OH, SO ALIVE

After another hour of drinking with a heavy side dose of eyefucking, they slip out of their respective teams sight and back to König’s room, stopping along the way to makeout and palm each other greedily as they go. When they loose their clothes in a flurry behind the closed door and Ghost turns to face König, his jaw drops.

Ghost is a well-endowed fella, (7 inches, thank you very much), and impresses men and woman alike with his formidably thick cock. He’s got nothing on König. The Austrian’s cock makes Ghost’s length look like a micro and it’s so girthy and heavy it points downward even when König’s fully hard. Ghost chuckles nervously and clenches around nothing; he might as well say goodbye to his hole, because König is gonna pound him a new one.

König takes his time working Ghost open on a few lube-covered fingers while his other hand strokes his cock through the Brit’s first orgasm of the night to get him all loosened up. Ghost insists they switch to doggy for the actual act, his favorite position to take it in.

The first tentative thrust gets König’s fat tip inside Ghost and he’s already seeing stars. From then on, all he can do is scream himself hoarse into a pillow and grip the sheets for dear life during the roughest, (yet most satisfying), fuck of his life. König has no mercy on him, slamming against his g-spot in a constant piston with the force of several small hurricanes.

Ghost comes dry on König’s massive cock, crying actual tears for the first time in years at the obscene stretch of his poor underprepared hole, and yet his mouth keeps blubbering the words “more” “harder” and “yes” like it doesn’t know when to quit.

Finally, König collapses his position on top of Ghost, his chest against the Brit’s back as a steady stream of thick cum fills Ghost to the brim. When the last of his load is spent, König leans down to kiss Ghost’s back with a reverence he wasn’t expecting. They stay like that, panting and sweaty and more satiated than either man has been in years until Ghost realizes König never pulled out.

Tentatively he clenches his sore bottom and feels his blood run cold…König is still hard. Rock hard, in fact. So hard he could fuck a new glory hole into the drywall of the bathroom. König chuckles,

“Oh, meine wenig geist…tell me we are already not done?”

~~~~~

Soap watches Ghost limp weakly into the kitchen halfway through his afternoon cup of tea. Even through the balaclava, Soap can see the grimace as Ghost forces his butt into the wooden dining room chair.

“Aye, long night, Lt? How was the colonel?” Soap grins, waiting for one of Ghost’s trademark death threats. Instead he just slowly turns two bloodshot eyes on the Scot while a myriad of flashbacks dance in front of them.

The second round, knees to chest, accidentally muttering a love confession while spurting cum on his own stomach. Slow, easy massages and clumsy compliments. Back against the wall, knees over shoulders, third round, König putting his forehead to his and whispering “I love you” on purpose while filling him with another creamy load. Swapping rim jobs. Suckling König’s sack and fingering him to get him hard again. Another pounding. Hair pulling. Water breaks. Making out. German swear words. Brief messy blowjobs. Getting fucked against the sink and made to watch himself. No sleep until the sun came up. The best night Ghost’s had in years.

He clears his voice to speak.

“Eight inches…soft,” is all he can weakly croak and Soap’s eyes widen. An onslaught of follow up questions escape him but Ghost doesn’t answer a single one. He just eats his breakfast in a stupor, cockdrunk and stupid as König wanted him.

And if he slips back into König’s room for a rematch before the exfil, that’s his business. And if phone numbers and goodbye kisses were exchanged, that’s strictly confidential. And if Ghost touched down in England that night and checked his texts to find an airline ticket purchased for next month and several nine-inch dick pics to wank to until then, well Soap would never know. And neither would any of the girls Ghost promised he’d call when he got back in town, because they’re all blocked now.

And unfortunately neither will you because this is where the story ends :)

~~~~~

Soap doesn’t bite, asks Simon to wait until he finishes his shift and stupidly; Simon does. He gets half dragged to Soap’s apartment and ends up on his knees for the first time in years, inhaling the Scot’s cock like he can’t breathe without it.

The sex is unlike anything Simon’s had in years. Soap stays in control, riding him slow and sensual until Simon cums far too early into the condom. He suggests they switch places and whether it’s the alcohol or the Scot’s sexual prowess that convinces Simon, he does it anyway.

