glimmer fics

2. What is a "Turn"?

A: When playing a Glimmer story, you'll notice that you're able to choose how you want the story to progress!

Every time you're given options to move the story along, that is considered a Turn. When you make a choice, it consumes a Turn. As a reader, you're given 100 free Turns daily!

3. How can I mark a story as completed?

A: To mark your fic as completed, ensure that ALL conclusions you've made for the last episode of that story are set to Story type conclusions, instead of Episode type conclusions.

You can find the option to change the conclusion from an Episode to a Story end in the drop down menu at the bottom of the conclusion box.

Once, set to story end, the conclusions will look like this in your visual map:

4. How can I filter specific ships, fandoms, story types, etc?

A: In the Browse tab of Glimmer, you can see a "Filter" button next to the fandom tags at the top:

Once selecting it, you can then filter fics, fandoms, tropes and warnings that you would like to see.

5. What are the rules of what you can/can’t write on Glimmer?

A: We do not have strict content rules on Glimmer, and you are free to write whatever you'd like. However, we may take down stories with: - Sexual content that we consider extreme or excessive, - NSFW stories of minors or NSFW content involving minors in general, - and stories that are meant to harass real life people, including other users. If you would like to know more about our Content Policy in more detail, you can read it here: https://glimmerfics.com/content-policy

6. I want to report a bug/have feedback on the site…

A: Feel free to reach out to us on our socials (such as here on our Tumblr or Reddit) or join our Discord server! We will get to you as soon as we can.

7. How do I private stories?/Can I make stories so that only some people can read it?

A: To private stories, you can simply unpublish them. To unpublish your entire story, go to your Author Portal and click on Overview, then scroll down. You will then see the Unpublish Story button at the bottom.

To unpublish only one or two episodes, click on the Publish Episode toggle, which you can also find in the Author Portal, below the Test button.

If you would like to let only a select amount of people read your fic when it's unpublished, you can add them as Beta Readers. This will allow them to look at your Author Portal (but cannot edit it) and test the fic as if reading the story.

To add Beta Readers, go to the Author Portal > Overview, then scroll down. You will then see the option to add Beta Readers by their email associated with their account or their Glimmer username.

Note: you must be an Approved Author to be able to add Betas.

8. I got this message: “Whoa there, slow down! You have free turns left, but you've played as much as you can for the day. You'll have to wait a bit before you can continue playing. You can wait 24 hours to continue playing. Or, buy Paid Turns to play right now." What does it mean?

A: This is a message you receive when you've reached an IP limit. We have it set to prevent people from getting free turns on multiple accounts. If this is not the case, this might be due to other people in the same household as you who are also using Glimmer.

If it's the latter, we apologize as we currently can't exactly distinguish between the two, but we are working on a solution. Stay tuned!

If neither are the case, do let us know your email associated with the account as you might be experiencing a bug.

9. How do we add fandom tags that aren’t already there? 

A: For now, you can request for new fandom tags via our socials (our Tumblr, Reddit or Discord). We will soon implement a way to do this seamlessly!

10. What’s the threshold for becoming an approved author?/How do you become an approved author?

A: To become an Approved Author, you just have to keep on writing stories and publishing them! You can get the Approved Author title based on the collective engagement of all your fics over time, so you may become an Approved Author even sooner than you think!

11. Can other people/can you read my playthroughs without my permission?

A: No, other Glimmer users nor staff members can read your playthroughs unless you directly send them to us. We might ask you to send these playthroughs when reporting bugs for clarity on why the issue is occurring.

As staff, however, we can look into your Author Portal and see your stories even when they are unpublished (in the same way Beta Readers can view them). We typically do not take a look into your story unless requested, or if there is something in the content of the story that we need to check.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Again, if you need help/require more clarification, you're always free to DM us or send over an Inbox :)

You don't give him time to process. You close the distance between you, one hand fisting in the fabric of his burgundy shirt as you pull him down into a kiss. It's firm—a kiss that stakes a claim.

Chris makes a soft sound of surprise against your lips before melting into it, his hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against him. His mouth is warm and yielding, and for a long, suspended moment, the party, Ji-Yeon, everything else fades into nothing.

When you finally break away, you're both breathing a little heavier. His eyes are dark, searching yours, his lips slightly parted.

"Not that I'm complaining," he says, voice rougher than before, "but what was that for?"

You hold his gaze, thumb tracing along his collarbone where his shirt lies open. "Reminding you who you belong to."

A slow grin spreads across his face, boyish and delighted. "Message received."

"Good. Don't forget it."

