he’s touched—warm oil sinking in, the faint sting of freshly shaved skin, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist while he works. 

Your legs take longer. He’s thorough about it—kneeling on the tile floor, one of your calves propped on his shoulder, dragging the razor from ankle to knee in long, unhurried strokes. He takes his time with the oil after, working it into your skin with both hands, thumbs pressing into the muscle of your calf until you groan. 

“Good?” he asks, gauging your reaction, and there is something darker in his voice now. Something paying attention. 

“So good,” you breathe, eyes closed in bliss. 

He slides higher—past your knee, along your inner thigh. Still massaging, still working the oil in, but his fingers are brushing territory that has nothing to do with shaving. He watches your face the whole time, reading every micro-expression, cataloguing what makes your breath hitch, what makes your muscles relax. 

“One more spot,” he murmurs, hands settling on your inner thighs. “Yeah?” 

You nod. Your mouth has gone dry. 

“Need words, love.” 

And you nod more enthusiastically, “Yes. Please.”

His smile is warm, but his gaze is filthy. 

Kyle repositions you gently, guiding you back against the fluffy towels he’s already laid out on the bathroom floor like he planned this from the start. Probably did. Kyle Garrick is always three steps ahead. 

He settles between your thighs and takes his time with the oil, working it into the soft skin of your mound with his fingertips. Not rushing. Letting you feel every slow circle, every press of his thumb, until you’re breathing hard and your hips are shifting restlessly. 

“Easy, my love," he says softly, one hand flat on your belly. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.” 

The razor is careful. Feather-light strokes, angled perfectly, his free hand stretching the skin taut with a confidence that makes heat pool low in your stomach. He shaves you bare, all of it, pausing to rinse the blade and check his work with the pad of his thumb. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs thickly, and means it. 

Then the oil comes back. Warm from his hands, drizzled over freshly shaved skin, and he starts working it in with both thumbs in long, slow strokes down either side of your slit. 

Your thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he does. 

“Sensitive?” he asks teasingly, voice low. Eyes crinkling with mirth. 

“Kyle—” 

“That’s not an answer.” But he’s smiling, thumbs pressing a little firmer, gliding through the oil and spreading you open slowly. “Tell me how it feels.” 

You swallow hard, but your voice still comes out raspy, “Like you’re  trying to kill me, baby.” 

He laughs; warm, genuine, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Not yet.” His thumbs drag inward, slicking through the oil and your own syrupy wetness now, framing your clit without touching it. “We’re getting there, though.” 

Kyle starts massaging in earnest then, and it’s devastatingly precise. Both thumbs working slow circles over your outer lips, pressing and releasing, coaxing blood to the surface until everything is swollen and throbbing and so slick you can hear it. He watches your face the whole time, dark eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-back sound. 

“There she is,” he praises when your hips start rolling into his hands. “There you go. Just let it happen, baby.” 

And he slides one thumb between your folds—just one, dragging through the mess—and your whole body arches. 

“Fuck, Kyle—” you mewl, and Kyle mutters a curse under his breath, pupils blown.  

“Yeah, I know.” He does it again, slow and firm, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb while his other hand keeps you spread open. “You’re soaking my hand, love. That all from the shave, or you just like being taken care of by me?” 

“Both—God—both!” 

“Greedy.” He says it fondly, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. Then he sinks a finger into you—one, then two—curling them forward, and your back comes off the floor. 

“Oh—oh—fuck!” 

“Right there?” He crooks his fingers experimentally, finds the spot that makes your vision white out, and presses more firmly. “Yeah. Right there.” 

He starts working you open with slow, deliberate thrusts—two fingers buried deep, curling against that front wall, while his thumb keeps circling your clit in a rhythm that’s going to end you. His other hand is on your hip, holding you steady when you start to writhe. 

“Don't fight it,” he reminds you, and then his mouth replaces his thumb—hot and wet, tongue lapping at your clit in broad, flat strokes that make your thighs clamp around his head. 

He groans against you and his fingers pick up the pace, curling and pressing in a rhythm that builds something white-hot at the base of your spine. You can feel it coiling, tighter and tighter, different from a normal orgasm, deeper, more urgent. 

“Kyle—Kyle, I’m gonna—” 

“I know.” He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing your clit while your inner muscles clench and flutter around his pumping fingers, urging him deeper. “I can feel it. Let go.” 

“I can’t—” 

“Yes, you can.” His fingers press harder, faster, rubbing firmly against that swollen spot inside you. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Let go for me.” 

His mouth seals over your clit and he sucks, gentle and persistent, while his fingers thrust up hard until something inside you breaks. And you come with a sound you don’t recognise; your whole body locking up and then releasing in a hot, pulsing rush that soaks his hand, his chin, the towels underneath you. 

“That’s it. Fuck, baby, that’s it—” Kyle’s voice is wrecked, awed, his fingers still working you through it as you gush and squirt over his knuckles, soaking the towels. “Christ, look at you. So fucking beautiful.”

You’re shaking. Trembling all over, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, and Kyle is already there to catch you; easing his fingers out gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip, the curve of your quivering belly. 

“I’ve got you,” he says again, gathering you up against his lean chest. “I’ve got you, love. You did so well.” 

You bury your face in his neck and he holds you. Always solid, warm, and steady. His hand strokes your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing comes down. 

“Self-care day,” you mumble against his throat, chuckling softly.  

He laughs, quiet and fond. “Told you I’d take care of you.” 

— J. PRICE

John finds you standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fresh from the shower, towel discarded on the floor like an afterthought. You’re turning sideways, then forward again, fingers tugging at the dark curls between your thighs with a frown he recognises immediately. 

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watches you for a moment. 

“Don’t even think about it woman,” he says gruffly.

You jump, because of course you didn’t hear him coming. The man moves like smoke when he wants to. “Jesus, John—” 

“I know that look.” He nods toward your hand. “You’re thinking about shaving.” 