Simon finds himself flat on his back, holding Soap’s hand while he stretches out the Brit for the first time in decades. A few more embarrassingly sloppy orgasms and the two men fall asleep entangled with one another.

Simon’s arms are lazily resting above his head on the couch in the corner of the room, watching his Captain do all the work of riding his thick cock. Every time John’s hips land flush on Simon’s lap, his soft cock makes an adorable plap sound against Simon’s belly. “Cute thing ya got there, Cap…reckon it’d be nearly ‘s big ‘s mine, ‘f it coul’ still get stiff,” he grunts, feeling his balls seize up as his release dawns. John blushes, his hole gripping the younger man’s shaft as his cockhead nudges every good spot he has. John desperately wished he could still cum; Simon’s cock has always been his favorite. “Jus’ sit, Cap” Simon hisses suddenly, bringing his hands forward to grip John’s hips. Simon grinds John slowly as his tip shoots his thick load deep inside his superior. The lieutenant pulls him down roughly and whispers, “needed a good fillin’, did ya John?” before kissing him sloppily. Simon’s softening cock slips out as John’s gaping hole oozes semen all over his subordinate’s abdomen. When Simon finally lets his captain up for air, his neck’s covered in hickies his uniform won’t cover.

Price looks up from his desk just in time to see his thoroughly pissed Sergeant enter the room, unbuckling his tac pants and dropping them with his boxers at the door. “Fuck yer paperwork; ah need yer mouth,” Soap hisses and John complies instantly. He gets on his aching knees and inhales Johnny’s throbbing tip like he’s getting paid for it. Johnny knocks the boonie hat off his head so he can thread his calloused fingers through his Captain’s greying hair. John takes his time working Soap’s shaft with his expert tongue, taking him tip to balls with practiced efficiency. Briefly, Price pulls his mouth off his seegeant’s cock to wet two thick fingers and stick them up Soap’s bum. “Fuckin’ slag…” Soap groans, knees nearly buckling as John continues sucking the soul out of him while drumming an intoxicating rhythm against his prostate. It isn’t long before he’s finishing in long salty bursts down his Captain’s throat. “Open,” Johnny commands with a tap to Price’s face and he does as he’s told, sticking his tongue out to prove he swallowed every last drop. “Good boy,” Soap coos and the praise makes John’s flaccid cock stir for a moment.

“No, Simon, of course not. I like to be updated, but you can just tell me what you’re doing; you don’t need to ask,” you explain carefully and Simon’s eyes narrow for a second; the telltale sign that he doesn’t trust what you’re saying.

He spends the night anxiously texting you every fifteen minutes and feeling too sick with guilt to stomach more than half of his pint. But when he makes it back home a mere 77 minutes after he left and doesn’t find you stewing with a lecture on the tip of your tongue, but instead still on the couch under a blanket you pull aside for him to join you under, a bit of tension rolls off his shoulders. You’re not mad at him. He allows himself to believe it.

The next time he wants to go out he gets braver. He plants himself in your eye-line as you flit around the kitchen and clears his throat to speak.

“Lovie…Johnny wants to watch the match tonight at the pub…” he starts, forcing himself to keep eye contact, though he almost recoils when you meet it, “…and we don’t have any plans tonight so…” he pauses again, mustering all the courage the military instilled in him.

“I’m going,” he states definitively. You give him a warm smile, but he’s not done.

“We’re going to that pub down the street, so I’ll be walking there and back. The match might run late, so I can leave-“ he cuts himself off and shakes his head slightly, “um, actually, I-I’d really like to stay no matter how late it runs,” he finishes timidly, almost asking for permission again but stopping himself.

“So I’m gonna stay until it’s done. And then I’ll come right home. Ok?” he asks, too terrified to look at you now. He braces for impact, making a mental note of every object within your reach, trying to figure out which one you’ll throw at him first.

“Sounds great honey; say hi to Johnny for me,” you chirp cheerfully, watching his reaction intently.

Simon doesn’t move. He needs a bit more than that to let out the breath he’s been holding since he finished speaking. You approach him gently, bringing a hand to his cheek.