Chris's smile softens into something warmer, more private. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs tracing idle circles through the fabric of your dress. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The distant thrum of the party filters through the quiet corner, muted and irrelevant.

Then Chris tilts his head, a glint entering his eyes. "So." He leans in, voice dropping to a teasing murmur. "Were you jealous of her?"

You scoff immediately, the sound sharp and instinctive. "Jealous? Of her?" You shake your head, lips curling. "I could never be jealous of a desperate bitch who doesn't understand the word 'taken.'"

Chris lets out a surprised laugh, the sound bright and genuine. "I really should've introduced you sooner," he says, pulling you closer. "You're terrifying. I love it."

"You love that I scared off your coworker?"

"I love that you're mine."

He dips down and catches your lips in a kiss—gentler than the one you initiated, but no less certain. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he lingers, savoring. You let yourself sink into it for a few moments, the warmth of his mouth against yours, the solid weight of his hands on your skin.

But when he finally pulls back, you meet his eyes, your voice steady. "A kiss won't make me forget I'm still angry, by the way."

"Good. It shouldn't."

Chris's lips twitch, and he pulls you closer, his hands sliding to the small of your back. He doesn't say anything at first, just studies your face with an expression you can't quite read.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing." His voice is low, warm. "It's just—seeing you like this. Possessive. Protective." He ducks his head, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth. "It's really hot."

You blink, caught off guard. "What?"

He meets your eyes, and there's no teasing in his gaze now. "I mean it. The way you handled her, the way you staked your claim just now." His hands tighten on your waist. "I didn't know I'd be into it, but I really am."

You try to pull back, but his grip holds firm. "Chris—"

"I'm serious." He steps closer, crowding into your space, his voice dropping. "You want to make sure everyone at this party knows exactly who I belong to?"

The question lands heavy in the space between you, charged and deliberate.

Your breath catches. His eyes are dark, waiting, a dare flickering behind them.

"What did you have in mind?"

You tilt your head, letting the question hang between you like a challenge. Chris's eyes darken, a slow grin spreading across his face as his hands slide from your waist to your hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress.

"Maybe I want you to kiss me somewhere people can see," he says, voice low. "Make it obvious."

You raise an eyebrow. "You want me to mark your territory?"

"I want everyone to know exactly who I'm going home with tonight." He tugs you closer, mouth brushing against your ear. "In case Ji-Yeon or anyone else gets any more ideas."

Your pulse skips. You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, searching for any hint of hesitation. "You're sure?"

"Never been more sure of anything." His thumb traces your hip, slow and deliberate. "Unless you're not up for it?"

The taunt in his voice is unmistakable. He's challenging you, testing to see if you'll rise to the bait.

Your answer comes in the form of your hands fisting in his shirt, yanking him forward as you crush your mouth against his. It's not soft. It's not sweet. It's messy and desperate and full of intent, teeth clicking as you angle your head deeper. Chris groans against your lips, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he kisses you back with equal fervor, pressing you back against the wall.

The kiss deepens, raw and urgent, as Chris's hands roam down your sides, gripping your hips, your waist, mapping every curve through the fabric of your dress. His mouth is hot and insistent against yours, and you match his fervor, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer.

When you finally break for air, you're both breathing hard. Chris's eyes are blown wide, lips kiss-swollen, his grip on you tightening as if afraid you'll disappear.

"I want to make sure you remember who you belong to," you say against his mouth.

"Every inch of you is mine."

The words leave your mouth against his, breath warm and sharp with intent. Chris shudders against you, his hands tightening on your hips as he lets out a breathless laugh.

"Fuck," he says, pressing his forehead to yours. "You can't just say things like that."

"Can't I?"

His response is a low groan as he captures your mouth again, hungrier this time. His tongue sweeps against yours, and his hands begin to wander—sliding up your sides, tracing the curve of your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress as if memorizing every inch of you.

You let him explore, your own hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. He breaks the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, down the column of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin just below your ear.

"You have no idea," he breathes against your throat, "how long I've wanted you like this. All possessive and—" He kisses your pulse point. "—fucking irresistible."

The words hang in the air, and Chris pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and searching. A beat of surprise flickers across his face before it's swallowed by something hungrier, more intent.

"You want me on my knees?" His voice drops, rough and low.

"I want you to remember who you come home to."

Chris holds your gaze for a long, suspended moment. Then he moves—slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact as he lowers himself, first one knee, then the other, until he's kneeling before you in the secluded corner of the party. The sight sends a jolt through you: Chris, looking up at you through his lashes, hands resting on your hips like he's waiting for your next command.

