Current Obsessions

In their place is a man who fills the frame like it was made for him. Broad in the shoulders, bearded, brows heavy over pale eyes. His sleeves are cuffed at the forearms, shirt slightly wrinkled but neat, like he'd rolled them up himself rather than letting anyone touch him. He looks like someone used to giving orders even when off the clock.

“You’re early,” he says, before you can even think to speak. His voice comes like gravel under boots— English-accented, calm but severe, like the cadence in your training videos. It doesn't matter how quiet he keeps it; authority coils inside every syllable.

“I, um… built in a buffer,” you reply, your voice doing that too-bright thing you hate. “Just in case. You know. Something happened.”

He doesn’t respond. Just looks at you, his sharp eyes sweeping over you, taking in everything from the careful pin at your collar to the way your kitten heels shift slightly on the tiled floor, not quite able to stay still during his examination. You’d dressed to blend in: black pencil skirt, opaque tights, a fitted blouse in a soft green that matched the pigment in your eyeshadow. Professional, understated, but different enough from your usual attire that you can't stop feeling aware of it. You’d worn a trench coat over it on the way in, but that’s folded over your arm now, no longer offering protection.

You feel exposed under his gaze, like your body is saying something about you before you have the chance to speak for yourself.

“She’s not Jacobs,” comes a voice from behind him. Lighter, accented. Russian, you think— lilting, playful in the way it curves up at the end. A second man steps into view, and you have to swallow twice before you can breathe properly again.

This one is even taller; broad-shouldered like the first man, though leaner through the chest, with a long face and sharp nose that gives the impression of someone who knows how to smile and get away with it. His eyes are blue-grey, murky where the other man's are bright and cold, but they're cutting— smirking at you, even if his mouth isn’t.

“You’re not Jacobs, are you?” he says again, like it amuses him personally.

His amusement makes something tighten inside you. Ignoring the feeling, you shake your head. “No. I’m her backup.” You look between them, almost beseechingly, adding quickly, “I've been fully briefed, and I have the dossier—”

“That’s fine,” the first man says, cutting off your spiral. “Come in.”

You step forward, obeying on instinct. The door clicks shut behind you.

“Captain John Price,” the first man says, jerking a thumb toward his chest. “This is Nikolai. You’ll be handing off to us.”

“Pleasure,” Nikolai says with a smile that flashes teeth, gesturing toward the seating area just beyond the doorway. You choose one of the two armchairs, avoiding the couch across. As soon as you sit, he cocks his head just slightly. “Do you always look like you’re about to bolt, or are we just that frightening?”

“Nikolai,” Price warns, tone flat but not sharp.

“What?” Nikolai raises his hands, still grinning, though it’s more cheshire-like now. “She’s cute, all nervous like that. Takaya kisa. Sweet kitty.”

“She’s here for the file.”

You look on helplessly as they go back and forth, unnerved by the Russian Nikolai used that you don’t understand. And there’s something in the tone of Captain Price's voice now, something buried underneath that top note of authority, that you can't quite decipher. It tickles at your hindbrain, feels off-key like a sour note, though you can't pinpoint why.

“And I’m here for the ambiance,” Nikolai retorts easily despite the warning in his superior's voice. “What a lovely little team we make.”

They exchange a look, and you sense there's an entire conversation in it, one that leaves you entirely— unpleasantly— in the dark. Reluctant to draw attention to yourself, you move subtly, draping your coat over the arm of the chair and pulling the satchel with your files into your lap. WIth your pulse hopping in your throat, you look around instead.

The suite is immaculate in the way expensive places always are, gilded by the light filtering through long curtains in muted sheets, turning gold against the walls. The floors are stone tile with warm rugs underfoot, and everything smells faintly of citrus polish and fresh linen. A tray has been set on the low table with two glasses and a decanter already sweating condensation, ice cubes untouched in their crystal bucket. The whole thing feels… unreal. More like a set than a hotel room, suspended in quietude as if waiting for something to begin.

You fidget in your seat, suddenly conscious again of how loud your clothes feel— how every shift of your thighs rubs fabric together, how every breath catches under your blouse like it isn't meant to move that much. You want to sit still. You want to do this right. But you just feel wrong.

“You’ve done this before?” Price asks, pulling your attention to him. He hasn’t moved from the door, but the weight of him follows you.

“Not—” You're about to say ‘alone,’ but pivot at the last second. “—with you. But I’ve run support for this unit before.” Wanting to move on quickly, you add, “My supervisor said you’ll be getting the greenlight for insertion after the gala.”

“Mhm.” He rubs his jaw, sharp eyes still on you. “Where’s the list?”

“In the folder.”

You open your satchel, hands steady even if Captain Price's discerning stare has your stomach in knots. As you reach inside, you feel Nikolai shift closer, see the shine of his belt buckle in your periphery, hear the sound of ice clinking in a glass. Leisurely, he moves to sit across from you, one arm slung over the back of the low couch, sipping his drink like this is a post-dinner chat and not a pre-op intel briefing.

While you gather your documents, you hear the captain approach from behind, but when you open the folder, smoothing it across your lap, Price stays standing at your back rather than taking the second chair like you would have expected. He looms over you like a steady wall of heat and judgment. You clear your throat, doing your best not to be unnerved.

“There’s a ballroom on the second floor, accessed through the main atrium,” you say, tapping the printed map. “Security’s clustered there and at the service corridor junctions. Your entry point should be the staff elevator through the south kitchen. It has the least camera coverage, and no guards are posted there after 8 p.m.”