“Thank you for telling me, Simon. I’m not mad at you; I want you to see your friends, honey” you half whisper, looking up into his eyes with nothing but adoration and honesty in yours.

Upon hearing the magic words, Simon’s shoulders loose a bit of tension as he nuzzles his face into your touch. He eats dinner with you in comfortable silence and does all the washing up before giving you a slightly nervous kiss on the cheek and slipping out the front door.

Simon challenges himself to put his phone down for longer during his lively night out. He’s not too nervous to drink this time and the comfortable buzz of the several shots Johnny bought him helps calm him further.

When he finally stumbles home at a quarter past twelve, a little drunker than he wanted to get, that familiar sick feeling in his stomach settles the closer he gets to home. He imagines your face, scrunched up in anger and ready to start a screaming match over how late it is.

Maybe he should’ve texted more. Should’ve called when you messaged that you were tired and going to bed. Whatever consequence you’re about to dole out is deserved for the way he neglected you. He should’ve known better than to let his guard down.

He forces himself towards your shared bedroom, turns the doorknob with baited breath, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. When he gingerly sets himself on the mattress beside you, you just pull him into a silent, loving cuddle, sighing contentedly against his chest. His shaking hands find your waist and back, rubbing circles over your soft pajamas.

“I love you, Simon,” you whisper in the dark and he nearly startles. That wasn’t what he was expecting to hear from you. He’s still bracing for a punishment that he’s having a hard time understanding won’t come. Old habits die hard.

“I love you too,” he whispers back, sure of the sentiment but still slightly nervous about his delivery. Within moments you’re back in a deep sleep, head blissfully empty and Simon is left reeling in the aftermath.

He had no idea love could be this gentle, this easy and soothing. Distantly, he wonders if this is what relationship were supposed to be like all along. If he’d have known that they aren’t supposed to make you terrified of upsetting your girlfriend, maybe he wouldn’t have stayed in a wrong one for so long. Maybe he would’ve found you sooner and came with a lot less baggage you so graciously deal with. It doesn’t really matter though. He has you now.

Because if he was really honest with himself, he didn’t really want to fuck at least 1/2 of the women he had; he just liked at they wanted to fuck him.

That they appreciated his body that he works out for hours per day to maintain. Some small, ugly part of him thinks the only appealing thing about him is his body. What it looks like, what it can do; take that away, and who is he anymore?

Unfortunately for Kyle, he had to find out. About six months into dating you, he catches a bullet in the hip in an ambush. Shattered ilium. Multiple surgeries. Months long recovery process.

It’s miserable for him. He just has to sit and wait and feel his rippling muscles atrophy with every passing hour, the slow creep of body fat begin to blanket him as his lifestyle turns sedentary.

And all those childhood insecurities come rushing back, as he starts looking in the mirror and seeing a slightly pudgy tummy instead of a lean abdomen looking back him. Watching his arms loose definition and feeling the layer of fat that covers his pecs now that he used to be so proud of.

Kyle tries desperately to work out his upper body in his wheelchair, but everything hurts and the pain meds keep him exhausted and sluggish. When he finally gives up on any excercise outside of physical therapy, he starts sleeping in a shirt, something he’s never done in the entirety of your relationship up until this point.

Obviously, penetrative sex is out of the question but you offer your hands and mouth to his gorgeous cock every day, but more and more he’s turning you down. He grimaces when you undress him to help him shower every day and moves your hands away from rubbing his stomach whenever you’re cuddling in bed together.

One Saturday afternoon, you make a move and something inside Kyle snaps.

“Hey handsome…” you coo in his ear, your body positioned behind his wheelchair as you lean forward to run your hands down his chest, “…I’ve been thinking about this body alllll dayyyyy,” you whine while planting sloppy kisses down his neck.

He abruptly wheels himself out of your grip, causing you to stumble.

“Look, please don’t fucking do that. I know I’ve gained a lot of weight, ok? I’m sorry, once this bloody fucking cast comes off I’ll be able to loose it again but Christ honey don’t fucking lie to me just to try to make me feel better!” he snaps, wheeling around to face you. Your expression is one of complete and utter bewilderment.