His voice is rough. "I'm yours."

Your breath catches. The party hums somewhere in the distance, oblivious, but here, in this quiet corner, the world has narrowed to just the two of you. Chris's hands slide up your thighs, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress, warm and reverent.

You reach down, fingers threading through his hair, and tilt his chin up to meet your gaze. "Good."

His eyes flutter closed for just a moment, a shudder running through him.

But something shifts in his expression as his hands tighten on your waist. His eyes open, darker now, hungry. "But I want to taste you."

Before you can respond, he's pulling you forward, pressing his lips to your stomach through the fabric of your dress, kissing up, up, until his mouth finds yours again in a bruising, desperate kiss—and then his hands are on your hips, spinning you around, pressing you against the wall as he takes control.

This time, when he pulls back, it's him looking down at you, breathing hard, a wild grin on his face with his hands caging you in.

"Fair's fair," he says. "Now. About what I want."

"And what do you want?"

The question comes out steady, even as your pulse hammers against your ribs. Chris's grin widens, his hands still caging you against the wall, his body a warm, solid line pressing into yours.

"You," he says simply. "All of you. But right now?" He ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I want your mouth on me."

The words send a shiver straight down your spine. You meet his eyes again, reading the heat there, the hunger barely restrained.

Your hands come up to his chest, sliding down slowly, deliberately, until they rest at his belt. You hold his gaze as your fingers find the buckle, working it open with practiced ease.

Chris's breath hitches. "Yeah?"

Instead of answering, you push him back gently—just enough to create space—and lower yourself to your knees.

The sight of you there, looking up at him through your lashes, makes Chris's composure crack. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder, thumb tracing along your collarbone.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're—"

Your hands find his waistband, fingers hooking into his slacks, and his words die in his throat.

You look up at him, hands resting on his thighs, waiting.

Chris's breath stutters. His hand moves from your shoulder to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with surprising tenderness for a man who was just panting against your neck. He holds your gaze, searching, reading the silent question there.

"Yeah," he says, voice rough. "Yeah, you can—" He swallows. "Please."

The word cracks something open in your chest. You don't break eye contact as your fingers find his belt, working the buckle free, then the button of his slacks. The zipper slides down, and you pause, looking up at him one last time.

He nods, short and desperate. "Go ahead."

You hook your fingers into his waistband and pull his slacks down just enough, his boxer briefs following. He springs free, already half-hard, and you take a moment to simply look. He's thick, veined, his cock curving slightly upward against his stomach. Your mouth waters.

You wrap your hand around the base, feeling the weight of him, the heat of his skin against your palm. Chris hisses through his teeth, his hand finding your hair, fingers threading through the strands but not pulling. Not yet.

"Fuck," he breathes, head falling back against the wall. "Your hands."

You let your thumb trace along the underside, slow and deliberate, watching his stomach clench in response.

You lean forward and press your lips to the tip—soft, testing.

Chris's breath catches sharply above you, his hand tightening in your hair. "Shit," he breathes, the word escaping him like he couldn't hold it back if he tried.

You let your lips linger, warm and still, before pulling back just enough to look up at him. His chest is rising and falling faster now, his eyes half-lidded and fixed on you, pupils blown wide. A sheen of sweat glistens at his temple.

"You're killing me," he says, voice strained. "And you've barely even started."

A slow smile curves your lips as your hand tightens around his base, stroking upward once, twice, watching his cock twitch in response. Pre-cum beads at the tip, glossy in the dim light, and you lean in again, this time letting your tongue dart out to taste him.

He groans, low and guttural, his hips twitching forward before he catches himself. His fingers curl tighter in your hair, not pulling, just holding.

"Please," he says, the word rough and desperate. "Please, baby."

You don't make him wait any longer.

You part your lips and take him into your mouth, slow and deliberate, savoring the weight of him on your tongue. Chris groans above you, deep and guttural, his hand tightening in your hair as you sink lower, taking him inch by inch until he hits the back of your throat.

"Fuck," he chokes out. "Just like that—"

You hollow your cheeks and pull back, dragging your tongue along the underside before taking him deep again. His hips twitch, a restrained thrust that he immediately tries to pull back from.

"Sorry—sorry, I didn't mean to—"

You hum around him in response, and the vibration cuts him off. His head falls back against the wall, a string of curses spilling from his lips as you set a rhythm, your hand working the base in time with your mouth.

The sounds he makes are filthy, punched-out moans that he's barely trying to muffle. His fingers card through your hair, grip tightening and loosening as he struggles to keep himself controlled.