Price grunts, reaching down to skim a fingertip along the page beside yours. His skin brushes your knuckles, warm and rough; your hand twitches, but you keep it there. You want to look unbothered in front of them, like you’ve done this a million times.

“What’s on the third floor?” he asks.

“Private rooms,” you answer. “A few penthouse suites. VIP bookings. You’ll find the target there— Suite 3C. It's not marked on the hotel’s guest registry, but I cross-checked with event vendors.”

“And backup?”

“Two guards posted outside, unarmed but trained.”

Nikolai hums. “Where are you from?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“You,” he says, gesturing lazily with his glass. “You’re not from here. American, right?”

“Oh. Um. Yes.” There’s a pause, and you realize he expects more. “Long Island.”

“Aha. I thought so.”

He smiles like he’s won something. You try not to fidget under the weight of it.

“I lived in Brooklyn once,” he goes on. “Russians love Brighton Beach. All the food, none of the Russians.”

He grins, clearly amused with himself, and Price shoots him a look. Not annoyed—just dry. Familiar.

“She’s giving us the layout, mate.”

“I’m listening,” Nikolai says, shrugging. “I just like to know who I’m working with.”

“She’s a contact. Not part of the team.”

“Even so. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friendly.”

You stay quiet, lips parted like you aren’t sure whether to keep talking or wait for permission.

Nikolai’s smile lingers. Price says nothing. Neither of them look away.

And you, to your credit, do your best to quash down the roil of emotions inside. You try to keep things professional, return to the page. Try to ignore how your blouse feels tighter than it had earlier, how the elastic in your tights is digging deep into the soft crease of your belly now that you’ve sat too long. You chose the skirt because it’s black and structured— because it holds things in. But the waist is unforgiving, and your legs have always been wider when seated. You can feel the fabric strain where the hem sits flush against the underside of your thighs. Not riding up, exactly, just… tight. Pressing.

You don't tug on it or adjust your posture, not wanting to draw more attention to it. But you know they can see, and it's hard to ignore that.

“Like I said,” you continue, hoping your voice doesn’t sound as small as it feels, “you’ll want to avoid the ballroom and access through the service corridor. It’s a clean path from there to the elevator, and—”

“What time does the gala start?” Price asks, still looming behind you.

“Half seven. But VIPs start trickling in around six.”

“And no one else has this intel? Staff, guests?”

“Just me.”

Price makes a sound low in his throat, and for a moment, you feel his fingers brush the back of your chair, like he might adjust it, or even reach over it toward you. But he doesn't. He just stays there, standing close enough that if you were to lean your head back even slightly, you’d graze the front of his thighs.

You stay very, very still.

“She’s not used to this,” Nikolai says suddenly.

Startled, your gaze snaps from the page up to him. His expression is amused when you scan his face, trying to puzzle out such an odd remark. He’s relaxed in a way that makes it more unnerving, not less.

“Used to what?” you ask, too quickly.

“Being looked at.”

The silence that follows is deafeningly loud. Your stomach turns cold and hot at once as it lingers— as Price doesn’t contradict him, redirect him like before.

“That’s not—” you start, but trail off. There’s no version of denying it that won't make it worse.

Because he’s right. You aren’t used to being looked at like this, and certainly not by men like them— the kind with square hands and deep voices and war behind their eyes. You’ve grown used to being invisible in your softness, to letting sharp, pretty girls handle the face-to-face work. You know your place: smart, reliable, and firmly in the background.

But now—

Now Nikolai is watching you with a wolfish kind of patience. And Price hasn’t taken a single step back.

“It’s alright,” Nikolai says, voice smoothing out into something velvet-soft. Knowing he can see your thoughts written all over your face is embarrassing enough, but then he adds, “Some of us like a girl with a little more to hold onto.”

Your mouth drops open.

Behind your chair, Price lets out a quiet exhale, something too short to be a laugh. “You want to finish the briefing, love?” he asks mildly, acknowledging nothing of what Nikolai said.

It doesn’t feel like an invitation. It feels like a test.

Reeling, you swallow hard and nod, trying not to show how your palms have started to sweat. But your voice wobbles. Your fingers smudge the paper. And when Price leans down again— this time placing one firm hand on the armrest beside you— your whole body tenses like it expects to be chastised for taking up too much space.

“Easy,” he says, low and close. His breath stirs the fine hairs near your ear. “We’re listening.”

You take a steadying breath, nod again, gratefully latching on to the opportunity Price provides to pretend this situation is still completely normal. Because to acknowledge the strangeness is to acknowledge your discomfort, your insecurity— your shame— and everything in your body rebels against the idea.

Yet, tangled up with those are other feelings. And now, you can't meet Nikolai's eye for a different reason. Not with your cheeks burning, your thighs pressed together under the desk, and— you realize with a flash of mortified heat— your cunt pulsing low and traitorous between them.

Oh, sweet, soft you. Once again, you try to steer the conversation, keep it focused on the mission, you really do try. But something has shifted. Your body may have begun to betray you some time ago, heating under their stares, under the ghost of Price’s breath behind your ear, but now, it's impossible to pretend you’re unaffected.

When you finally drag your gaze from the papers on your lap, you see that Nikolai has already set his glass aside and leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his knees, the shape of him loose but intent. Not lounging anymore; still smiling, but quieter now.

“You’re sweating,” he murmurs, like he’s noting the weather.

