sable

Never in his entire life of being a captain, would he expect to overhear his team speak the way they were now.

He was heading towards his office when he heard your voice in Simon’s office.

“Whatever needs to be done. My throats feels so tight and needs it,” you had said, voice slightly muffled from the outside.

John should’ve opened the door and question what the fuck was going on in there— but he honestly didn’t want to even know. So you know what he did? Stand there like some cuck.

“Might be sore after, tha’ alrigh’ with you?” Simon asks.

John was stunned.

“Is it sour?” you asked.

A gruff scoff escaped from Simon, “let it go down your throat ‘n y’ won’t taste a thing,” he murmured.

John barely heard that part.

He’s had enough— his team was not about to fraternize right here, nor ever.

John’s hand grabbed the door knob and opened it so quick, he got a gist of wind hitting his face. “What the bloody hell is goin’ on in he—“

Simon looked over at the front door to find the captain staring back at him with wide, worry eyes.

There Simon was, holding up a small cup and a bottle of Mucinex while you stood in front of him, appearing as if you were close to passing out. You had been sick for three days now, John suddenly remembers.

It started off with Johnny noticing how Simon’s gaze often lingered on you, the newest truck loader.

Then he blabbered it off to the entire team. So yeah— Simon may have banged his head against the wall in his quarters and slept that night thinking about choking Johnny.

But here he was, after a long day of being convinced to talk to you.

You had just finished unloading the last truck of the day and what better time to talk to you than now?

“You gotta be confident and bold with your words, L.T.” Kyle’s words.

“No, you have t’ be funny. Make ‘em laugh.” Johnny’s words.

“If all things fail, just ask ‘em for coffee.” John’s words.

Simon took in a deep breath and smiled (the best he could. He doesn’t smile often). You didn’t even catch it either; he was wearing his damn balaclava. “You just started working, yeah?” he asks, stuffing his hands into his vest. Confident, check.

You took off your gloves and patted your sweaty forehead with your arm, “mhm! About two-ish months ago,” you tell the older man, giving him a polite smile.

A quiet hum fell from Simon’s lips as he rocks on his heels a bit, “Once saw y’ trippin’ over a box,” Simon says bluntly. Funny, check.

You stared at him, blinking twice and half expecting him to finish his sentence.

He didn’t.

Instead, the two of you had a staring contest while Simon’s face burned behind the balaclava.

“You can trip on me,” Simon suddenly adds. Funny and bold… check?

Your brows knitted a bit, “what…?” you ask with an awkward laugh.

Fuck.

This wasn’t going how he imagined it to go. He imagined him coolly leaning against a wall or something while complimenting you.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Do you have coffee?” Simon changes the topic, his entire face blowing up with steam.

Off to the side, John stared at his teammate with a heavy sigh and rubbed his temple. “Bloody idiot asked for coffee,” he mumbles.

Kyle shrugs a bit, “T’ be fair, you did say to ask for coffee,” he says, defending his lieutenant.

Blunt!Simon, who has never once been good at keeping his mouth shut. He says this exactly as he sees them. Simon, who has the exact same mindset when he sees you enter the bases gym, clad in leggings and a standard issue sports bra.

'Can see yer nipples cuttin' through yer top, luv' he said gruffly, when you came over to say hi. You stopped dead in your tracks, blood rushing to your face, who even says that?!

You knew about his lack of filter, and youd always had a slight crush on him... but even then, you could feel your cheeks heating up

You try your best to get on with your workout, opting to do some cardio to warm up...

After a few hours, you head over to the water fountain to hydrate, where Simon had been standing, filling up his bottle. 'Been enjoyin' the outline 'f yer cunt, luvie' he says, looking down at you as you cough on your water in shock.

He bends down to get close to you 'dyin' for a taste... give yer LT a han', aye?'

maybe it was how cool and collected he always was. that hot, quiet confidence.

if only you knew when you’d finally got him into bed. ready for him to be rough, to be a little mean, not that you’d mind.

in reality, he was whining into your neck as he pumped into you at a primal speed. whispering and mumbling half words into your throat as he groped you anywhere he could. his eyes were rolled and he was drooling on your collarbone.

“o-oh.. oh, fuck- nghhhuhh… yyeah?.. awww… my baby.. gonna fill y-you… mhm…”

sweet little brain-numb nothings falling of the tongue of the smartest, coldest man you know.

Imagine the first time he stays at yours, and you have the mortifying experience of remembering which sheets are on your bed only after he's dumped a few loads into you.

Your childhood bedsheets with batman print all over the covers. Sue you, but bedsheets are expensive these days, and it's not like your government salary really pays all that well. It's so embarrassing you nearly cry, because you spend so long trying to prove you're a mature adult, and your boyfriend just fucked you on batman themed sheets.