"Look at you," he pants, voice wrecked. "On your knees for me, taking me so—fuck—so good."

You glance up through your lashes, meeting his gaze, and something in his expression breaks open—raw, reverent, completely undone.

You pull off with a wet sound, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. You hold his gaze as you swipe your tongue across your lower lip, tasting him.

"You taste so good."

Chris's breath stutters. His hand is still tangled in your hair, knuckles white, and he looks down at you like you've rewired his entire brain. "Fucking hell," he rasps. "You can't just—say shit like that when you're on your—"

You cut him off by taking him back into your mouth, deep and deliberate, and whatever he was about to say dissolves into a guttural moan.

You find your rhythm again. Your hand works the base while your mouth takes him deep, your tongue tracing along the underside with each pass. Chris's hips start to move, small, restrained thrusts that grow bolder as you moan your encouragement around him. His grip in your hair tightens, guiding but not forcing, setting a pace that has him throbbing against your tongue.

"That's it," he pants. "Just like that, baby. Taking me so—fuck—so deep."

The praise washes over you, warm and heady, and you double down, taking him until your nose brushes the coarse hair at his base. You hold there for a moment, throat working around him, before pulling back with a gasp for air.

Chris is a mess above you—chest heaving, lips parted, eyes dark and glazed. His hand strokes through your hair, reverent and shaky.

"You're going to make me come," he warns, voice rough. "If you keep going like that—"

"Good." You hold his gaze, your hand still wrapped around his base, thumb sweeping through the moisture beading at the tip. "I want to taste you when you do."

Chris's breath catches audibly. His hips twitch, a barely restrained roll, and his fingers tighten in your hair. "Fuck," he chokes out. "You're serious?"

In answer, you lean forward and take him deep again, letting your throat relax to accommodate him. The sound he makes is broken—half groan, half whimper—as you hollow your cheeks and pull back, dragging your tongue along his length. His taste floods your senses, salty and warm, and you hum your approval around him.

His hand guides you back down, not forceful but hungry, and you let him set the rhythm for a few strokes. His hips rise to meet your mouth, small thrusts that grow bolder as your encouragement hums through him. Pre-cum coats your tongue, and you moan at the taste, the sound vibrating against his skin.

"Fuck, baby, your mouth," he gasps. "Feels so fucking good—"

You double down. Your hand works the base in counterpoint to your mouth, faster now, more desperate. His breathing turns ragged, his grip in your hair tightening as his thrusts grow more urgent. His thighs are trembling beneath your palms.

"I'm—" He cuts off with a sharp curse. "I'm close. I'm so close."

You don't slow down. If anything, you take him deeper, your tongue tracing along the vein on his underside.

You don't slow down. If anything, you redouble your efforts, taking him deeper, faster, your throat relaxing to accommodate every inch. Chris's hips buck forward, a broken curse tearing from his lips as he starts to lose himself.

"Fuck—baby, I'm—"

His grip in your hair tightens, not pulling, just holding on as his release crashes through him. You feel it first—the way he throbs against your tongue—and then he's spilling into your mouth, hot and thick, a stream of desperate moans falling from his lips as you take every drop.

You swallow around him, working him through it until he's trembling above you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Only then do you pull back, lips slick, looking up at him through your lashes as you swipe your tongue across your lower lip.

Chris stares down at you like he's been wrecked and rebuilt. His chest heaves, his hand still tangled in your hair, thumb brushing weakly across your scalp.

"Holy shit," he breathes. "Holy shit."

A lazy grin curls your lips. You press a soft kiss to his hip bone before starting to rise, your knees protesting the motion as you steady yourself against his thighs.

He catches your face in both hands as soon as you're eye level, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones as he searches your expression. "You're incredible," he says, voice raw and sincere. "Do you know that?"

You rise to your feet, steadying yourself against his chest, and capture his mouth in a deep, unhurried kiss.

Chris melts into it immediately, his hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against him as he tastes himself on your lips. He groans into the kiss, low and appreciative, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head.

"Fuck," he says against your mouth. "I love you."

The words slip out, raw and unguarded, and his eyes fly open like he's startled himself. But he doesn't take it back. He just looks at you, breathless and vulnerable, his thumb tracing your jaw.

There's a beat of silence between you, the party humming somewhere in the distance, the city lights glittering beyond the window. Chris's gaze searches yours, hope and fear warring in his dark eyes.

You freeze for a heartbeat, those three words hanging between you like spun glass.