You blink, embarrassed all over again. You hadn’t even noticed, but he’s right. All at once, you can feel the inside of your elbows are damp, the band of your tights sticky against your lower belly. Unconsciously, you press your thighs together again under the folder in your lap. You don't notice the way the motion draws their eyes— fluid and silent, like the swing of a trap that's already set.

“It’s warm in here,” you explain quickly.

“Mm.” Price's voice rumbles behind you. “Or maybe you're just feeling the pressure.”

You turn your head slightly. Not enough to meet his eyes, but enough to make him out in your peripheral vision.

“I’m fine,” you say.

It's clear they aren't convinced.

“Let’s take a break,” Nikolai declares, already rising from his seat. “You look like you could use a breather.”

“I’m okay,” you say again, reflexive, hands tightening on the folder like it might anchor you.

“I didn’t ask if you were okay, kotyonok kitten,” he replies lightly, stepping toward you. “I said you could use a break.”

He extends a hand, rough-worn and lined. A soldier's palm. The offer, paired with more Russian he has to know you don’t understand, makes your brow knit tight. With what emotion, you don't quite know. But the feeling hovers there just like his hand, quiet and yet unignorable.

You look up at him.

His shirt is fitted but open at the collar, unbuttoned too far down, showing off a gold chain cradled in a dark nest of hair; his sleeves are rolled, more carelessly than Price's, his thick forearms lined with more of that dark hair and prominent veins. Your eyes dart back to the v at his collar, watching as his chest rises slow and steady, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you.

And behind you, you feel the air change, and know without checking that Price has shifted— a slight movement, but enough to remind you that you're surrounded.

The pretense of your composure— your ability to act like nothing is happening here— finally falls away.

“I—I should stay focused,” you say softly, almost pleadingly, like a final attempt you don't really believe will work.

“You’re trying too hard,” Nikolai counters, his voice gentle, his eyes gleaming. “You’re not under interrogation, sweetheart.”

The word lands like a thumb on your tongue.

Sweetheart.

“I just want to do a good job,” you mumble, not sure why you say it, or why your voice breaks on job.

“You already have,” Price says. You feel the weight of his hand land firmly on your shoulder; feel both comforted and trapped by it. “We’ve got everything we need.”

“That’s right,” Nikolai murmurs, taking another step closer. “You’ve done beautifully.”

His eyes drop, tracing the curve of your breasts under the blouse, the cinch of the waistband over your rounded stomach, the heft of your thighs where they press outward beneath the hem of your skirt. He doesn't hide it. And for the first time, you realize there’s something like hunger coming off him.

“It’s a rare thing,” he goes on. “A girl like you—”

“What kind of girl?” you ask defensively— a cornered cat, hissing and spitting right before it gets scruffed.

That makes both of them pause.

And smile.

“Soft,” Nikolai says. “Shy. Looks at her own body like it’s a burden.”

“And has no idea,” Price murmurs behind you, thumb brushing once against your collarbone, “how fuckin’ pretty she is when she’s trying not to squirm.”

Your heart thunders in your throat. You want to speak, say something, but your mouth has gone dry. Nikolai’s fingers touch your chin, lightly tipping your face toward him again. With those storm dark eyes looking down on you, and Price’s solid warmth at your back, he says,

“Let us take care of you.”

The words seem to hang in the air. They’re less coaxing than how he sounded before; maybe even, you think, closer to a command than an offer. Again, something in the back of your mind squirms, twisting away from that sour note, even while the heat simmering in your belly flares at the prospect.

It’s confusing; it’s too much. You don’t reply, and the silence that follows is heavy.

Price is the one who steps back first, just enough for his hand to lift from your shoulder and the heat of him to ease off. Finally, you can breathe— sharp, sudden, almost dizzy with the room’s stillness, like you only became aware you were starving yourself of oxygen once you gasped it in again.

“Up you get, then,” he says casually, voice still low but not unkind.

“What— why?” you ask, the question reflexive, almost petulant.

“You haven’t taken that breather. And you look like you need it,” Nikolai says mildly, stepping aside as well, leaving you a narrow path between them. And in that gap, set back against the wall, you see the front door to the suite.

They give you space the way wolves might give a deer a final glimpse of open forest— calculated, careful, almost gracious. But your limbs are too heavy with heat and noise to bolt for it.

Something in you folds instead of flinching.

Slowly, you find your feet. You stand, and your skirt creaks at the hips as it adjusts; your tights cling uncomfortably to the undersides of your thighs now that the fabric has warmed with your body. You feel heavy, clumsy in your own skin. But still, you don’t run.

“There,” Nikolai murmurs, watching you rise. “Better, isn’t it?”

You open your mouth to answer but gasp as fingers brush the fabric of your blouse, just beneath the swell of your breast.

You look down to see Price’s hand there, his thick, squared fingers pressing into the delicate green of your clothing.

“Shirt’s damp,” he says, like he’s pointing out a detail on a map. Like he hadn’t given you that breath of air just so he could press in tighter somewhere more tender. “Warm in here, you said. In’t that right?”

His thumb drags upward, slow as sunrise, pressing into the soft give of your breast through the fabric. You try to step forward, away from the touch, but Nikolai is already there, closing the small gap he’d allowed you like it’s nothing. His hands brace your hips lightly— barely there, but unmistakable.

“I—I really should go,” you whisper, voice thready. “I didn’t think this was… part of it.”

“No? Funny,” Price says, sounding a touch darker now. “It suits you.”

