GR0T3SQU3_BUG

A fact that has been drilled into your head since you were young, that having sex for the first time will always be painful. You heard it from your teacher, from your mother and friends. A part of life, they told you.

But you're terrified of it. So you put it off, never go beyond kissing with boyfriends despite how upset they get. Remembering how gaz told you his first time was excruciating. How he bled and bled.

Then you meet ghost.

Ghost, big and strong and so damn attractive. For the first time in your life, the desire to know him outweighs your fear of the agony.

"Okay. Let's get it over with, si." You tell him one night, breath hot against his neck. If you can get through the first, then you can enjoy everytime after that with him. "Make it quick."

Ghost grunts, shoves you back until you're sat on his lap. He frowns deeply "the fock does tha' mean? Do you not want it?"

Oh. You forgot to tell him.

"It's my first time," you say. Though simons face shifts into shock, he still seems just as confused as before, so you add "i don't handle pain well. So...get it over with quickly. It's okay if its you."

"Who the hell do you take me for?" Ghost huffs, pulls you into one of those slow kisses that makes your brain melt. "I'm doing this properly."

It's been what feels like hours, and still ghost hasn't pushed anything inside. Too busy rubbing the calloused pads of his fingers in tight circles until you clench and fall apart, back to his chest.

He spends so long pleasuring you that you nearly forget to feel scared when he warns "okay, lovie, just stay relaxed. I'll stop if you need it."

Gentle, he pushes a finger in and– it stings. Just a bit. You take a few seconds to breath, and he doesn't force more in. There's no tearing or agony or crying. It's so different from everything everyone's told you that you nearly sob with relief.

His whole weight settles on top of you in bed, legs spread wide around his ribs so he can wrap thick arms around your torso. Hugging you like a favorite teddy, head resting right below your sternum, every snore rumbling in delight.

bright-eyed rookie to jaded agent with one foot in the grave

Price's dick the only thing holding up the worn out worn thin sweats, waistband sagging under his belly

Jutting out half hard while he's making morning coffee, tip dragging on a spot that's thinner than the rest, a little shadow evidence of old stains where he's leaked into it, shoved his dick back into his pants with a few drops of piss still at the tip, scratched at his balls so the sweat soaks into the fabric.

He catches you staring, raises an eyebrow like "what are you staring at?" He follows your gaze down to his cock, smiles, watches your pupils dilate and your throat flex as you swallow when it jumps, getting harder, tip pushing more insistently against his pants.

Sure, he can duck his head and go along with superiors during missions, show the required amount of respect so he isn't shot. But off the field? Ghost has sent people to medical for telling him to move out of the way in a crowded hall.

Which is why everyone is shocked by how you treat him.

"Ghost, over here." You snap your fingers in his direction without looking up from your clipboard. A scowl firm on your face while ghost just...obeys. walks right over to dutifully peer over your shoulder "the hell is this, lieutenant? I shouldn't see discrepancies in inventory like this."

Ghost, to the rooms shock, simply nods peacefully. He seems almost shy when he offers "i can go recount, won't take me long."

Ghost, the guy who has genuinely pulled a knife over being told to make copies of something, just volunteered to recount the entire inventory.

That's just one example of the way you boss him around.

Soap won't shut up about the time you grabbed a still-bloody ghost fresh off the heli by the strap of his vest just to hiss "get your ass to medical, lieutenant. You look pathetic." Or the time gaz saw you chew ghost out for "standing in the fucking way. Either sit down or come help, Riley."

Ghost takes every rude comment and scold with a smile under that mask. Practically basking in your ire, almost blissful in gazs opinion.

Of course, no one dares to speculate on why. Most importantly no one mentions it to you.

They don't need to, either. You know damn well ghost gets off on you pushing him around. He likes to think he's subtle but even with compression shorts you know when he's sporting a stiffy. You don't mind, he looks hot when his brow pinches at dissapointing you.

Vs

Now imagine being with snowy owl!gaz in the middle of the snow covered forest, right?

It's freezing even with your gear on, lying on your stomach in hiding with snow pressed all along your front. Gaz had ordered you to stay low, to keep hidden until the zone is announced clear.