But it's not the usual way you'd think. No glances across the bar, no shared smirks or flirty touches.

In fact, you hadn't even noticed john until another man shoulder-checked you instead of stepping the the two inches it took to get around you. The man, drunk by the smell of his breath, had whirled on you "watch where you're going, bitch."

The hand never grabbed your arm, because john stepped in.

Large body between you and the strange man, some words hissed that you couldn't focus on with the hunk of muscle un front of you. Between one blink and the next the man was flat on the floor and johns knuckles were bloody.

On the sidewalk after getting kicked out, with streetlights casting a smoky halo around john, you knew you had to take him home.

One night led to mutliple, led to staying for breakfast and coffee dates and then real dates. Led to whispered confessions and your dreams for the future slowly shifting to include your john. Led to a wedding and an even better wedding night.

On your honeymoon john insisted on taking you out of the country to meet some friends and stay in some fancy cabin.

"–And this is nikolai, but everyone calls him nik." John nods to a man you'd recognize anywhere.

"Are you...are you the man from the bar." You've never been good with subtlety. You look at price "why are you friends with the guy from the bar?"

Of course. Your husband whom you've believed to be your lucky savior since you met him has actually had his eyes on you for far longer. In his infinite wisdom, he decided staging a rescue was the best way to impress you back then.

But it's not the usual way you'd think. No glances across the bar, no shared smirks or flirty touches.

In fact, you hadn't even noticed john until another man shoulder-checked you instead of stepping the the two inches it took to get around you. The man, drunk by the smell of his breath, had whirled on you "watch where you're going, bitch."

The hand never grabbed your arm, because john stepped in.

Large body between you and the strange man, some words hissed that you couldn't focus on with the hunk of muscle un front of you. Between one blink and the next the man was flat on the floor and johns knuckles were bloody.

On the sidewalk after getting kicked out, with streetlights casting a smoky halo around john, you knew you had to take him home.

One night led to mutliple, led to staying for breakfast and coffee dates and then real dates. Led to whispered confessions and your dreams for the future slowly shifting to include your john. Led to a wedding and an even better wedding night.

On your honeymoon john insisted on taking you out of the country to meet some friends and stay in some fancy cabin.

"–And this is nikolai, but everyone calls him nik." John nods to a man you'd recognize anywhere.

"Are you...are you the man from the bar." You've never been good with subtlety. You look at price "why are you friends with the guy from the bar?"

Of course. Your husband whom you've believed to be your lucky savior since you met him has actually had his eyes on you for far longer. In his infinite wisdom, he decided staging a rescue was the best way to impress you back then.

But Simon being Simon, he doesn’t know how to present himself in a good light. His photos were bad; he took two selfies as he created his profile and they were not good to say the least. One was a mirror photo of him holding his tiny phone with both of his hands as he stoically stared into the mirror. The other was just a selfie of him except it wasn’t angled high or even remotely attractive. It was angled down as if he was taking some sort of quick snap.

The only thing saving his profile was a photo of Riley wearing a vest and goggles.

His bio was the worst of them all.

“I like working out. I have a busy job.”

That was it.

No personality, no indication that he wanted more than just a quickie.

Simon wasn’t expecting much out of the app and he was right because the next day, he opened up the app to find no matches.

Got the man thinking that he really was ugly.

It ruined his self esteem a little if he said so himself. Simon didn’t care about what other people thought but gosh, not even one person wanted to match with him?

…. And then he learned that he also had to swipe to get matches.

So on Simon’s off day, he practically spent half of the day swiping through people. He was picky, believe it or not.

Boring bio? Bye.

Too much filters or AI? Bye.

Too corny? Bye.

Clearly only looking for a one night stand? Bye.

Kind of hypocritical considering his profile looks like he only spent five minutes creating (which he did).

Just when Simon was about to give up on his love life for good, the last profile he stopped on was yours. Simple, nice photos, interesting bio and funny prompts. He hesitated— not because he wanted to skip, but in fear of rejection. Because if he swiped right and there was no “it’s a match!”, he’d probably wonder if he’ll ever find the love of his life.

His thumb hovered over the middle of his phone before he pressed down and swiped right.

It’s a match!

His phone lit up with the two profiles and underneath was his chance to send a message first.

Fuck. He didn’t know what to say. Should he try to be funny? Or start it off with a simple hey?

Simon began typing, deleting, typing and deleting the same message for the next two minutes before finally settling with a: “Hi. How are y”

He typed too fast that he didn’t even finish his sentence before he pressed sent.