Then you're kissing him again, softer this time, your hand sliding to cup his jaw. He lets out a shaky breath against your lips, relief flooding his features as you pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

"Show me," you say. "Show me how much."

Something shifts in his expression. His hands find your waist, and he guides you backward without breaking eye contact, until your back meets the wall.

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "A Professional Type of Possession" by howdy_yoink

"I want all of you."

The words hang in the air, simple and honest. I feel them land—Price's breath catching, Soap's hand tightening on my knee, Ghost's thumb pausing mid-stroke.

Price studies me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Then something shifts in his expression—a quiet surrender, a wall coming down.

He stands, offering me his hand. "Then you'll have us."

I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. The room feels different now—smaller, warmer, charged with possibility. Soap rises beside me, his hand finding the small of my back. Gaz pushes himself out of the armchair, stretching casually, but his eyes are dark and focused. Ghost is the last to stand, unfolding himself from the corner of the couch with that quiet grace.

We're all on our feet now, the fairy lights casting long shadows across the walls. The movie still plays, muted and forgotten.

Price steps closer, his hand settling on my hip. "Tell us what you need, love."

Soap presses against my other side, his breath warm against my ear. "Anything you want, hen."

Gaz circles around, leaning against the doorframe, watching with that sharp, knowing gaze. Ghost stays back, arms crossed, but his eyes—those brown eyes fixed on me—say everything.

Four of them. Waiting. Mine.

"Bedroom. Now."

My voice comes out steadier than I expect. Price's hand on my hip tightens once, a quick squeeze, before he steps back and gestures toward the hallway with a tilt of his head.

"After you, love."

I move first, my bare feet carrying me across the living room. Past the coffee table. Past the fairy lights strung along the mantelpiece. I can feel them behind me—four sets of footsteps, different rhythms, all following.

The hallway is dim, lit only by the spill of light from the living room. My bedroom door is at the end, slightly ajar. I push it open and step inside.

The room is familiar. My bed, unmade from this morning. The lamp on the nightstand, casting a warm orange glow across the sheets. A hoodie thrown over the chair in the corner—Gaz's, probably, from last week.

I turn to face them.

Price fills the doorway first, shoulders broad, eyes dark. Soap slips in beside him, that cocky edge softened into something more serious. Gaz leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching. Ghost hangs at the back, skull mask still in place, eyes fixed on me.

The room feels smaller with all of them in it. Warmer.

Price steps forward, closing the distance between us. His hand finds my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.

"Last chance to change your mind," he says, low enough that only I can hear.

I meet his eyes. "Not a chance."

"Show me what you've got, all of you."

The words hang in the warm dim light of my bedroom. Price's hand tightens on my waist, a flicker of something dark and approving crossing his face. Behind him, Soap lets out a low breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

"Bold words," Price murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of my hip.

Then he moves.

His hands find the hem of my shirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately. The fabric slides up over my stomach, my ribs, and I raise my arms to let him pull it over my head. It falls somewhere on the floor, forgotten.

Soap steps forward, his hands finding my waist from behind, warm and calloused. His mouth brushes my shoulder. "Beautiful," he breathes against my skin.

Gaz pushes off from the doorframe, circling to the foot of the bed. He doesn't touch me yet, but his eyes travel down, then back up, a slow appraisal that makes my skin prickle. "You sure you can handle all of us, sweetheart?"

I meet his gaze. "Try me."

Ghost hasn't moved from the doorway. His arms are still crossed, his mask still in place, his eyes fixed on me with that unreadable intensity. But I catch the way his fingers flex against his bicep—the only crack in his composure.

Price's hand slides up my stomach, stopping just below my ribs. His eyes never leave mine.

"Tell us what you want first," he says, voice low. "Who do you want?"

"Price. Always Price first."

His eyes darken, something primal flickering behind the calm. His hand slides from my waist up my spine, pulling me against him. The kiss this time isn't soft—it's hungry, claiming. His beard scrapes against my chin as his tongue finds mine, tasting of wine and something deeper.

Soap's hands fall away from my waist. A deliberate retreat. I feel him step back, giving us room. Giving Price space to take what I've offered.

Price walks me backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at me—really look—before his hand presses against my sternum, guiding me down onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against my bare back.

He follows me down, one knee on the bed, hovering over me. The boonie hat is gone now—tossed somewhere across the room. His grey-streaked hair is rumpled, his eyes intent. He looks at me like I'm the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Behind him, I catch movement. Soap settling into the armchair by the window, watching openly. Gaz leaning against the dresser, arms crossed, a slow smile spreading across his face. Ghost still in the doorway, arms uncrossed now, hands loose at his sides.