His thumb finds your nipple. Presses once. Not hard, just enough for it to stiffen, traitorous and obvious through your blouse. You suck in a quivery little breath, trying to grasp at the shreds of your composure, to figure out how to get out of this room unscathed, unchanged.

But you’ve already failed in that.

“Sensitive little thing,” Price mutters. “That all it takes?”

You don’t see him move, but you feel it: the weight of his presence peeling away from your back, only for a moment, before he reappears in your periphery. His knuckles graze the side of your throat, calloused and unhurried, as he rounds you with the slow certainty of a turning tide. The shift is subtle, but it leaves you suddenly exposed at the back, your balance teetering.

“She’s shaking,” Nikolai observes, amusement thick in his voice. “Poor thing doesn’t know where to look.”

He's behind you now— when did he get there?— his hand splayed low across your spine like a paperweight, his thumb rising to press at the dimple just above your ass, a barely-there pressure that makes your stomach lurch.

He’s right.

You don’t.

Because Price is right in front of you now, his fingers plucking, teasing the stiffened peak of your nipple through layers of fabric. And Nikolai’s hands are sliding lower— over your hips, down the supple curve of your lower belly, until one snakes under your structured black skirt. It pushes up and makes a home between your legs, cupping, palming the heat that has soaked through your tights. His breath ghosts over the shell of your ear: deep, gravel-warm, and horribly smug.

“You’re wet.”

It isn’t a question.

You whimper.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, flexing his fingers, his palm shifting, rubbing so subtly you could almost be imagining it. “You’re doing so well.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” you start, shame rising hot in your throat.

“You want to be good, don’t you?” Price asks, pinching lightly again. “That’s why you came here, all dressed up. All trembling and sweet. Trying so hard to be professional with a soaked cunt under your skirt.”

“No! I mean, I—”

“Ah, ah,” Nikolai purrs, hand tightening just slightly. “No need to lie. Not to us.”

You can feel yourself unraveling— stomach bunching, breath shortening, thighs twitching to close but held wide by the press of Nikolai’s thick thigh.

“You don’t get looked at like this, do you?” Price asks softly. “Not usually.”

You shake your head before you can stop yourself. Both of them hum.

“Shame,” Nikolai whispers. His middle finger presses more firmly than the others, right along the seam of your tights. “They’ve no idea what they’re missing.”

“But we know,” Price adds, leaning in, the bristles of his beard feathering against your cheek. “Don’t we, love?”

They haven't even taken off a single piece of your clothing, and you already feel stripped bare.

Nikolai is a solid wall behind you, his palm spread over the heat between your thighs, cupping you like it's his. Price stands before you, crowding you in, still thumbing lazily at the stiff peak of your nipple through your blouse. The fabric is growing more damp now, darkening visibly where sweat gathers under your breasts, under your arms. You clench your jaw to keep from making any more noise, lock your knees to keep them from folding.

Despite your efforts, your body betrays you, trembling anyway. And that's when Nikolai’s voice dips, lilting and coaxing, into your ear.

“Let’s see you, darling.”

“What?” you breathe. Panic floods your chest.

“Off,” Price says simply, nodding once to your blouse. “All of it.”

You freeze.

And, though their gazes press in on you, they don't move— don’t poke, or pull, or push. They just wait, almost insultingly patient, letting silence grind against your nerves until your mind finally catches up with the inevitability they already know:

What you're going to let them do to you.

Your chest rises with a deep breath— bracing, for courage — and Price leans back, giving you space.

It doesn’t feel like mercy; it feels like stepping into a snare.

You unbutton your blouse first, fingers fumbling now, and you hate that they can see how nervous you are, how clumsy you become when eyes are on you. The fabric pulls at your chest as you work down the row, then peel it away with a sound like tearing paper. Your bare arms catch goosebumps instantly, not from the air, but from being so wholly seen. Quickly, as if to distract yourself, your skirt follows. You slide the zipper down and wriggle it past your hips, your thighs rubbing as it falls around your ankles. The tights cling more stubbornly— sticky with sweat, dragging over every curve, every soft fold of skin. Your eyes stay on your feet as you step out of the bundle, the goosebumps now racing down over your midriff and the backs of your thighs.

“Weren’t planning on anyone seeing those, were you?” Price says.

Your head snaps up to see he's looking directly at your bra and panties; automatically, you look down at yourself, too.

Your underwear don't match. The bra is blush pink, one of your older ones— worn and plain, a little too small, so that the band bites into your back more tightly than usual. Your panties are dark blue, cotton, and stretched more than you would want them to be. They hug the crease where your belly meets your thighs and dig just slightly into your hips.

No, you weren't planning on anyone seeing them, and that made you a bit sheepish to begin with. But the fact that he’d say it—

“Pulled from the drawer in the dark, was it?” he adds. His voice is light, teasing, but still a little mean— poking a sore spot, for what? His own amusement?

Your whole face burning, you cross you arms, cinch them tight around yourself, like you could cover everything at once—your stomach, your tits, the deep, soft curve of your inner thighs.

Why would I wear these?

Why didn’t I check?

Why the fuck am I still here—

You take a step back, reaching for the blouse you’d dropped on the floor.

“I shouldn't have— I should go,” you grit, feeling utterly stupid and small. Your throat is tight with humiliation over it all— being the last-minute replacement on this job, losing your composure in front of these two men, being so unprofessional that you actually took off your fucking clothes, and especially— the part that cuts the deepest, makes the sting of angry tears finally rise behind your eyes— letting yourself believe that they would truly mean those pretty lines they fed you.