Just to your left, your sergeant seems to be faring better than you. Large, white wings obscure most of his body, and a thin blanket of snow has accumulated on top from the hours lying here. He doesn't seem phased at all, almost enjoying it all.

"You okay, soldier?" Gaz glances sideways at you, brow raised in amusement at your shivering. Teasingly, he lifts a wing "need to warm up under mommy's care?"

Usually, you'd tell him to piss off, that he won't phase you. But. It's freezing, and you swear your lungs are making an effort to actively seize up from how cold it is. So you glare right back at him and huff "yeah, actually. I'm fuckin' freezing, sir."

After a stunned silence, gaz is sliding on top of you, blanketing you both under thick wings.

The sudden temperature change is almost dizzying, your sergeants warmth and the insulation from his wings. You bask in it, thankful for him invading your space for once and—

"Fuckin' christ, sir?" You shift, heart stuttering "are you seriously...?"

The hard line of gazs cock nudges against your ass, gloves hands moving to your waist while he chirps above you "can't help it when I've got someone like you under me. Figure it evens out the closet, yeah?"

You blush at the reminder of the closet, tuck your head down and arch your back to a pleased "hah, knew you'd like it."

Gaz begins rocking into you, not at all bothers by the mutliple layers when he settles his whole weight into it. Christ, you wish you were back in that shitty motel so you could fuck him properly–

"Close." He warns, one hand sneaking under to give you a palm to rut into as well.

The cold from earlier is a distant memory, forgotten beneath the heat of his wings and the pleasure between you. Gaz chirps, coos–

"Really, soldiers?"

Sure, he goes to therapy, but that's only to fill the mandatory requirements price set for his allowance. Sessions are spent stubbornly answering questions in the vaguest terms and only reassuring his therapist that he has no intentions to hurt anyone.

Truthfully, he doesn't have any intentions to hurt anyone. For the first time since his forceful retirement, ghost feels somewhat balanced.

All because of the various bugs he keeps in his apartment.

An entire wall enclosures specifically curated to each critter inside. Beetles, isopods, millipedes. Each one hand-selected by ghost, lovingly raised. Something about the company of such small creatures loosens his tongue, has him mumbling "I'm home. Rough day, store was out o' my bread." To them.

Where ghost is a sealed vault to anyone else, his bugs know everything. He whispers to them each night, vents about his day, tells them about the weird duck he saw by the park.

He also tells them about his crush. You, the neighbor who always brings him cookies.

"I really like 'em, betty," ghost tells his beetle over dinner, sprinkling food into her enclosure "real nice. Never judges me. Great ass too–"

The...only downside being that ghost doesn't realize just how thin the walls are. Nor the fact his bugs share a wall with your bed.

coming back to [this] idea because i can't not.

the first time you blow john 'soap' mactavish it's in the dingy bathroom in the pub just down the road from credenhill with more than a few drinks in your system.

it's not the first time you've been in this bathroom with him. not the first time his mouth has been on yours tasting of beer and terrible decisions. he's not someone you should be doing this with. not a teammate. you're pretty sure there's rules against it.

and even if there's not, there's a million reasons you shouldn't be getting involved with someone you walk into gunfire with.

but after one drink his eyes look even prettier than usual.

after two, you can't help but imagine his bicep tucked under your chin whilst he fucks you.

and three? three leads you here, to the cramped bathroom with cracked tiles and a singular bare bulb swinging from the ceiling.

the last time it was you perched precariously on the edge of the porcelain sink with johnny's fingers buried inside of you, his mouth on your neck, his free hand cradling the back of your head like you were something more than just a drunken hook up.

but this time it's you doing the giving; sinking to your knees, tiles cold and uncomfortable even through the thick denim of your jeans. his hands cup your jaw, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.

as you pull his belt undone you wonder - does he like it slow? sloppy? messy? does he want you to use your hands as well?

you get his belt open. then the button and zipper. shove his jeans and black boxers down just far enough.

and there… it is.

inked in simple black letters, just above his pubic bone, nestled under the hair of his happy trail.

worship

you freeze for half a second, fingers still hooked in his boxers, staring at the word. johnny freezes above you, thumbs stilling on your cheeks

you glance up. he’s watching you with a particular look he gets sometimes - the one that sits somewhere between challenge and shame. the one that makes you wonder how many times he's spoken through the wall of a confessional just to go out and do something that would make the priest's heart stop in his chest.

you drag your thumb over the letters, feel his breath hitch.