Price's mouth finds my neck, warm and slow. His teeth graze my pulse point, and I arch into him.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmurs against my skin.

I thread my fingers into his hair. "I won't."

I hook my fingers into the collar of his shirt and pull. He comes willingly, his weight settling over me, his mouth finding mine again. I arch up into him, my legs parting to make room, and he sinks into the space with a low groan that vibrates through his chest.

His hand slides down my side, over my ribs, my hip, stopping at the waistband of my jeans. He pauses, lips still brushing mine.

"Yeah?" he breathes.

"Yeah."

He makes quick work of the button, the zipper. His fingers hook into the denim and fabric beneath, and I lift my hips to help him tug everything down my legs. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps. Price sits back just enough to look at me—hair mussed, eyes dark, chest rising and falling beneath his shirt.

He takes me in. Slow. Thorough.

"Christ," he mutters, almost to himself.

Behind him, I hear Soap shift in the armchair. The creak of leather. A sharp exhale. Gaz hasn't moved from the dresser, but his arms have dropped to his sides, his hands gripping the edge of the wood.

Price leans down, pressing a kiss to my stomach. Just above my navel. Soft. Reverent.

Then he trails his mouth lower.

Games, he prefers a slow hunt. A building, agonizing pace with little final payoff; I'd asked him how he likes his steak and he said bloody, which tracks with everything, so no surprise here that he's doing this quietly, deliberately.

I thread my fingers through his hair and guide him lower.

He follows without resistance, a soft grunt of approval vibrating against my skin. His mouth trails down—over my ribs, my stomach, the jut of my hipbone. Each kiss deliberate, worshipful. His hands slide under my thighs, parting them, settling between.

I feel his breath warm against me before his mouth finds where I want him most.

The first touch of his tongue makes me gasp, my fingers tightening in his hair. He works slowly, deliberately—a man who knows exactly what he's doing and intends to take his time doing it. My hips shift, and his hands press down, holding me steady.

Somewhere behind me, I hear Soap mutter something low. The creak of the armchair. The soft sound of a belt being adjusted.

I don't open my eyes. I let myself sink into the feeling—Price's mouth, his beard scratching against my inner thigh, the wet heat of his tongue tracing patterns that make my breath hitch. His fingers dig into my skin, grounding me.

"Fuck," I breathe, the word dissolving into a moan.

Price hums against me, and the vibration sends a jolt through my entire body.

I tug at his hair, pulling him back up.

Price follows, a low sound of protest caught in his throat, but the moment my lips find his, that sound turns into something else entirely. He tastes like me—salt and warmth and want. His beard scratches my chin, his mouth wet and hungry against mine. I bite his lower lip, just hard enough to make him groan.

"Fuck," he mutters against my mouth.

I smile, smug and breathless. "Taste good?"

His answer is another kiss—deeper, slower, his tongue sliding against mine. His hand finds my thigh, squeezing, spreading me wider beneath him. I can feel him hard against my hip, still half-dressed, restrained.

Behind us, the room is quiet except for the sound of breathing. Someone shifts. The leather of the armchair creaks.

Price breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. His chest heaves against mine.

"You're going to kill me tonight," he says, voice rough.

I tighten my fingers in his hair. "Not yet."

"Soap, get over here."

He doesn't wait. The armchair creaks as he rises, and within seconds he's at the edge of the bed, looking down at me. His eyes roam from Price's hand on my thigh to my flushed chest to the lazy smile curving my lips.

"Finally," he says, his Scottish accent thicker than before.

Price shifts, making room but not leaving me entirely. His hand slides up to my hip, possessive but patient. Soap's fingers find the hem of his shirt—my shirt, actually, one of his I'd stolen weeks ago—and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. The tattoos ink across his skin, the lamplight carving shadows over his chest.

He crawls onto the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. One knee, then the other, bracketing my hips. He hovers above me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"You called, hen?" His grin is sharp, wolfish.

I reach up and hook a finger into his belt loop, pulling him down until his lips are a breath from mine.

"You gonna make it worth my while?"

I reach for Price's hand without looking away from Soap. His fingers find mine immediately—warm, calloused, grounding—and I squeeze once before pulling Soap down by his belt loop.

Our mouths meet, and Soap kisses like he fights—eager, a little reckless, all in. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, tasting, claiming. I feel Price's thumb trace circles on the back of my hand as Soap deepens the kiss, one hand bracing beside my head, the other sliding down my side.