Would actually want you.

“Fuck this,” you whisper, fumbling for the blouse with shaky fingers, ready to tear it on— tear yourself from this snare and retreat to lick your wounds alone.

But before you can lift it, Price’s palm lands flat between your shoulder blades.

“Bend over.”

Your lips part to protest, but you never get the words out.

He presses, and you fold.

The edge of the table hits the juncture of your hips, sharp and unyielding; your arms fold forward to catch yourself, tits flattening against your forearms. You barely have time to inhale before the flat of his hand cracks down between your legs.

A spank, right over your soaked panties.

Crack— and your knees buckle.

Oh my God—

Your gasp is a ragged, dizzying inhale.

It isn’t the pain that leaves you reeling. It's the wet sound it makes, echoing in your ears like a shot; the fact that he’d aimed straight for your cunt; and the blinding, inexplicable heat that blooms instantly between your thighs.

“There she is,” Price mutters, his voice low and pleased. With the hand that spanked you, he palms your ass cheek, kneading it like praise.

“Now be a good girl for the captain, pet,” Nikolai purrs, “and let him see all of you. Hm?”

You don't move. You don't cry. You don't think about your bra and panties, or the job, or the pretty concierge from downstairs. You lay there for a moment with your arms folded up under you and your chin pressed to the wood of the table, just… existing in your body. It's gone molten and heavy in a way you've never experienced before, trembling from deep within, your cunt slick enough now that you can feel it beginning to soak through the fabric, cooling against the air on the back of your thighs.

You know, then, that from the moment you set eyes on Captain Price and Nikolai in the doorway of their hotel suite, you were never going to leave without taking what they would give you.

Your bra comes off first. You unclip it slowly, hands shaking from adrenaline and anticipation, and your breasts bounce free, sagging under their weight, your nipples already stiff from the rush of blood beneath your skin. You see Price’s gaze flick lower. You see him smile.

Your panties follow. You peel them down carefully, trying to avoid any awkward movements, but there is no elegant way to undress with your thighs and hips and belly, all of you so soft, so unhidden, every inch of you marked by your body’s honest weight.

Price doesn't flinch; neither does Nikolai. They look at you— all of you— and move in.

They have you on your back, laid out on the table, in seconds— Price guiding you down, Nikolai lifting your legs by the backs of your knees. They don’t speak to each other, and don't seem to need to. In silence, your arms are gently, firmly pressed to your sides, your thighs parted, your body arranged.

You lay there, rendered limp by the ease of it.

They unbuckle slowly, almost leisurely, and through it all, you don’t move a muscle out of place. You just watch as they ready themselves: shirts coming unbuttoned or being shrugged from shoulders, hanging open; belts sagging, zippers parting, trouser waists falling slack but held up by the thickness of their thighs. Boxers being tugged down or pushed aside, fabric parting to free what's underneath. The scent of them fills the space— soap, sweat, something like musk and leather. Hair scatters across solid bellies and wide chests, one a shade darker than the other. You look between them and can't decide, from this angle, which of them is stronger, denser, hairier. They both look like more than just men. They look like grizzlies made bipedal.

And they're about to fuck me. The thought makes your head rush in the most wonderful, horrible way.

Then Price steps into your view.

You look down the length of your body—over your jiggling belly, your splayed thighs—and stare.

You'd felt his hand on your shoulder, your waist, your breast; you're acquainted with its width. To now see the way he grips his cock with that hand, how the head stands out from his pale fingers, red and blunt and already glistening as he glides his fist from the crown to the base and back again…

He's stupidly, devastatingly thick.

The sight brings back a sense of reality, of practicality, and with it, a surge of nervous anticipation rises within you. When he steps closer, you grasp for sense. “What about— D-do you have a condom?” you stammer suddenly, voice higher than you mean it to be.

And Price laughs.

He laughs.

Before you can even register it, Nikolai’s fingers are skimming along your temples, thumbs stroking down your cheeks to your shoulders. Gentle. Possessive.

“Don’t worry, kisa kitty,” he croons from above you. You look up at him, see his face upside down, leaning over you. As you stare into his storm-dark eyes, his fingertips press into the hollows of your chest, just below your collarbones— subtly holding you down. “You won't be needing that.”

It's all the warning you have before Price pushes in.

The head of his cock breaches you slowly— hot, silken, impossibly thick, somehow thicker even than it looked. Your cunt seizes around him instinctively, like your body is trying to push him out even as it pulses to pull him deeper. You cry out, the sound punched from your chest at the feeling of him splitting you open. And yes, there is pain, but it's not sharp. Not bad. Just a molten stretch that burns through your whole lower body, stealing your breath as he carves room inside you.

You feel your thighs twitch, your belly rise with each shallow breath as he keeps going, slowly but ruthlessly filling you by inches— dragging his cock through your tight, clinging heat like he’s mapping every dip and fold. And then, finally, you feel his thighs press against the underside of your ass, and know you've taken him to the root.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, flexing his hips to press even more firmly against you, drawing another little cry from your lips. “Grippin’ me like a fist.”

“She’s clenching?” Nikolai asks, voice above your head bright with interest.

“Like she thinks she can stop me.”

He chuckles. “That’s adorable.”

All at once, there are fingers at your lips: Nikolai’s, tapping gently.

“Now, moy kotyonok my kitten,” he says, “let’s keep that mouth busy, mm?”

Attention stolen by the thick, deliberate push of Price’s cock, without thinking, you open.