You tut. Caught again. “It’s gotten—” 

“No.” 

He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room, calm and unhurried, the way he does everything. Like the world operates on his schedule and it knows better than to argue. 

“You nicked yourself last time,” he reminds you, stopping behind your back. You can feel the warmth of him through his shirt, his breath against the top of your head. “Bled all over the damn bathroom. Looked like a crime scene.” 

You frown. “It wasn’t that bad—” 

“It was exactly that bad.” His steely eyes meet yours in the mirror. Steady and final. “You want to be smooth, I’ll do it. End of discussion.” 

That tone from your husband. The one that ends briefings and closes arguments. It mean Captain Price isn’t asking. 

He takes his time setting up, because John Price has never rushed anything important in his life and he’s not about to start with a blade near your precious skin. Warm water in a bowl. A fresh razor—not the one you butchered yourself with last time, but his, the good one he keeps in the leather case. A flannel. Shaving soap that smells like sandalwood and menthol. 

“On the bed,” he orders. “Edge. Legs apart.” 

“John,” you try to reason again.  

“Did I stutter?” And he gives you that look. The head tilt forward to look down at you. 

And you sit obediently. He pulls the ottoman over, settles onto it between your knees like he’s sitting down to a job that requires patience and precision. Which, in his mind, it does. He drapes the warm flannel over you first—pressing it gently against the curls, softening the hair—and the heat makes you exhale slowly through your nose. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, absent and fond. “Just relax.” 

He works the soap into a lather between his palms, and his hands are broad and rough and unhurried as he spreads it over you. Fingers moving through the hair with a kind of proprietary ease, like this is his to manage. His to maintain. You watch him from above—the focused set of his jaw, the silver threading through his full beard, the absolute steadiness of his hands. 

You exhale slowly, willing yourself to relax while heat starts pooling low in your belly. “You don’t have to—” 

“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupts calmly, picking up the razor. “I want to. Difference.” 

The first stroke silences you. Slow, precise, the blade drawing a clean line through lather and hair. His free hand pulls the skin taut, and his eyes never leave his work with the same concentration you’ve seen him give to maps and mission briefs in his office. 

He rinses the blade in warm water. Goes again. 

“You’re quiet,” he remarks eventually, a hint of amusement buried under the gravel. 

“Hard to be mouthy when your husband’s got a razor on your—” 

“Careful.” But he’s smiling, just barely, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Good time to practice some of that restraint I’m always bloody on about.” 

Stroke by stroke, he clears the hair away. Thorough. Methodical. He tilts your hips when he needs a better angle, adjusts your thigh with a tap of two fingers like he’s positioning you on instinct. There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing performative—just a man doing a job properly because it needs doing and he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right. 

When he’s finished, he sets the razor aside and wipes you clean with the warm flannel—slow and careful passes that make your freshly shaved skin prickle and sing. Then he sits back, hands on your knees, and surveys his work. 

“There,” he murmurs, thoroughly satisfied. “That’s how it’s done, woman.” 

“Thank you.” And when you try to close your legs to get up, his hands stop you. 

“I’m not finished.” 

Your breath catches. He hasn’t moved—still sitting on the ottoman, still between your thighs, still looking at you with that calm, unhurried authority. But something’s shifted in his expression. His gaze has darkened, and you very well know what that means. 

Your stomach swoops. “John?” 

“Lie back.” 

And you do obediently. Again. Not because he has ordered you to—though he has—but because when John Price uses that voice, your body just listens. Your back hits the duvet and you stare at the ceiling, heart hammering, while he pushes your thighs wider with both hands. 

“Smooth,” he murmurs absentmindedly, running his palm over you, feeling his own handiwork. His thumb traces the edge of your slit; barely there, maddeningly light. “Soft.” His eyes flit up to look at you, almost smugly. “See what happens when you let me handle things?” 

But you’re still staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re insufferable.” 

“And you’re wet.” John mentions it plainly, like a field observation. “Have been since I started. Thought I wouldn’t notice?” He snorts. 

Your eyes close slowly, praying for patience. “Was hoping you wouldn’t.”

“I notice everything. Especially about my wife. You know that.” He leans forward, presses a kiss just above your mound. Utterly deliberate and proprietary. His beard scratches against the smooth skin and your hips jerk. His eyebrow raises. “Sensitive?” 

You exhale a breath. “Your beard—” 

“Mm.” He does it again—drags his jaw across the freshly shaved skin, rough against smooth, and the noise you make is mortifying. “That’s bloody new. Like that, do you?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just settles in, hands hooking under your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed and into his mouth like he’s sitting down to a meal he intends to take his time with. 

The first broad stroke of his tongue makes you arch clean off the mattress. He grunts, low and satisfied, and pins your hips down with one forearm. 

“Stay put,” he mutters against you. “I mean it.” 

And then he takes you apart. 

It’s not frantic. It’s not teasing. It’s thorough. The way John does everything. Long, slow drags of his tongue from entrance to clit, tasting every inch of smooth skin, learning the new terrain with the same patient focus he gave the razor. His beard scrapes against your inner thighs, your lips, the crease of your legs, and the contrast—soft warm tongue, rough stubble—has you writhing within minutes. 

“John—John—” 

He hums against your clit and the vibration shoots straight up your spine. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you closer, burying himself deeper. He sucks your clit between his lips firmly and flicks his tongue over it in a tight rhythm that makes your hands fist in the duvet. 

“Oh God—oh fuck—” 

He pulls back. Just enough. Lips still brushing you when he speaks. 

“Language, darling.” 

“You’re eating me out!” you whine helplessly. 

“And you’ll still mind your mouth in my house.” But there is a rumble underneath the words—amusement and bone-deep arousal, barely restrained—and his tongue is back on you before you can fire back, licking into you with a hunger that contradicts every ounce of composure in his voice. 