"Christ," Soap mutters against my mouth, half-laughing, half-breathless. "Been wanting to do that all night."

I grin, tugging at his bottom lip with my teeth. "What took you so long?"

His answer is another kiss, hungrier this time, his hand sliding up my ribs until his thumb brushes the underside of my breast. Above me, Price's grip tightens—not possessively, but present. Connected.

Soap breaks the kiss first, panting slightly. His blue eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. He glances to the side, toward Price, then back at me.

"You two gonna share or what?"

I reach up with my free hand and catch the back of Price's neck, pulling him down.

He comes without hesitation, his mouth finding mine. The kiss is slower than Soap's—deeper, more deliberate. Price kisses like he's memorising me, like he's got all the time in the world. His beard scratches my chin, his tongue sliding against mine as Soap watches from above, still straddling my hips.

I feel Soap's weight shift. His hands find my thighs, squeezing, grounding himself as he watches his captain kiss me. His breath is hot against my skin, uneven.

Price breaks the kiss slowly, his lips lingering. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, his composure cracked just enough to see the hunger underneath.

Soap lets out a low breath. "Fucking hell, that's—" He stops, shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Didn't know I'd be into watchin'."

Price's thumb traces my jaw, featherlight. "Neither did I," he says, "until now."

I look between them—Price above me, Soap straddling my hips, both of them watching me like I'm something precious. Something wanted.

My gaze drifts past them, to the doorway.

Ghost hasn't moved. His arms are still crossed, his mask still in place. But his eyes—those steady brown eyes—are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.

And Gaz, leaning against the wall beside the dresser, his hands in his pockets, watching with that sharp, knowing gaze. He catches my eye and smiles, slow and deliberate.

"Both of you. Now."

Ghost moves first.

He uncrosses his arms and steps forward, those long, quiet strides eating up the distance between the doorway and the bed. His eyes never leave mine. The skull mask makes him unreadable, but the way he moves—deliberate, unhurried, purposeful—says everything.

Gaz follows, pushing off from the wall with that easy grace. He stops at the foot of the bed, hands resting on the wooden frame, his dark eyes sweeping over the scene—Price beside me, Soap straddling my hips, me bare and flushed between them.

"Look at you," Gaz says, his voice low, appreciative. "Giving orders from your back."

I meet his gaze. "You got a problem with that?"

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Not even a little."

Ghost reaches the bedside. He stops beside Price, close enough that I can see the faint wear in the fabric of his mask, the tiny imperfections in the skull pattern. His eyes travel down my body, then back up. His hand lifts, hesitates for half a second, then his fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

The touch is surprisingly gentle. Almost reverent.

I catch his wrist before he can pull away, holding him there. His pulse beats steady against my fingers.

"You gonna keep that on?" I ask, nodding toward the mask.

Something flickers in his eyes. A question. An offering.

He reaches up and pulls the mask over his head.

"Come here, all of you."

The words leave my lips, soft and certain, and they move.

Ghost steps closer first, maskless, his face finally bare—sharp jaw, pale skin scattered with scars, a blond brow lifting slightly as he meets my gaze. He's handsome in a way that catches me off guard, even though I should have expected it.

Price shifts, his hand still in mine, his thumb stroking slow circles across my knuckles. Soap slides off my hips, settling beside me, his hand finding my thigh. Gaz rounds the bed and climbs on from the other side, the mattress dipping under his weight.

They arrange themselves around me like they've done it a thousand times—Price at my back, pulling me against his chest. Soap on my right, his fingers tracing patterns on my hip. Gaz on my left, his hand sliding up my arm, warm and steady. Ghost settles at the foot of the bed, his eyes meeting mine, his hand resting on my ankle.

Four of them. Surrounding me. Holding me.

I'm surrounded by warmth, by the weight of their bodies, by the quiet sound of their breathing. Price presses a kiss to my shoulder. Soap's hand tightens on my hip. Gaz's fingers lace with mine. Ghost's thumb traces the curve of my ankle bone.

"Happy anniversary," I say, and I feel Price's smile against my skin.

Gas lets out a low chuckle. "Best anniversary I've ever had."

Soap snorts. "Only anniversary you've ever had, mate."

"Still counts."

I laugh, soft and breathless, surrounded by them.

The fairy lights flicker beyond the open door. The house is quiet. The world is quiet.

And I'm exactly where I want to be.

"Your turn, Ghost."

His eyes meet mine from the foot of the bed, that bare face still a little unfamiliar, still a little startling in its quiet handsomeness. His thumb pauses on my ankle bone. For a moment, he doesn't move.