Nikolai presses in.

It’s awkward at first. The angle is strange; your head is tipped back over the edge of the table, and you can barely flatten your tongue properly. Mercifully, his cock enters slowly, warm and slightly salty, the skin soft but the shape firm. You can feel his foreskin drag against your tongue, unfamiliar and smooth, shifting each time he slides in and withdraws only to come back, pressing further once again.

Your moan around him is wet and open-mouthed— half a sound, half a reflex.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, stroking your jaw as his cock fills your mouth. “Just like that.”

Between your legs, Price starts to move. Tiny thrusts at first, shallow and probing, like he's testing the push and pull of you from the inside. Even that little friction drags fire through your cunt— stretched and slick and full, your pussy gripping around him in twitching, helpless pulses. Every inch he takes and then gives back makes your breath catch, makes your mouth slacken around Nikolai’s cock, makes your thoughts fly apart into something raw and dirty and shameful.

“Told you she’d take it,” you hear Price say, his voice closer now, one hand braced on your belly. “Didn’t believe me.”

“I believe you now,” Nikolai chuckles. “Look at her.”

He pulls back, just far enough to rest his cockhead on your bottom lip. You pant against it, spit-slick and open, your lashes fluttering. A small, sensible part of you tries to make sense of what they mean, until their cocks chase it away again.

“Open,” Nikolai says, looking down at you as he lifts his cock slightly.

At first, you blink at him, confused that he's taking it away from your mouth. Then you feel his hand under your jaw, tilting.

“Open wide for me. Show me how grateful you are the captain’s fucking you so well.”

You obey— mouth wide, throat raw from taking him deep, your tongue falling out like a wet, pink cradle to welcome him back to you. Nikolai lifts his cock and presses it against your chin, then down.

Then he brings his balls to your mouth.

Soft and heavy, they settle against your lips, spreading over your chin, the underside of your nose. You whimper and lick, trying your best, awkward and heat-flushed as you lap at the seam of his scrotum, the sweat-slick skin dusted with coarse, wiry hair, and the firmer swells within it. The salt and warmth of him fill your mouth, your lungs as you work at him. Your thighs shake; your nose knocks gently against his sack as Price fucks you, forcing you to chase Nikolai with your tongue, try to suck the skin between your lips only to lose it again the next second.

But Nikolai doesn’t seem to mind. “There’s a good girl,” he croons, cupping your neck with his other hand, the first slowly jerking his cock against your chin. “So polite. So obedient.”

Price’s thrusts deepen. He grunts low in his throat, hand splayed over your soft belly, pinning you as he fucks up into you harder.

“Jesus, she’s fucking soaked,” he says, almost to himself. “Can feel her fluttering around me. Like she’s trying not to come.”

“She doesn’t want to make a mess,” Nikolai replies; you can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “She’s still trying to be professional.”

They both laugh.

“Darling,” Nikolai says sweetly, brushing your spit-slick cheek with his knuckles. “You’ve got a cock in your cunt and another on your chin, with your face buried in my balls. I think that ship has sailed.”

You barely have time to register how that makes you feel before Price abruptly pulls out of you; the slick, wet drag makes your back arch from the table.

“Switch,” he grunts, wiping his cockhead along the soft underside of your thigh.

Empty now, you whine, cunt twitching helplessly around nothing, already clenching as if begging him to come back. But Nikolai is there immediately, knocking your knees aside with the width of his torso.

And he doesn’t wait— he just presses in.

He is a smaller man than Price, but not by much. Though not quite as thick, his cock is longer, and he doesn’t try to ease you into it, just thrusts into your cunt with a sharp, sure rhythm that rocks your body on the table. The wood squeaks against your shifting softness; your tits bounce with every firm smack of his hips.

“There’s my good girl,” he hisses, wide hands gripping your waist harder than Price had, pressing into the ample give of your body. “Taking us in so nicely. Like you were made for this.”

You can’t answer, distracted as you are, because Price has moved to your head.

His cock hovers above your mouth— wet with your arousal, flushed dark and veined, the crown slick from where he’d just fucked you.

“Open up,” he says, his hand spanning you from jaw to cheekbone. “Want you to taste the mess you made on my cock.”

Mouth slack, eyes heavy lidded, your body buzzing like never before, you don’t hesitate for even a second.

You just obey.

The taste hits you immediately— bitter, musky, salt layered over something slick and unmistakably yours. Embarrassment and arousal tangle inside you until you can't separate them, bouncing you between them just like these men fuck your body from both ends. Driving you quickly toward a precipice that, all things considered, should have been much farther away than it is.

I’ve never come like this, you think wildly, even as your stomach begins to tighten with that familiar feeling. I don’t even think I can—

Nikolai’s cock pistons into you faster, harder, his solid hips slapping against the backs of your thighs. His pubic hair scrapes the tender skin of your folds, his balls plapping rhythmically against your ass. There’s no angle you can squirm into that doesn’t bring pleasure, no breath you can take that doesn't make you whimper.

“She’s shakin’,” Price murmurs, his voice a low hum above you as he holds your head still and fucks your mouth. “Think she’s close?”

“She shouldn’t be,” Nikolai laughs breathlessly. “Haven’t touched her clit.”

He’s right— they haven’t even grazed it accidentally. You’ve had nothing but the constant grind of cock inside your holes, the friction of your back and ass against the table, and the thunder of your own heartbeat in your ears.