John brings a hand up and slides two thick fingers inside you without preamble, curling them forward, and the sound you make is broken and loud and not remotely dignified. He groans at the feel of you clenching around him, and you feel it everywhere. 

“That’s it,” he groans, low and rough. “That’s my gorgeous girl.” 

He fucks you with his fingers—steady and deep, curling against the spot that makes your thighs shake—while his mouth works your clit in slow, sucking pulls. He’s not rushing but savouring. Taking you apart piece by piece with the same relentless patience he applies to everything, and you couldn’t stop the orgasm building in you if you tried. 

“John—I’m close—” 

“I know you are.” He doesn’t change pace. Just keeps that maddening, steady rhythm. “Come when you’re ready. I’ll be here.” 

It hits you like a wave. Slow and devastating, rolling through you from the inside out. Your back arches, your legs lock around his wide shoulders, and you come on his tongue with his name in your mouth. John works you through every second of it, fingers still moving, tongue still pressing, until you’re shaking and pushing weakly at his head. 

When he finally pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks up at you with dark, satisfied eyes and a beard that’s matted and glistening with your come. 

“See? That’s why you let me handle things.” 

You can’t even argue with that. Not right now at least. You’re boneless, spent, staring at the ceiling while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and stands—unhurried as ever, straightening his shirt like he didn’t just ruin you for the rest of the day. 

“I’ll make us a tea,” he calls from the doorway, completely composed. “You’ll want a biscuit after that, because I’m going to fuck my wife later.” 

— J. MACTAVISH

“Nae, hen.” 

Like every time before, Johnny straight up refuses when you ask him to help you shave your bush. 

He takes one glance at it and his pupils blow up like an IED, swallowing the baby blue of his irises within milliseconds. 

“Why?” you whine, stomping your foot like a petulant bunny. “Johnny, pleeease! I can’t do it on my own! I cut myself last time!” 

And you cross your arms, frowning at him, and hoping it’s enough to make him cave. But, alas, it is not. 

“Good,” he retorts, turning back to the telly where some Premier League match is playing that he’s barely watching anymore. “Maybe tha’ll teach ye to leave her alone.” 

Her. 

“Johnny, it’s hair.” 

“Aye, it’s hair. Her hair. And I fuckin’ like it.” He slings his arm over the back of the couch, manspreading like he owns the entire living room, eyes fixed on the screen with a kind of stubbornness that makes you want to scream. “End of.” 

“You don’t get to decide what I do with my own—” 

“Never said I did,” he interrupts flatly, then glances at you sideways, grinning. “I said am no’ helpin’. Big fuckin’ difference, lass. Ye want to hack away at yerself in the bathroom again, be my guest. I’ll be here Mournin’.” 

You cross your arms, scoffing, “You’re mourning my pubic hair.” 

“Aye. She’s a right bonnie. Deserves better than some dull razor and yer shaky hands.” 

You gape at him. He takes a slow sip of his beer, utterly unbothered, eyes back on the match. The audacity of this man. The sheer, Scottish audacity. 

“Fine,” you snap, and yank your leggings down right there in the living room. “Look at it then. Look. It’s a mess, Johnny!” 

That gets his attention. 

He turns his head slowly, beer bottle halfway to his mouth, and his eyes drop between your thighs. The grin slides off his face and something else replaces it—something hotter, sharper. His jaw works. He shifts in his seat. 

“Come here,” he demands suddenly. 

“No. You said no.” 

“I said come here.” He pats his thick right thigh. “Need a closer look, don’t I? Cannae make a proper assessment from across the room.” 

You know it’s a trap. You know it is. But he’s looking at you with those baby blue eyes and that crooked, shit-eating smile, and your feet are already moving. 

He pulls you onto his lap the second you’re within reach—hands on your hips, spinning you so your back is against his chest, your bare arse settled right over the growing bulge in his joggers. He spreads your thighs with his knees, hooking your legs over the outside of his, opening you up. 

Your eyes widen. “Johnny!” 

“Shh, hen. ‘M assessin’.” 

Johnny looks down over your shoulder, chin resting against your temple, and his hands slide down from your hips to your inner thighs. He spreads you open with both thumbs and makes a low, appreciative sound that vibrates through his chest and into your spine. 

“Aye, see?” he says, voice dropping rougher. “Look at her. She’s fuckin’ gorgeous. All soft an’ warm." He drags his fingers through the curls, tugging gently, and your hips twitch. “Why would ye want to get rid of this?” 

“Johnny, I just—” 

“Nah, hold on, ‘m talkin’ to her, no' you.” He dips his head lower, mouth against your ear, but he’s addressing your exposed cunt like it’s a separate entity. “Don’t listen to her, sweetheart. She doesnae know what she’s got. Ye’re perfect.” 

You sigh deeply, lips pursing. “You’re literally insane.” 

“Aye, she says thank ye,” he continues, ignoring you completely. His fingers stroke through the hair again, lower this time, brushing your outer lips. “She’s happy. See? Nice and warm in her wee fur coat. Ye want to take that away from her? In this economy? In this weather?” 

“It’s literally June, Johnny.” 

“Could get cold! Ye don’t know!” His thumb grazes your clit—barely, just enough—and you gasp. He grins against your ear. “Oh, an’ she’s  awake now. See that? She heard ye talkin’ aboot razors an’ she got scared. I’m just comfortin’ her.”

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever—hah—” 

His thumb presses down, firm, and circles slowly. “What was tha’?” 

“—ever met in my entire—fuck—” 

Johnny chuckles with dark satisfaction. “That’s more like it.” He circles again, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world, like the match is still the most important thing in the room. His other hand holds your thigh open, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Look at ye. All wet already and I’ve barely touched her. She likes the bush, babe. She’s tellin’ ye.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, trying not to make another sound. “That’s not—that’s not how that works—” 

“No?” He sinks a finger into you—just one for now, thick and rough—and you clench around him so hard your vision blurs. “Feels like it’s  workin’ to me.” 