"didn't know you had this." you murmur.

johnny swallows audibly. "aye." a beat, "you know what they say, love. prayer's best done on your knees."

you lean forward and press an open mouthed kiss to the word; feel his cock twitch against your cheek. when you glance up at him again his eyes are on you, jaw slack.

"well then," you say quietly, wrapping a hand around the base of him. "guess i'd better get to it."

you drag your tongue over the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock; press a kiss to the spot underneath his head that makes his thighs tremble. one of his hands shifts to your hair - not pushing, just holding - the other dropping down to his side loosely. as you take him into your mouth properly, johnny's breath leaves him all at once.

you keep it slow, at first. wet. the kind of messy that leaves his skin shining and your mouth swollen. every time you flick your tongue against him, or hollow your cheeks, he makes a quiet, wrecked sound that doesn't quite make it all the way out of his throat.

like he's trying not to be loud. trying not to enjoy this. like maybe the bare bulb or the cracked tiles or the people on the other side of the door might report him to someone higher than command.

you glance up once. his head is tipped back, throat working visibly, eyes shut tight. there's a tiny crease between his brows. you can almost see the war happening in his head - the part of him that wants to fuck into your mouth and the part of him that still thinks about sunday school and the weight of a rosary and the fact that he’s got a teammate on their knees in a pub toilet with his cock halfway down their throat.

“fuck -” the word is cut off with a hiss of breath. he tries again, quieter. “you’re… christ. you’re good at that.”

you hum around him and his hips stutter forward before he forces them still. the hand in your hair tightens - not rough. desperate.

you take him deeper. angle your head and let your throat open, sinking down him until your nose touches the tattoo and johnny can't think of anything other than the way your throat flutters around him and the way he feels like he's going to burst at the seams.

he lasts less than another minute. his thighs start to shake and the quiet, suppressed noises turn into something almost feral. when he comes it's with your name half formed on his tongue like a prayer (or a curse) and his free hand slapped across his mouth to try and keep the rest of it in.

you stay on your knees until his breathing evens out. until the hand in your hair turns gentle again, thumb stroking once behind your ear like a wordless apology.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and stand, knees cracking.

johnny tucks himself away with slightly unsteady hands. doesn’t look at you while he does up his belt. when he finally does meet your eyes there’s colour high on his cheekbones and something complicated and guilty sitting right behind the usual blue.

“we should -” he starts, then stops. clears his throat gently. “table.”

you both wash your hands in the cracked sink like that somehow undoes what just happened. johnny holds the door open for you on the way out.

no one looks twice at you. all the other punters too busy with their drinks and stories.

you slide back into the booth. the others are mid-argument about something that happened on the last training exercise. ghost glances up once, eyes flickering to you, then johnny, then back to his pint again. price frowns. gaz rolls his eyes.

no one says anything.

johnny sits down beside you. close enough that his thigh presses against yours under the table.

he doesn’t move away.

you take a long drink from whatever is left in your glass.

johnny’s knee bumps yours once. deliberate.

when you glance at him he’s already looking at the football playing on television above the bar, jaw tense, ears still faintly pink.

and his hand in his pocket, fiddling with the cross you know he keeps in there.

fingers wrapped around his cock any time he's not on set, a constant refrain of your breathy,

"nobody fucks me like you"

that drives him mad.

maybe he's been too lenient with you, let you go off script so much that he can't tell what you mean and what you've been coached on. but he doesn't think it matters anymore,

nobody fucks you like he does.

presses you down into the mattress like he does, ruts their fat cock between your wet folds like he does. when he wraps his hand around your jaw, pulls your head up to drool for the camera, it's not because he's the best it's because he won't let anyone else try. you're meant to be his, you just met him at the wrong time for it.

doesn't matter, he supposes, not when you keen and moan, legs shaking and hips swaying at the first touch. you don't want anyone else, do you sweetheart? no. no, he shakes your head for you, shoves his fingers into your mouth to make you slur the words.