And yet—

Your thighs keep twitching. Your cunt spasms around Nikolai with every thrust. Your nipples have drawn tight despite the warmth building in the room, dark with blood, scraping the air with every bounce.

“That it, sweetheart?” Price asks, cupping your face with both hands, digging his fingers into your scalp and canting his hips to drag his cock more firmly against your tongue. “You gonna come just like this?”

You whine, your whole body wound tight, your hips twitching to meet Nikolai’s thrusts, so fucking close—

He pulls out.

You cry out in sharp dismay, the sound garbled around the cock still in your throat.

“Switch,” Nikolai pants, his voice a touch more hoarse now. “Not done with her yet.”

They do it again: Price at your cunt this time, his girth stretching you anew, driving a brutal rhythm into your already swollen hole.

You moan in relief, your eyes scrunched closed, too glad to have someone hitting that spot inside you again to react to Nikolai tapping your lips with his cock. He lets the tip smear prespend across your lips and chin instead, chuckling, “Look at her. Fucked stupid. Face a mess. Is that her mascara?”

“Was,” Price mutters.

“Desperate little kitty,” Nikolai croons at you. “Crying just from cock.”

You hadn’t realized you were crying until he said it, but now you notice your face is wet from every angle— saliva leaking from the corners of your mouth over your cheeks, tears streaking black through your ruined lashes, catching in your hairline. Your mouth has gone puffy from effort, jaw sore and slack. And every time they edge themselves— pulling out, groaning, trading places— they drag you closer too, without even trying.

It’s torture of the most exquisite kind.

You want to scream, beg, tell them to just keep going, to fuck you through it—

But your mouth is full again.

“That’s it,” Nikolai purrs, sliding his cock back into your throat. “Just like that, pet. Show us how grateful you are. Show us what that fat little mouth was made for.”

Price thrusts harder into you, his grip on your thighs tightening. “She’s ready, Nik,” he grits, his voice rough from affect and effort. “Pussy’s fuckin’ beggin’ me to come, mate. Drippin’ all over the goddamn table.”

And you are. It pours from your cunt in strings, smearing his thighs and yours, soaking the wood beneath you. You can feel how wet you are, how slick your skin has become with sweat and arousal; can imagine how far gone you must look, used and wet-faced and wrecked. Laid out across the table, bookended by their masculine frames, twitching and writhing on their cocks like a thing possessed.

Then Price hits something deep, something bright. You squeal helplessly around Nikolai’s cock, a broken, animal sound.

And that makes things escalate quickly.

Price snarls something low and wordless, slamming himself fully inside you, and you scream— muffled, guttural, the sound pulled from the depth of you. Your whole body jolts forward, the force flicking your jaw upwards; not quite a bite, but enough to scrape against the meat in your mouth, which promptly slips free.

Nikolai pulls back with a wet pop, breathing hard. Startled, with a flash of worry, your eyes pop open to see his tip, slick and flushed, hovering above your face as he fists his cock roughly at the base.

“Teeth,” he pants, drawing your wide-eyed gaze to his face. His dark brow is furrowed and sweat-slick, but more from exertion than annoyance. He flashes you a teasing smile. “Didn’t want to ruin my fun just yet.”

Reassured, you manage a nod, gasp in air— but not for long.

Because his balls are suddenly in your face again, and this time, there’s no hesitation.

You latch.

Tongue sloppy, drooling, tasting every inch of him, you suck and kiss and lick with no rhythm, no grace— just sheer want. Your arm even snakes up next to your ear, your hand wrapping around the back of his thick, hairy thigh, urging him closer. You chase the salt and musk of him like you’re starving for it, lavishing him with unspoken praise— a wet, messy, earnest worship.

“Fuckin’... Christ.” You feel Nikolai’s broad hand cup underneath your skull, keeping your mouth pressed close to him. “Filthy fuckin’ thing. Sovsem s uma skhodit. Completely losing her mind,” he mutters, the words slipping rough and low. “Little animal.”

Your hips react to the affect in his voice, bucking out of rhythm with Price’s thrusts. “Hold still,” he growls, voice sharp with effort. Your ankles kick out once, uncontrolled, before his grip steadies your hips again, pressing you down against the table almost hard enough to grind your bones.

He drives into you now like he’s trying to knock the orgasm out of you with brute force, the sound of flesh meeting flesh loud and constant. Your tits bounce violently with the impact, the table underneath you jerking in time with his rhythm. Your softness is everywhere— your belly rippling with every thrust, thighs quaking with the force of it, skin slapping loud and wet in the heat-thick air.

If you weren’t flesh, your body would break into pieces.

You can’t think, can’t make a sound; can barely even breathe. You feel it coming— a white heat blooming in your pelvis, a deep, unbearable twist building in your gut. You whimper again and again, high-pitched and frantic, against Nikolai’s balls, nose buried in the sweaty skin, tongue flattened and desperate. Your toes curl, cramp, slip uselessly against Price’s legs, searching for purchase so you can try to bring your orgasm forth yourself if they decide to take it away again.

If they do… you think you might die if they do.

Please, you wail wordlessly. Please—

“Now,” Price snarls, low and final. “Fuckin’ give it to me.”

You shatter.

It rips through you like a crack in glass— fracturing something fundamental, white-hot and irreversible. Your body stops being yours to control, overtaken by the force of it, the raw inevitability.

It’s not graceful. It’s messy; ugly with need.