Which is how the team ends up cramped in the back of a van, knees knocking together and bodies tense from the way you've been...coping.

"Baby, please, hold on a bit, yeah?" Kyle grunts, sweating nervously on top of the general heat in the van. Of course the A/C is broken. He grabs your hips, trying to stop you from straddling his thigh and failing miserably "base is a few hours out, then I can help. Just...not here."

"Hours. Kyle." You hiss, wrenching his hands off to grind against his thigh and hissing through your teeth at the pleasure "fuckin. Hours. I'm not waiting."

"I know, I know baby—" he tries to soothe, already chubbing up at the desperate little whines you make, still fully in gear while you seek pleasure. You tuck your forehead against his neck, inhale the scent of him, strong after such a long op and easier to focus on amongst the smell of the others.

The others, who make no attempt at being polite while they watch. Soap is already rubbing himself through his pants and ghost looks moments off from pulling himself out. Price snorts at the half-effort gaz puts into pushing you off, head tilted back and breathing deep to try and control himself.

"Let the sergeants have some fun, garrick. Not like we haven't seen soap do worse."

"That's— that's different—" gaz tries to argue, knowing damn well it isn't. Not when you're holding gaz tight, hips working faster as you find a good spot against his harness to rut against. "Fuckin' hell–! ...okay. okay, yeah, c'mon baby—"

You're all too eager to climb into his lap properly, whining when he drags you hips away to undo various buckles. With a laugh, ghost leans in to help hold you still until gaz can shirk your pants down just enough to slip a hand into your underwear.

"Yeah? Feel good?" Gaz huffs at the way your entire body jerks, one hand circling around his wrist like a vice. No way in hell is he removing that hand until you're satisfied.

It's a testament to how well gaz knows you that he's able to have you on the brink in a few short minutes. Fat tears rolling down your face in anticipation. Your orgasm has you gasping, moaning loud and unashamed while you ride it out, entire body shaking. Gaz kisses you on the temple, lets you down to rest against his chest "there we go, that's what you needed, hm?"

....only for you to groan, hips moving again, much to the shock and excitement of the rest of the team.

Most of the men you meet aren't all that interesting, but there's this one guy...fucking hilarious, witty, a bit dry. His chat name might be "deadmeat" but by the pictures he sends it's anything but.

Deadmeat: thought of you again, bloody mess. Can't wait to have you.

The picture attached is his usual, hard cock covered in at least two previous loads, tip flushed pink and wanting. The calloused, tattooed hand it's cradled in is what drew you in initially. Most folk in the chat room were...well...gifted in size, and as fun as it is to imagine you can hardly manage two fingers on a good long day.

But this man? Perfect fit. About the width of his palm, fingers easily wrapping around. Not small by any means, but definitely not heart-stopping in a bad way.

You: just a few more days. Got the motel booked?

You make sure it's safe, of course you do. Swapping photos together in anticipation for the day.

Deadmeat, or ghost as he requested you call him now, is...a little different than you expected. Tall, for one, nearly brushing his head on the top of the doorframe when you nervously unlock the motel room.

You don't quite realize the breath of your mistake until you and ghost are half undressed in bed and you slip a hand under his waistband. You slide you hand along the soft hair at his base, wrap your hand over it and—

...no. no way.

The amusement on ghosts face as you frantically shove his pants down and pull out his dick is palpable. Holy shit, he's massive. You're a few centimeters shy of wrapping your hand around him, not to mention the length.

You swallow thickly, glance up at him.

The fucker has the audacity to chuckle, reaching down to wrap his impossibly large hands around his dick, give himself a few pumps "well? Everything you were expecting? Don't worry, i can make it fit."

And you fully expect to find no one sitting in the seat you pre-emptively reserved, all too hopeful that your dad would finally see you. Except...it's not empty.

Ghost is sat in your dads seat.

Ghost, the man who practically saved your degree when you were on the verge of a breakdown and dad was on vacation. Found you crying in a gas station parking lot and recognized you from price's wallet.

And....it feels weird, ghost where price should be, almost like you're replacing your dad...but it's also nice?

Ghost has always been there when you needed him, more than your own dad ever was.

He drives you to get shitty fast food afterwards in celebration, hand heavy on your thigh and you don't try to stop him. Of course you've thought about it, but never acted on it...

Not until ghost pulls over on the back roads, parks his truck in the start of an empty field and lays you down in the dirty bed of it. Rough hands pulling your thighs open, a mouth leaving bites against skin. He makes you feel all the things you missed out on, too busy studying for your dads approval.

He groans "fuck, kid, can't believe i waited this long. Didn't want to distract you." When he ruts into you, thick and hot and too big for you to do anything other than gasp.