He starts a rhythm—slow, dragging thrusts with his finger while his thumb circles your clit—and you’re melting into his chest, head falling back against his shoulder. The telly is still on, some commentator yelling about a foul, and Johnny’s watching the match over your shoulder like he’s not knuckle-deep inside your hairy cunt. 

“Johnny—fuck—pay attention to me—” 

“I am payin’ attention. Multitaskin’, lass. Top o’ ma fuckin’ class.” He crooks his thick finger, and you nearly come off his lap. “Ooh, there she is. Found the spot, aye?” 

“Please—” 

“Please what? Please shave ye?” He tsks, adding a second finger, stretching you. “Still nae. But I’ll make ye forget why ye wanted to in the first place. Deal?” 

You whimper. He takes that as a yes. 

Then he pulls his fingers out, and you do whine, loud and needy, and before you can protest, he’s lifting you off his lap and onto your feet. You sway, legs shaking, and he grins up at you as he slides down the couch, lying back with his head on the armrest. 

“Come here,” he demands again, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it. He folds his muscular arms behind his head, looking up at you like he’s ordered room service. “Sit on my face.” 

“You—what?” 

Johnny snickers at the dumbstruck expression on your face. “Ye heard me.” He licks his lips. Obscenely slow and deliberate. Like a wolf licking its chaps. The bastard. “Bring her up here. I want to have a proper conversation.” 

“A conversation,” you repeat, not amused. 

“Aye. With my tongue. Now get up here before I drag ye.” 

Your thighs are still trembling as you relent with a groan and climb over him, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his head. You hover, suddenly self-conscious, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, fer fuck’s sake—” His brawny hands grip your hips and yank you down onto his mouth. 

The first thing you feel is his groan—deep, guttural, vibrating against your cunt like he has just taken a bite of the best thing he’s ever tasted. His tongue drags through your furry pussy lips, broad and flat and filthy, and his fingers dig into the meat of your arse hard enough to leave bruises. 

“Johnny—oh my God!” 

He can’t answer with his mouth full of you, but he slaps your thigh once—hard—and you jolt. And the message is clear. 

You roll your hips against his face, tentative at first, then harder when his tongue licks your clit and flicks over it in rapid, relentless strokes He’s making sounds beneath you, groaning into your cunt like he’s getting off on it as much as you are. Perhaps more. His nose presses into the curls he refused to shave and he inhales deeply, moaning like he’s dying. 

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles against you, pulling back just long enough to breathe. His chin is soaked, his eyes are five shades darker, and he’s grinning like a maniac. “Ride my face, sweetheart. Fuckin’ use me.” 

His mouth seals over your clit again and he sucks hard, and your hand flies to the armrest for balance because your legs have stopped working entirely. He’s licking into you with his whole mouth now, tongue fucking you, slurping, then dragging back up to your clit, alternating between sucking and flicking in a rhythm designed to make you lose your mind. 

“I’m—Johnny, I’m going to—fuck—!” 

He pulls you tighter against his mouth, both hands gripping your arse and leaving finger-shaped marks, and his tongue works your clit in fast, tight circles while his nose presses against your mound and you come so hard your thighs clamp around his head and your whole body convulses. 

He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it—slower now, gentler, long lazy strokes through your slit while you twitch and shake above him. When you finally collapse sideways onto the couch, boneless and gasping, he wipes his face with the back of his hand and sits up looking thoroughly pleased with himself; face shiny and mohawk wild. 

“So,” he says, reaching for his beer on the side table like nothing happened. Like his grey joggers don’t have a large, damp patch on the front where his hard cock presses against it and reeks of his cum. “Still want to shave?” 

You throw a cushion at his head. 

He catches it, laughing—that big, stupid, full-body laugh that crinkles his whole face—and pulls you into his buff, hairy chest. 

Two fingers rest against your clit, massaging it, rubbing slow, tight circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. He pushes your t-shirt up, admiring your breasts, watching the way your chest rises and falls with your sleepy breathing. Pinching, pulling, rolling your nipple between his fingers, your body begins to squirm, and whimpers begin to fall but you’re still fast asleep.

His aching cock rests against your ass, and he spreads your cheeks, gazing at your wet folds before sticking a finger in just to make sure. He curls his digit ever so slightly, loving the way your hips press back into him for more, loving the way your body responds to him despite not being aware of what he’s doing.

He pulls it out, his calloused finger glistening in the dim lighting of the room and sucks the slick off of him. The taste of you floods his mouth, musky and sweet, something he can never get tired of. If you were in a different position, he would’ve eaten you out until you begged him to fuck you, but this will do just fine.

Notching his head at your entrance, he leans down to take a nipple in his mouth, and while he sucks, he pushes himself inside of you. Deeper and deeper until he is nestled against your cervix and your body begins to wake up.

“Si…,” you ask groggily, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, unable to deny the sensations running through you from your husbands’ cock in your pussy.

“It’s okay baby. ‘s just me,” he replies, popping his mouth off your nipple, moving his lips to yours instead.

He kisses you soft and slow, his cock pumping in and out of you at the same pace, his hips rolling against your ass with a soft slap and squelch from how wet you are. You moan into his mouth, and he swallows it greedily while one hand latches on to the hair at his nape, and the other curls against the soft sheets.

The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, filling you up to the brim, leaving no room inside of you empty for long. Precum leaks out against your cervix and you clamp down on him, he pulls out until only the tip is inside and your pussy begs him for more. He rests his forehead against you, his warm, heavy breath hitting your skin and sending shivers down your spine while he fucks you.

“Feels so g-good,” you moan, arching your ass into him, doing your best to meet him for every single thrust he gives you.

“I know baby, I know,” he groans, his lips brushing against yours, the feeling of you so close is consuming him whole.