Then he crawls up the bed.

Slow. Deliberate. His body moves with that coiled precision, each movement controlled, measured. He settles over me, one knee on either side of my hips, his hands bracing beside my shoulders. Price shifts behind me, his chest warm against my back, his hands resting on my waist.

Ghost looks down at me, his brown eyes searching. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.

I reach up and touch his face—my fingers tracing the scar that runs along his jaw, the faint stubble, the shape of his cheekbone. He closes his eyes for half a second, leaning into my touch.

Then his mouth finds mine.

The kiss is soft at first. Testing. His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and he kisses like he's still deciding whether to let himself have this. I pull him closer, my fingers threading into his blond hair, and he deepens the kiss with a low sound that vibrates through his chest.

Around us, the room is quiet. Soap's hand finds my hip. Gaz's fingers lace with mine. Price's breath is warm against the back of my neck.

Ghost breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against mine. His breath is uneven, his eyes still closed.

"Happy anniversary," he murmurs, his voice rough, barely above a whisper.

I kiss him again, deeper this time.

My fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him down as I part my lips against his. He lets out a breath—sharp, surprised—and then his mouth opens under mine, his tongue meeting mine in a slow dance. His hands shift, one sliding up my side, the other burying itself in the sheets beside my head.

Ghost kisses like he operates—controlled, precise, but with an undercurrent of something fierce, something barely leashed. His body presses into mine, warm and solid, and I feel the tension in his shoulders slowly unspool.

Behind me, Price's hands rest on my hips, steady and present. Soap's thumb traces lazy circles on my thigh. Gaz's fingers are still laced with mine, his thumb stroking across my knuckles.

I break the kiss just enough to breathe, my forehead still pressed to Ghost's. His eyes are darker now, his lips slightly swollen.

"Didn't know you could do that," I murmur.

One corner of his mouth twitches—the barest hint of a smile. "Neither did I."

I pull back just enough to look around the room.

Price behind me, his chest warm against my back, his hands steady on my hips. Soap beside me, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my thigh, his blue eyes dark and patient. Gaz on my other side, his fingers still laced with mine, that sharp smile tugging at his lips. Ghost above me, bare-faced and breathing hard, his eyes searching mine like he's still trying to figure out if this is real.

"Don't stop," I say.

The words come out soft, but they land like a command.

Ghost's mouth finds my neck, his breath hot against my skin. Price's hands slide up my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. Soap shifts, his lips pressing a kiss to my shoulder, his hand sliding higher up my thigh. Gaz releases my hand and cups my jaw, turning my face toward him for a slow kiss.

Four sets of hands. Four mouths. All of them on me, around me, filling every inch of space.

I close my eyes and let myself sink into it—the weight of them, the warmth, the quiet sounds of breath and skin and whispered words. Ghost's teeth graze my collarbone. Price's mouth presses against my spine. Soap's fingers curl into my hip. Gaz's tongue slides against mine, slow and sweet.

The fairy lights flicker in the hallway. The house is still and quiet. And I'm surrounded, claimed, wanted—by all four of them.

I lie back and let them take control.

The shift is immediate. A quiet rebalancing, like they've all been waiting for permission. Price's hands slide up from my hips, slow and deliberate, tracing my ribs, my sternum, until his palms cup my breasts. His thumbs brush across my nipples, featherlight, and I arch into his touch.

Soap takes the cue. His mouth finds my neck, lips and teeth grazing the sensitive curve where my shoulder meets my throat. His hand slides up my thigh, slow, teasing, stopping just shy of where I want him most.

Gaz leans in from the other side, his fingers tilting my chin toward him. He kisses me—lazy, thorough, like he's got nothing but time. His tongue slides against mine as his hand wraps around my wrist, pinning it gently above my head.

Ghost moves last. He settles between my legs, his eyes meeting mine for confirmation. I give it with a small nod, and he lowers his mouth to my inner thigh. A kiss. A gentle bite. Then his tongue traces a slow path upward.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

They move around me like they've been doing this forever—Price's hands on my breasts, Soap's mouth on my neck, Gaz's lips on mine, Ghost's tongue working me closer to the edge. I'm surrounded, held, taken apart piece by piece.

"You good?" Price murmurs against my ear.

I can barely form words. "Yeah."

His hands tighten on my hips. Ghost's mouth finds the spot that makes me gasp. Soap's teeth graze my earlobe.

I'm not just good.

I'm theirs.

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Domestic bliss" by Cyberkitty