"i'm yours," he loves it "i'm yours," he loves you.

so maybe you've been too lenient with him, let him take more than he's owed.

"love, where th' fuck did you get that bikini?" simon's voice cuts across your silence just as his frame cuts across your sun, casting a shadow over where you're sprawled out on a beach lounger.

you glare up at him from behind your sunglasses.

"you're in my sun." you pout back. "and uh, from one of the little shops in town here. why?"

"because i want to buy you ten more. yer tits look crackin'." he deadpans back, before dropping into a plastic beach chair tucked under the shade of the umbrella next to your sun lounger. "they're the best thing about this fuckin' holiday. can't believe i let you talk me into this."

you roll your eyes, "didn't see you complaining last night when you bent me over the balcony post pina colada consumption."

"never gonna complain when i'm inside you now love, am i?" he shoots back. "but… ibiza. we're in ibiza. the 'ome of fucking twenty year olds doin' too much molly at club nights."

you reach over and swat him, actually swat him, palm connecting with the skin of his calf. "simon!" you admonish. "we're going to a vine yard on thursday. and a fucking UNESCO heritage site. don't shit talk ibiza. there's… culture as well as parties. you sound like a grumpy old man."

his nostrils flare, but he doesn't argue.

he does sound like a grumpy old man.

there's a pause as you adjust your sunglasses in your nose, relaxing back against your lounger. "but we are going to a party tonight. starts at 11pm. no molly required. but i'll buy you more cocktails."

simon groans. "fuckin' 'ell, pet."

the club is everything simon hates.

dark except for the glow of neon, ever changing lights; packed with sweat slicked bodies moving against each other. no clear exit routes. limited cover.

but the cocktail complete with little umbrella in his hand almost makes up for it.

and the way you're moving your hips to the sound of the slow baseline that's currently shaking his bones definitely makes up for it.

you're just over an arms reach away from where he's leaning against a wall, right at the edge of the crowd; body wrapped in an outfit that he's going to make sure to find an occasion for you to wear again.

and he's mesmerised.

by you.

with the way you have your arms thrown in the air and your head tilted back; heartbeat thudding in time with the music just under the skin of your throat. he could watch you do this forever. watch the way your lips curve in the corners and your eyes go glassy under flickering lights; the way you lose yourself, let yourself just feel.

it occurs to him that the only other time he sees you this free and relaxed is when he's fucking you. a thought that makes his cock twitch in his jeans and his ears go red at the tips; before he promptly shoves it to the back of his head - for now, anyway.

then suddenly you're turning to face him fully, looking up at him through lowered lashes, holding your hands out in an invitation as your hips sway.

he blinks once. shakes his head.

you pout. eyelashes fluttering. fingers waggling.

he sighs, downs the rest of his drink, and closes the distance between you.

even he can't argue with that.

he spins you, presses your back against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you pressed close; his free hand finding your hip, body slowly swaying with yours.

"i fuckin' hate dancin'." he mutters, breath hot over the shell of your ear.

you tilt your head, eyes finding his in the neon flashing lights - and for a moment his breath catches in his throat almost painfully at how alive you look. he ducks his head enough to catch your words over the music, uttered with the smugness of a woman that knows she's right: "yeah, but you love me."

he doesn't answer right away, just tightens his arm around your waist and allows his body to follow the slow movement of yours; trying to find his feet literally and figuratively. then finally he sighs, "yeah. i do love you."

you smile, triumphant, and push back against him; grinding in a lazy circle that has his fingers digging into your hip. every time you arch or sway he follows, face tucked into your neck; breathing in the scent of the perfume you picked up at the airport and the sweat accumulating on your skin from the heat of the lights and the crowd. you grind back against him again and he groans softly, ducking his head lower to nip at the exposed skin of your shoulder. "keep doin' that and we're not makin' it back to the hotel petal."