“Kyle, what on god’s green FUCK are you talking about?!” you yelp in confusion. He’s stewing in anger now, the type that he just needs to get out, immediately.

“We both know I don’t look good right now, alright! No need to pretend you’re all attracted to me to try and save my ego,” he continues, slightly madder now that you seem to still be feigning confusion. He continues with his rant.

“I’m sorry my body isn’t sexy anymore, ok, you don’t have to like it; God knows I fucking don’t! But just don’t lie to me about it! Don’t put on this bloody act pretending like I’ve got you all worked up, I know I haven’t! I’m fat and useless! I promise I’ll be the man you want when I’m healed but until then can you just not-“

But whatever the hell it is that Kyle wants you not to do, you never find out because you storm over to him, grab one of his wildly gesticulating hands, flip up your skirt, and shove it roughly into your panties.

Kyle looks utterly baffled by this sudden move of yours, but when he realizes what he’s feeling, he understands. You’re soaking wet, warm slick arousal coats your puffy folds and by extension, your boyfriend’s fingers.

“Kyle Garrick, you fucking dumbass,” you start, low and biting, “do you honestly think I’m that fucking shallow that you’d be unattractive to me just because you’ve gained some weight?? Let alone because you gained weight after getting your fucking hip blown to pieces?! Look, if you want to be miserable and push me away, that’s fine. But I’ve touched myself in the bathroom every night this week after you went to bed because I want you so bad. So don’t you dare accuse me of lying!” you screech.

What an odd tableau you two make; both of you huffing in anger, him in his wheelchair, you standing up, his hand still disappearing under your skirt, a strong red blush in both of your cheeks.

“I-I’m sorry,” Kyle stutters out, overwhelmed by your speech. The prospect that you’d genuinely still be attracted to this chubby, weak version of his body genuinely hadn’t crossed his mind even once.

He’d just assumed you were being a good girlfriend, not making him feel bad about the weight gain but secretly waiting for the day he shed it all again. Because again; what is Kyle Garrick if he’s not a nice body?

Turns out, he’s the man that got you wet just from thinking about him. The man whose fingers are fondling your warm folds right now. The man who fuels all your late night masturbation sessions. The man who’s been a complete fucking moron for not realizing all that.

“It’s ok,” you sigh, squirming under his touch now, “I know you’re insecure about that-mmh!” you whimper as he finally finds your swollen clit, watching your eyes roll back as he caresses it.

“Can we talk about it after you make me cum?” you ask in a sugary sweet voice.

And who is Kyle Garrick to deny you?

Variations on that conversation have taken place between soldiers of all ranks and nationalities that have had the privilege of crossing paths with the inimitable Sergeant MacTavish.

Johnny deals with his burning need for physical affection by whoring himself out in exchange for human comfort.

Whenever he gets lonely or particularly depressed he heads straight for the nearest bar, lines up several rounds of shots and takes home the first lass to offer to neck one with him.

He plays his part brilliantly, spewing dirty talk like it’s a second language in an accent that drives girls of all backgrounds wild. He fucks rough and thorough and makes sure they have a good time.

And then he gets his end of the deal; after-sex cuddles. The only time it’s appropriate for Johnny to curl up in the warmth of another person and finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Of course, that relief is often interrupted by the poor girl getting the creeps from their one night stand’s extended spooning session and jumping up to leave suddenly.

When they leave like that, Johnny feels their absence like a knife in his chest. The sudden lack of warmth feels suffocating and he folds in on himself to try and chase the remnants of the comfort he’d just been feeling.

Then he meets you, out late one night in a foreign city he can’t pronounce the name of. You’re a uni exchange student; he couldn’t care less. He rushes you out of the pub and back to your shabby uni accommodations, cooing filthy nothings into your ear the whole walk back.

He takes his time lapping at your cunt until you’re shaking and moaning, but when it comes time to push himself inside and you catch his eye, you can tell he’s somewhere else.

His thrusts are robotic, rehearsed even. He’s just going through the motions, like this is a means to an end. What end? you wonder to yourself.

You get your answer when you notice the way he’s gripping your hips; not possessively, but desperately, like you’re tethering him somehow.

Realization dawns. Ohhhhhhh; this big strong masculine military man really just wants a hug.