His hand moves between your legs again and they fall open for him this time. He gathers your slick before rubbing your clit, those same tight circles gliding against the sensitive bundle of nerves faster now as his pace picks up. His other hand holds himself up, his palm digging into the mattress where he fists the fabric, steadying himself when the feeling of your walls wrapped so tightly around him is almost unbearable.

Simon thrusts into you faster, harder, deeper, anything to feel your pussy clamp down on him as a silent beg for more. Your body writhes beneath him, your eyes shut tight with your mouth hanging open ever so slightly while moans and whimpers fall from your pretty, soft lips. Your hand moves from his nape and grabs your breast instead where you pull and pinch your own nipple in search of more stimulation.

His gaze falls to your small hand, touching yourself just the way you want, pleasuring your body at the same time as him, and he has to do everything in his power not to cum inside you just from that. Instead, he fucks you harder, hitting deeper, hitting spots only he can.

“F-fuck, Si,” you cry out when he angles his hips perfectly to hit your sweet spot.

Stars burst behind your eye lids, the feeling of pleasure coursing through your body, the feeling of your orgasm coiling tight in your lower belly as if it is ready to snap at any given time. You rock back against him, letting him reach even deeper inside of you, drunk on the feeling of his fat cock bullying your pussy.

“Yeah? That feel good,” he asks, doing it again, and again, and again until you can’t even form a single coherent thought.

All of it overwhelms you in the best way possible. His fingers working your puffy, swollen clit that begs for the attention he always gives it. Your hardened, aching nipples that you pull, and pinch, and twist to relieve the need to be touched there. His cock slamming into your cervix, hitting your sweet spot, rubbing your walls raw until you can’t hold back anymore.

“I’m c-cumming! O-oh Si,” you whimper, throwing your head back against the pillow, giving yourself to him in the most vulnerable way possible.

“Cum on my dick,” he growls out, pounding you harder, begging to feel you unravel all because of him.

The sound of skin slapping, moans, groans, and whimpers fill the room. The headboard slams against the wall, the bed creaks under the harsh movements and heavy weight. The two of you are consumed by each other, drowning in the feeling of pleasure and desire, both itching to feel the other.

“C’mon baby. Give it to me.”

You nod your head frantically, unable to say anything even if you try. Your body becomes rigid, your muscles drawing taut, and your orgasm rocks through you. Cum gushes from your pussy, leaking out around his length, leaving a white cream around the base of him. You cry out, your hand looking for purchase on anything, and when you land on his lower abdomen, your nails dig into his skin.

He grunts from the pleasurable pain of you, fucking into you deeper, watching you cum on him before he allows himself the same release. His fingers ease up on your clit when your body begins to twitch, when you keep repeating that you can’t take it anymore, but his cock still drives into your sensitive pussy over and over again.

“Gonna cum so deep in you,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges, laced with raw desire and the utmost passion.

He moves his hand from in between your thighs and uses it to spread your cheeks to watch the way your soaking pussy swallows him whole. The sight alone can have him cumming but when he looks up at you, he knows he’s done for.

Your eyes are on him, half-lidded and dazed while tears stain your cheeks. Your mouth is hanging open, lingering whimpers falling out, your lips swollen and pigmented from his harsh kisses. Drool drips from your chin, running down your neck and pooling in the dip of your chest where your breasts bounce with each hard thrust.

“F-fuck, you feel so g-good,” he stutters, his hips doing the same, his pace becoming frantic and unsteady.

With a few more thrusts he’s burying himself to the hilt and spilling his seed inside of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out from his tip against your cervix with every pulse of his cock, coating your walls in his release, leaking out with nothing else will fit. His cock slides in and out ever so slowly, letting every last drop fall inside of your greedy pussy, making sure to push it deeper inside of you.

Simon collapses on the bed beside you, even more exhausted and battered than before, but now feeling blissful after being with his wife. You roll over, sluggish and tired, just to place your body on top of his. His arms wrap around you, pulling you in, caging you against his sweaty skin and beefy body. He places a soft kiss to your forehead when you get comfortable on his chest, and he does it again, and again until he can hear your breathing even out and those soft sounds you make that you swear aren’t snores.

│Masterlist│

Tags: @fysalia, @scarhein, @bl-nk-bla-k, @joelmillrenthusiast, @jo-ys-things, @wcaress, @tessakate, @sexychickenmagnet, @bitchysidepiece, @angellwingsss, @imjustaprettyprincess, @seargentsnowflake, @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction, @teevyn, @hannies-barracks, @shitaaba, @ghostedink, @realwhoreforfictionalmen, @sleepygojira, @shrewdreader, @pinklyred, @saltysharkprototype, @livlovesfastcars

They touch down in Sydney at 0200 Australian time. They're all tired, cranky and barely avoiding taking swipes at each other. The back of the airlifter is saturated with the overwhelming scent of unsettled, irritated, unwashed Alphas making the other operatives they'd hitched a ride with visibly uneasy, sitting stiffly in their seats. 

Soap stands with a groan once the plane opens, adjusting his weapon strapped across his chest before rolling his shoulders in an effort to try and get the knots in his back out after sitting for more than 20 hours with limited success. His attention is pulled away when Ghost passes him, the Beta headed towards the airlifter’s opening, making the most of time already.

They're here for what Price had called Operation Southern Cross. They were currently moving on  a need to know basis, pissing off everyone on the taskforce. Soap finally moves after Gaz passes him, following closely behind Ghost, eager to stretch his legs.  Price still inside talking to the Captain upfront.

The moment Soap's boots hit the tarmac, heat slammed into him unlike anything he'd ever felt before. 

"Fuckin' hell, it's hot," slips out before he even thinks about it. There's noises of agreement from both Ghost and Gaz before Price is shouldering past him making his way towards another soldier leaning against a dark SUV on the other side of the tarmac, AMCU uniform in proud display under the dim light shining overhead. He straightens, snapping to attention once he sees Price.