your lips curve upwards, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, tilting your head to give him better access, "promise?"

a low, almost pained, sound rumbles from his chest as he presses an open mouthed kiss against the pulse hammering under the skin of your throat. he straightens, eases his grip slightly - but doesn’t let go completely. “c’mon. before i do somethin’ that gets us thrown out.”

you let him pull you through the crowd of bodies towards the exit; out into the cooler air that's carrying a tinge of salt from the ocean. simon keeps you close as you start the walk back to the hotel along a quieter stretch of beach, sand soft under your shoes.

halfway there he stops.

you turn, a question already half formed on your lips; but when you see the expression on his face your jaw slams shut.

want.

that's the only way to describe it.

before you can blink your back is pressed against sand tucked away behind a low wall, his mouth on yours - hungry, tasting of the last cocktail he drank. his hands are everywhere; cupping your tits through your dress, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they pebble under fabric, then lower - pushing your dress up over your hips and dragging your underwear across so he can drag two fingers over your slit. he hisses through his teeth when he finds you warm and soft and wet. he doesn't push inside, just gathers wetness with the pads of his fingers before dragging them higher to glide over your clit until your hips buck.

"i love seein' you dance." he mutters. "you always look like… like yer free." there's a brief pause as his lips quirk, "an' it makes me 'ard."

you grin, capture his mouth with your in a kiss that's all heat and fire and love, reaching between you to pop the button of his jeans, shove them down around his hips. he frees himself; drags the swollen head of his cock through your folds once before pushing into the tight heat of your cunt in one long stroke that knocks the air from both your lungs.

"simon-"

"i know, love." his voice is wrecked, one hand bracing in the sand next to your head. "i fuckin' know." he starts to move; deep, steady strokes that fill you completely with every thrust. the sound of the ocean is loud enough to cover the sound of skin on skin and the broken sounds you're both making. he fucks you like he’s been wanting to all night - like the club and the dancing and the way you looked under the lights snapped something inside him.

you roll your hips up to meet every stroke, his fingers find your clit again, press hard enough that you whine; a broken sounding noise that's lost to the sound of waves crashing.

"c'mon petal. reckon you can come for me? even though someone might 'ear?" he murmurs, lips twitching into a smile that's almost a taunt. the thought, the words, the relentless drag of him inside you - it all crashes together. you clench down around him, pleasure rolling through you in waves, muffling the sound you make by biting into your own forearm. simon follows a handful of thrusts later, burying himself inside you as his whole body shudders.

for a long moment neither of you move. there's just your breathing. the sea. the distant thump of bass. simon's forehead resting on on your shoulder.

eventually he pulls put, puts your knickers back into place - tugged tight against where he's leaking out of you like he's trying to trap the evidence of your little tryst on the beach. he tucks himself away, pulls you to your feet, presses a kiss against your forehead, face softer around the edges when he looks down at you. "hotel." he mutters, "before i decide that the sand is comfortable enough for round two.

you laugh, tangle your fingers with his, tug him in the direction of the hotel. "round two's in the shower. pretty sure there's sand in my fanny."

his shoulder shake with silent laughter, "aye. shower then. unless you want t' give the sea a go?"

Maybe it's the fact violence nurtured every moment of his life, maybe he's just a little twisted. Doesn't matter the reason when he looks your outfit up and down and grunts "you'd look good tied up in my basement in that, lovie."

Gaz and soap pause their conversation mid-flirt to cast equally judgemental looks at ghost. Price, who's met you plenty of times before, doesn't react when ghost hooks a finger into your belt-loops and tugs "blood stains wouldn't come out, either."

To the sergeants horror, you just smile at ghost and rest your arms over his shoulders like a love-sick fool. Gaz is about ready to ask if you've drank anything when you hum "yeah? Would you chase me through the woods?"

"For you, dove? I'd have a snare set up already. Herd you right to it." Ghost's arms around your waist, eyes soft when he pulls you closer. "You'd make a perfect, adorable victim."