“Hey, um, can we stop?” you ask timdly and Johnny’s body immediately ceases all movement, “I’m kinda not feeling it,”

“Oh my god, yeah, of course; bon I’m so sorry,” he stammers, pulling out of you and shuffling away from you on the bed, “I’ll be going, you just get some rest; all good love, all good,”

His cheeks are flushed red and his hands are shaking as he reaches for his boxers.

“Wait! You don’t um, don’t have to go….” you stammer, playing it up perfectly, “it sounds kind of dumb but, uh, we could just cuddle? Like, hang out? If you want to, of course,”

Johnny’s ears go red to match his face as he stares into your eyes with wide-eyed appreciation. No one’s ever asked to stop having sex in favor of cuddling instead before.

He shakes his head slightly, as if to check that his ears heard you correctly.

“Bonnie, that’d be great, I’d love a cuddle” he stutters, rushing to get back into bed with you. You smile; he thinks this is all just for you. Now he can get what he needs and not feel weird for asking.

After pulling on your underwear and t-shirt, you insist on putting Johnny in a little spoon position. You lean back and spread your legs, patting the spot of bed between them.

Johnny bounds into place like an overeager Labrador. He nestles his head right beneath your sternum, his torso framed by your inner thighs, arms along the outside of them, hands rubbing absent circles on your calves.

You both make easy conversation as your hands begin to roam his body gently. After a few minutes Johnny just closes his eyes and sinks into a state of bliss he’s never felt before.

You rub his arm muscles, massage his neck and draw invisible patterns on his lean chest with your warm fingers. His breathing is slow and deep and a permanent smile remains tugging at his lips.

You periodically pull his calloused hands up to your mouth to pepper with soft kisses. He’s sighs contentedly each time and returns the favor, practically worshipping your hands with his lips.

When your hands begin to slowly knead and rub his scalp, some band of resolve in Johnny just snaps. Slowly, small sniffles begin to escape his throat while hot tears well and eventually fall down his weathered cheeks.

“I’m sorry, fuck-so sorry. Steaming bloody Jesus, I’m a mess bonnie,” he stammers, face going red in embarrassment. He goes to sit up, to pull himself away from you because he thinks it’s what you’d want.

Because here he goes again, fucking crying at the feeling of finally receiving the physical affection his body’s been screaming for. How pathetic, how needy, how ridiculous is he to be sobbing in some poor girls arms who just wanted a one night stand with a sexy military man.

He can’t stand himself and his stupid bloody needs. The monumental hole in his chest that felt almost filled as you caressed his body.

But you push him back down into you and wrap your arms tightly around him. Of course he could easily break out of your grip if he wanted to but he stays like he’s trapped.

“You’re ok, Johnny, you can cry. I’ll just hold you,” you murmur in his ear. That phrase is all it takes for the damn to fully break. The sobs come more ragged, he lets every tear fall uninhibited as he holds onto you like he would a life raft in a hurricane.

He cries until there’s nothing left, with you planted firmly in place, keeping him emotionally and physically tethered.

“Thank you, fuck, I’m sorry, thank you,” he blubbers through his shame.

“You’re welcome, Johnny; anytime,”

The only task on your to-do list is keeping your shy pink hole gushing cream for him all day, keeping you prepped for your beloved’s girth. Porn plays on a loop on your rose-gold laptop as your eyes glaze over and your mouth starts to drool. You lose track of how many orgasms you’ve wrung out of yourself by midday.

Simon comes home and slips out of his uniform, cock flushed and standing at attention when he pulls it from his boxers. The obscene squelch of your sopping cunt allowing his cock to slide right in with no resistance is Simon Riley’s favorite sound in the world.

Good girl…so wet f’me…how many orgasms today, princess?

His fat mushroom tip kisses your sensitive cervix over and over again as he grinds his hips against you. You’re already dumb from pleasure, mind in a haze as overstimulation takes over.

Dunno baby…mmphhhff

Simon leans down to pepper your flushed face in kisses.

That’s ok, kitten; think ya can do one more f’me?

You nod lethargically as Simon’s hips piston his thick cock faster and faster in and out of your hot, dripping core. He pinches your stiff nipples, grinning at the pathetic whimpers it causes you to make as you writhe beneath his rough, relentless fucking.