“At ease,” Price grunts.

He relaxes near instantly, opening the side of the door for Price before rounding the car to get into the driver's seat, leaving Gaz, Ghost and Soap to climb into the back.

Soap groans almost immediately at the thought of more sitting, his body still protesting after the flight. 

"Suck it up, lads. Last leg of the journey and then we can all get some rest," Price says. His voice strained, feeling the same fatigue as the others. He turns to give them all a quick look, the Alpha standing tall and adjusting his weapon before swiftly climbing into the front seat and closing the door behind him.

Gaz sighs, tips his head back briefly before facing forward again, adjusting the strap of his gun before heading to the backdoor of the SUV. The Beta climbed in with no hesitation. Ghost and Soap take the opportunity to also adjust their weapons. Ghost heads to the other side of the vehicle to get into the SUV that way, leaving Soap to climb in behind Gaz and leaving the poor Beta in the middle. 

The Australian soldier introduces himself as he starts the SUV. His name is Garret, a Beta who joined the Australian Army when he was nineteen. He explains that it's currently the start of summer and that's why it feels like Satan's asshole outside, ripping a laugh straight from Soap before he settles down again. 

“It’ll take us about six hours to get to where we need to go and then you’ll be in the hands of Halo, we’ll reach our destination at 0830, until then, I suggest you guys try and get some shut eye. Things are gonna get very hectic very quick”.

Price tilts his head back giving them all a quick nod before looking forwards again. And that's all they need, so with all three of them squished in the back, knees touching each other, pressed shoulder to shoulder they sleep.

—

Soap sleeps for most of the ride. Years of sleeping in rough places make a cramped vehicle feel like luxury. He wakes while they’re going through a small country town. The sun, now high enough to shine through the window, breaks him from his rest. 

WELCOME TO YASS blares from a sign at the edge of the town, the name funny even with his Scottish roots. The car is silent. Gaz is still asleep but Price and Ghost are awake. The silence is comfortable so it remains. 

—-

Some time later they come to the outskirts of the biggest rural town they’ve come across since being here. Gaz is now awake and taking in the sights from Ghost’s side of the car. Ghost is resting with his eyes closed, head tilted back on the seat.

Soap stares at the road sign as it flashes past the SUV window.

"Wagga Wagga."

Gaz looks away from the window.

"What about it?"

Soap points at the sign.

"Wagga. Wagga."

"Aye?"

"They named it twice."

Ghost doesn't even open his eyes.

"Leave it."

"Ah'm serious. Who the hell names a place Wagga Wagga?"

The Australian soldier shrugs.

"The locals."

"Did nobody stop an' ask if they were havin' a stroke?"

Gaz chokes on a laugh.

"Mate—"

"No, because imagine tryin' tae explain that." Soap puts on his best serious voice.

"'Where d'ye live?'"

"'Wagga Wagga.'"

"'Sorry, mate, ye already said that.'"

Garret is visibly fighting a grin now.

"There's a reason for it."

"Aye? What's that?"

"It means crow."

Soap nods.

"Right."

"From the local Aboriginal language."

"Right."

"Reduplication makes it plural."

Soap stares.

"So it's Crow Crow?"

"Basically."

Soap throws his hands up.

"That's even worse."

Ghost finally cracks one eye open.

"Says the man called Soap."

"That's different."

"How?"

Soap opens his mouth.

Pauses.

Closes it again.

"Ah hate this country."

Garret can’t help it. He laughs.

—

The drive through Wagga Wagga takes 12 minutes. They’re on the highway for a few minutes before Garret turns off into an outside suburb called Kapooka. 

“Welcome to the Blamey Barracks Gentlemen!” Garret says pulling up across from a checkpoint near surrounding homes. Soap nearly throws himself out of the car in relief, thrilled to stretch his legs, his weapon shifting with his every movement. The low groan behind him lets him know that Gaz is feeling the same relief.

He feels movement to his left. Turning, he finds Ghost stepping up beside him while Price climbs out of the SUV. Garret is already talking to his Commanding Officer who was outside and waiting for them. Price approaches Garret and his Commanding Officer with Ghost, Gaz and Soap a step behind.

“Commander Andrew Sturge,” the Alpha introduced himself, offering his hand.

Price took it without hesitation.

“Captain John Price, SAS.”

It's even hotter in the sun, and Price is in a worse mood than when they landed and Sturge can tell. He wraps it up quickly.

“Garret, take them to where they’ll be staying. Captain, meet back here with your squad at 1600 hours. We’ll continue operations then. Eat, shower and rest. And then you can meet Halo.” Sturge barks before turning into the checkpoint.

Garret throws out a quick "Yes, sir," before turning and leading them to one of the surrounding houses on the base. They get settled inside making a quick meal of what was available in the stocked cupboards. They take turns showering, cleaning their weapons before retiring to bed for some much needed rest.

—

At 1545 it's somehow even hotter than it was this morning. Ghost and Gaz are talking about the bird they heard while walking to the checkpoint while Price is talking to one of the guards and Soap is too busy staring at a fucking Kangaroo just lazing about the reserve like it had nothing else better to do. Which is why he doesn't notice Ghost and Gaz falling silent until Price is already talking to the new soldier standing at the edge of the checkpoint. 

“Johnny!” The bark of Price’s voice jolts him out of his daze and he swings his head and nearly stops dead. Right in front of him stood the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Hair glowing gold beneath the afternoon sun, blue eyes framed by dark lashes. Amusement danced across her face as she watched his obvious fumble.

“Soap, this is Halo. Halo, this is Soap, Ghost and Gaz.” Price introduces them, pointing to each in turn with their call sign. Halo steps forward shaking everyone's hand, taking them by surprise. 