Your orgasm rises and falls over your spent body in a minimal wave, but Simon’s pleased regardless. He speeds up his thrusts, chasing his own release.

Good job, kitten, soooo obedient…my good girl…gonna cum right inside my perfect girl…c-cumming princess

With a grunt he adds his thick creamy load to the juices coating your gummy walls. The sticky mixture between your thighs is the best lube in the world, and Simon keeps grinding until his cock goes soft inside you.

This is how he always wants you to be. A cute hedonist with no aspirations outside of sexual pleasure. A sloppy fleshlight with real tits he can hump anytime he wants. You’re not a person to Simon Riley; you’re a pet. And he takes very good care of his pets.

Oh my leaky little girl, you did so good; let’s get you cleaned up

You smile as he coos at you and carries you to the bath tub to massage your sore muscles and scrub your puffy folds. 

Love you, Si

“Shit, I’m sorry; I gotta get better about that,” you apologized one day after straightening Isaac’s scarf and watching his eyes go wide in shock.

“Actually…it’s probably the other way around,” he chuckled nervously and you raised an eyebrow at him. “I-I should probably try to not, um, freak out when people touch me,” he explained, squirming under your gaze.

“Oh, um, yeah maybe. Well if you ever need physical touch exposure therapy; I’m here,” you offered up, half-joking.

Isaac took a long look at you. “Ok, yeah; let’s do it,”

“Wait; now??” you look at Isaac utterly bewildered as he sets his jaw in preparation.

“No time like the present,” he quips through his growing anxiety, “Touch me, Y/N” Isaac very nearly growls in his low, scared voice. You let your eyes roam him for a moment before lacing your fingers with one of his hands. He sucks in a shaky breath as his heart begins to pound.

“Ok, um, I’m uh-touching you and…it’s ok because I’m your friend…”you clumsily reassure, feeling stupider by the word, “…and I won’t hurt you. You’re safe, Isaac. I’m not going to hit you. I’m touching you to show affection; no other reason,” you finish, finding your words easier the longer you talked.

By the end of your impromptu speech, Isaac’s heart rate had slowed and the urge to run far away had almost completely dissipated. He wasn’t comfortable, by any means, but at least he wasn’t terrified. From then on you continued your completely unlicensed and unprofessional exposure therapy and, (slowly but surely), Issac started to get more and more comfortable. His flinching got less and less severe and finally dissipated entirely. His heart rate stopped jumping and he even started initiating physical touch. Simple stuff like high fives and back pats but still; huge for Issac.

Subtly you got the whole pack in on this ‘desensitize Lahey’ schtick.

Derek & Peter would put a hand on Isaac’s shoulder while giving him instructions. Scott & Stiles would dap him up in the school hallways. Allison & Lydia would link arms with him when they walked together and Erica & Boyd frequently rested their hands on Issac’s knees when they were sat next to him. Isaac was, embarrassingly, quite surprised to learn that he actually really liked physical touch. Once it was finally associated with good things, (friendship, the pack, celebration), instead of his father’s iron fist, he found he craved it nearly constantly.

From you, specifically.

He always held your hand when you walked anywhere, let you play with his hair during pack movie nights, sat closer to you than was really necessary in almost every setting. One day he got brave enough to initiate the scariest kind of physical contact there is.

“Hey, uh, Y/N, I’ve been thinking. There’s uh, one type of physical touch I, um, haven’t gotten used to yet,” Isaac stammered one night during an all nighter study session in your room. You were seated at your desk while he was sprawled out on the bed.

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” you asked, curious. He got to his feet.

“Um…close your eyes,” he stammered and you complied.

Slowly, shaking and terrified, Isaac drew his face nearer to yours. His heart was pounding in his ears and his stomach was in his throat but he pushed through the anxiety until his lips brushed against yours.

Your eyes flew open to meet his and for a split second he worried he’d misread everything and that you were about to slap him in the face. But a blink later and you were pulling him in close, tangling your hands in his hair and kissing him like it was your one and only chance to do so.

Finally; the one type of physical affection you’d been craving from him all along.