“Please,” she says. “Call me Grace”. She grabs Soap's hand to shake and Soap notices several things all at once:

One. She’s so beautiful that he thinks his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

Two. She might look sweet, but he could tell this woman was dangerous. Extremely dangerous in the right circumstances.

Three. She smelled amazing, like rain and the homemade eucalyptus sweets he used to have at his nanna's house as a bairn.

Four. He was in danger. 

She smelt like home. 

She smelt like Omega. 

She smelt like his. 

Every instinct he had sat up and took notice.

He was so unbelievably fucked.

So of course he immediately put his foot in his mouth.

"Well... ye're no' what ah was expectin'."  He’s never regretted saying something so quickly before in his damn life.

Silence.

Grace blinked.

Absolute, horrified silence.

Ghost made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort.

Gaz looked away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

Price pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Outstanding first impression, Johnny."

"Ah know," Soap muttered.

"Do ye?"

"Shut it."

Grace stared at him.

Soap stared right back.

The handshake had gone on far too long.

Somewhere to his left, Ghost made another suspicious noise.

Grace finally raised an eyebrow.

"And what exactly were you expecting?"

Soap's brain, usually capable of functioning under gunfire, explosions, and active combat zones, immediately abandoned him.

"A bloke."

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

Price groaned.

Gaz outright laughed.

Ghost looked away toward the fence line, shoulders shaking once.

Grace blinked.

Then, to Soap's immense relief, she laughed.

A bright, genuine sound that caught him completely off guard. "Well," she said, finally releasing his hand, "that's usually the reaction I get."

"Aye?"

"Most people hear 'Halo' and expect some six-foot-six Alpha built like a brick wall."

Soap opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"Ye could still kill me though."

Grace smiled.

"Probably."

"Right."

"Depends if you're being annoying."

Gaz stepped forward immediately.

"Oh, he's definitely being annoying."

"Traitor."

"Fact."

Price finally decided the conversation had suffered enough.

"Can we focus?" he asked.

"No," Gaz said.

Price ignored him.

"Halo—"

"Grace."

Price sighed.

"Grace."

Her grin widened.

"You've got information for us?"

"I do."

Just like that, the easy humour disappeared.

The shift was instant.

Professional.

Sharp.

Dangerous.

Soap felt his Alpha instincts sit up straighter.

This was the soldier he'd smelled beneath the eucalyptus and rain.

Grace turned and started walking.

"Follow me."

The team fell into step behind her.

As they moved through the checkpoint, Soap caught sight of Australian soldiers greeting her.

Some nodded respectfully.

Others moved out of her way entirely.

One Alpha nearly twice her size immediately stopped talking when she looked his way.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

"How long have ye been attached tae this operation?" Soap asked.

Grace glanced over her shoulder.

"Since the beginning."

"And how long's that?"

"Eight months."

Soap whistled.

Price frowned.

"Eight months?"

"Welcome to why everyone's annoyed," Grace replied.

That earned a snort from Ghost.

"Need-to-know?"

"Need-to-know."

"Lovely."

"Isn't it?"

They reached a low operations building.

Grace swiped a card that she had pulled from her pocket and pushed the door open.

Cool air-conditioning washed over them.

Every single member of Task Force 141 looked ready to weep with gratitude.

"Jesus Christ," Gaz muttered.

"The best invention Australia ever made."

"We didn't invent air conditioning."

"You should've."

Grace laughed again.

Soap found himself staring.

Again.

The woman was a problem.

A massive problem.

An Omega who smelled like home.

An Omega who could clearly handle herself.

An Omega who made him feel fourteen years old and stupid every time she smiled.

She caught him looking.

His stomach dropped.

Her smile softened.

Just a fraction.

Enough that he wondered if she'd felt it too.

That strange pull.

That impossible sense of familiarity.

The feeling of finding something you'd been missing your entire life without realizing it.

For a second neither of them looked away.

Then Price cleared his throat.

Loudly.

Soap nearly jumped out of his skin.

Grace looked away first.

"So," she said, voice perfectly professional despite the faint pink creeping into her cheeks.

"Let's talk about Operation Southern Cross."

And Soap knew, with absolute certainty, that he wasn't going to hear a single bloody word.

—

Grace was absolutely sure about a few things about her new temporary squad mates. 

Soap was entirely far too handsome. 

Far too confident. 

Seemed to constantly smile judging by the laugh lines on his face. And had one of the best accents she’d ever heard. 

And he smelt amazing.

Like wood and leather.

Like safety.

Like home.

Fuck.

She was so screwed.

—

The briefing room was cool.

Blessedly, gloriously cool.

Soap should have been paying attention.

Instead he was watching Grace.

Not staring.

Definitely not staring.

Just... observing.

There was a difference.

Unfortunately, Ghost seemed to disagree.

Without looking up from the folder he'd been handed, Ghost muttered,

"Keep staring like that and she's going to notice."

Soap kicked his boot beneath the table.

Ghost didn't even flinch.

At the front of the room, Grace continued speaking.

"The target area is approximately two hundred kilometres west of here. Remote terrain. Limited infrastructure. No civilian population for nearly eighty kilometres in any direction."

She clicked a button.

A satellite image appeared on the screen.

Immediately, every member of 141 straightened.

Business mode.

"The Australian Defence Force picked up unusual activity eight months ago."

Price leaned forward.

"What kind of activity?"

"Missing equipment."

"Military?"

Grace nodded.

"Small amounts at first. Easy to miss."

Another image appeared.

Photos.

Vehicles.

Buildings.

Armed men.

Soap finally dragged his eyes away from her face.

Mostly.

"Then it escalated."

The room quieted.

Grace folded her arms.

"We've got a private militia operating inside Australian territory."

That got everyone's attention.

Ghost sat forward.

"Numbers?"

"Estimated one hundred personnel."

Gaz whistled softly.

"That's not a militia."

"No."

Grace's expression hardened.

"It's an army."

Price's jaw tightened.

"And they're doing what?"

Grace looked at him.

"We don't know."

That answer clearly annoyed him.

"We've had eyes on them for months," she continued. "They don't smuggle drugs. They don't traffic weapons. They don't make contact with organised crime groups."

"So what do they do?" Gaz asked.

Grace looked uncomfortable.

Which immediately made Soap nervous.

"That's the problem."

She changed slides.

A map appeared.

Several locations highlighted.

Soap frowned.

The locations were scattered.

Miles apart.

No obvious pattern.

No logical reason.

Price noticed too.

"What are they looking for?"

Grace exhaled slowly.

"We don't know that either."

Silence.

"We're meant to investigate a group you've been watching for eight months and nobody knows what they're after?" Ghost asked.

Grace's jaw twitched.

Clearly she'd asked herself the same question.

Every day.

"Correct."

Soap finally stopped looking at the screen and looked at her instead.

Really looked.

She was frustrated.

Tired.

Stressed.

Under pressure.

And somehow carrying all of it without letting anyone see.

Most people wouldn't have noticed.

He did.

For a second her eyes flicked toward him.

She knew he'd noticed.

Then the moment was gone.

Price stood.

"When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Good."

No hesitation.

No complaints.

No second guessing.

Just acceptance.

Something in Grace's expression softened.

"You trust me?"

Price snorted.

"No."

That surprised her.

It surprised Soap too.

Price pointed toward the screen.

"But somebody's got you chasing your tail. If they're making soldiers this nervous, I want to know why."

A small smile tugged at Grace's mouth.

The first real smile she'd worn since entering the room.

"Fair enough."

The briefing continued.

Coordinates.

Supply routes.

Timelines.

Contingencies.

Important information.

Information Soap should have been absorbing.

Instead he spent half the briefing listening to Grace talk.

And the other half wondering if she could hear how stupidly fast his heart was beating whenever she looked his way.

By the time the meeting ended, he knew three things.

One.

Operation Southern Cross was about to become very complicated.

Two.

Grace was hiding something.

Not maliciously.

Protectively.

Like someone carrying a burden alone.

And three.

He was already in far deeper than he should have been.

Because when everyone stood to leave, Grace smiled at him.

Just him.

And the idiot smiled back like he'd won the bloody lottery.

You lay naked on the bed, legs spread, juices glistening off your folds while Simon hovers above you. His arms cage your head in as he kisses you rough, his tongue sliding over your soft lips, yours entering to explore the expanse of his mouth. He kisses the length of your jaw, down your neck where he licks the salty-sweet skin, bites just hard enough for you to writhe beneath him, and sucks until purple bruises are left to ache in the best way possible.

Before he can lower himself between your legs, you let your fingertips brush just under the waistband of his sweatpants, and his mouth stills against yours.

“Si… just let me try something tonight. I really want to,” you say breathlessly, pulling away from the kiss, gazing up at him with a look that is more of a beg than anything.

He kisses your forehead, moving his hand down to pull yours away, but before he can you reach in deeper, squeezing the base of him and earning a rumbling groan from him instead. His fingers wrap around your wrist, not moving you, just simply holding on like he has to steady himself.

“Lovie, please. Don’t embarrass me now,” he whispers, voice rough and low, wavering ever so slightly when your hand begins to trail further up his limp cock.

You don’t reply, but you do run your thumb against his tip, swiping the precum beading from his slit, evidence of his arousal despite him remaining soft. Lips meeting him again, he’s reluctant, but eventually he finds your rhythm.

Pushing his sweatpants down, you pull his cock out, stroking it gently and your warm, soft palm against him feels like you're touching his raw nerves. Even if he couldn’t get it up, it is still incredibly sensitive from months and months of pent-up need and no sex. Not that you hadn’t tried before, because you have, and every time he gets frustrated.

There’s not much you can say to convince him to try again on the same night.

Nonetheless, you focus on his tip, gliding your thumb under the ridge, rubbing against his slit, and you feel his cock twitch barely in your hand. You pull his body closer to yours, resting his cock on your folds, and he hisses from the sheer pleasure of that alone. Your body heat, your slick, the thought of him touching your aching clit like this has him beyond needy.

“Just slide against me. It’ll feel good, yeah,” you say, nodding your head slowly in encouragement.

His hips roll against you, his cock sliding underneath your palm and through your folds, and he bites back a whimper while shivers run down his spine. Simon can feel his cock hardening, just barely, just enough that he might actually be able to feel your walls wrap around him, so he wastes no time in finding out.

“Please, please,” he says under his breath, begging his body to let him pleasure you in ways he usually can’t, just for tonight if that’s what it takes.

He grabs the base of his cock, positioning at your entrance, and it takes a few tries but his semi-hard tip pushes through your entrance. You gasp softly, the feeling foreign and orgasmic, and your walls clench hard around him. A guttural groan rips from his chest when he begins to rock into you, his eyes meet yours, passion and desire swirling around as his pupils dilate from the sight of you taking him regardless of the conditions.

“You feel so good, Si,” you moan, lifting your hips to give him easier access, glancing down every few seconds to watch the way his impossibly large and yet still soft cock rubs through your walls.

“You feel like a dream,” is all he can get out before his eyes are shutting tight and his fingers are tangling in your hair.

Your body meets his, helping him through it, helping him get to where he needs to be so that just for tonight, he can feel man enough for you. And when he cums deep inside of you, his tip pulsing with long, thick ropes of warm cum, ‘thank you’s’ fall from him repeatedly before he kisses you with a newfound confidence.

“Again Si, don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He stays rocking inside you, cumming again and again until his cock is too raw, until your pussy is full of his cum, and you feel every last bit of him. When he’s done, he lowers himself between your legs, cleaning his mess and sucking your clit, watching you cry from pleasure, watching you squirm away, but there is nothing he could give you that would ever come close to the feeling of showing him that he is enough for you.

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