Your breath punches out of you in sharp, stuttering gasps, everything pulling taut from the inside out as your cunt clenches in violent pulses around Price’s cock. The sounds you make… you don’t know if you’re begging or thanking or praying. You just know it’s pouring out of you, choked, wordless, and raw, against Nikolai’s sweat-slick skin.

But Price doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow down.

His hands lock around your wrists— one in each fist— and pull.

You jolt, your spine dragged flat against the table again with the momentum of it, and realize with a broken sob that he’s using your body for leverage. Hauling you down into each savage thrust so you don’t slide up from the sheer force of him.

Quickly, your arms begin to ache, stretched taut between them. Your body bucks, tits jerking wildly, belly rippling, thighs slapping wet and slick against his hips. He’s fucking you through the aftershocks like he needs it— like he’s wringing your orgasm out by the root, forcing every last tremor from your cunt.

And your mouth is still on Nikolai’s balls.

The pleasure within you peaks. Your head swims; your vision blurs. You’re licking and moaning around Nikolai’s balls with a mouth too full to close, slick and open, your tongue insistent and hungry. You don’t notice him shift until the angle changes— his hips tilting just enough, the muscles in his thighs flexing against your cheek—

And your tongue slides lower.

Past the seam.

Past the curve of his perineum.

Right to a part of him you never expected to reach.

You realize it at once. But you don’t stop.

You just lick— broad, deliberate, right over the tight heat of his asshole— and the reaction is immediate. Nikolai lets out a stunned, guttural sound, his hand clenching hard in your hair.

“Ohh,” he gasps, his body shuddering.“Ebat’. Bozhe moi. Fuck. My god.”

The Russian makes you freeze, unsure how to interpret it until he adds, voice thick and choked, “Good girl, lyubov’ love.”

You do it again— sloppier, more eager. Nikolai groans low in his throat, the sound almost drowning out the wet shlick of him working his cock. “Good girl,” he repeats. “Just like that— eat my ass.”

You feel Price falter; his rhythm staggers.

“Well, fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, trying for flippant, but his voice is rough, threadbare. “Didn’t even have to be told.” He doesn’t stop thrusting, but now each movement feels heavier, more ragged.

“You know how to pick them, kapitan,” Nikolai throws back, though the words stutter, barely held together as he fists himself faster now.

Because you’re panting through your nose, tongue working desperately to fuck deeper between the clench of his cheeks, your spit gluing your mouth to his skin in wet, filthy strings. You’re so far gone, aching for more of him, any part of him; licking him like you want inside. Like if you can just press a little harder, he’ll let you in.

And then you feel it. With a stifled curse, his thighs tense against your ears, and a hot pulse splashes across your tits.

You gasp, dazed, and keep licking. Keep worshipping. Nikolai grunts again; another spill lands across your skin.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he pants. “Just like that, sweetheart. You’ve earned it.”

He shifts forward, dropping his cock between your tits, gathering them in both hands. Your soft flesh spills through his fingers, slick and shining with his come as he rocks his hips, dragging himself through the heat and weight of you with a low, broken groan.

“Perfect tits,” he murmurs. “Perfect, filthy little tongue.”

A pause, breathless.

“Perfect,” he repeats, and something in his voice makes your lungs pull tight. “Moy kotyonok. My kitten.”

It makes you want— not for you, but for him. He’s still dragging his cock through the come-slick heat of your chest, slow and indulgent, and now, your hands come up to join him. You cover his, your smaller fingers slipping over his knuckles, urging him to squeeze harder, tighter, pressing your breasts together around him. Giving him everything he wants and more.

The effect is immediate.

Nikolai moans low, and you feel the tremble in his thighs as he fucks your tits with slow, indulgent thrusts, each one slicker than the last, the mess of him smeared thick between your breasts.

And Price— he falters. You hear it in the hitch of his breath, feel it in the sudden jolt that interrupts his thrusts. A low curse breaks from him, shaky and raw.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Then, like he’s losing the fight against himself:

“Jesus— fucking hell.”

He surges forward, hips snapping once, twice, before he drives in deep and stills.

The noise he makes when he floods you is nothing like the others— less a growl, more a sound torn out of him. With it, you feel the thick heat of him spill inside you, the rhythmic twitching of his cock as he comes. Reflexively, your walls pulse around him, spent and soaked, clinging greedily to every drop and drawing yet more sounds from him until they finally subside.

And then it’s quiet.

Everything stills except the pant of breath, the tremble of muscle, the soft, sticky sounds of skin parting from skin. Your mouth slips open where it rests against Nikolai, swollen and wordless. When he lifts himself off you slowly, carefully, you gasp in a lungful of air as the weight of him finally eases. The cool air hits your wet skin; you shiver, utterly spent.

Yet, through the haze of exhausted satisfaction that covers you, there’s one last thing you still want.

Your fingers twitch where they lie on the table— reaching, searching. Your mouth opens a little wider, your brow pinching in subtle supplication. Your throat is too raw to form words, but you try to make your intentions clear: you lift your chin, eyes fluttering shut again as you whisper out a breath, a faint hum of desire.

Nikolai murmurs something in Russian; you can’t understand it, but the words sound soft, indulgent, almost amused. Then you feel sticky, heated skin against your lips— his cock, one last time. You hum, mouth twitching into a brief smile, pleased he understood what you were asking for. He presses closer for you, and you suck lazily at the head, tasting the mess you helped make.

Then Price— grunting quietly, still catching his breath— guides himself to your mouth next. You lick at him too, slow and grateful, until he hisses through his teeth and pulls away.

“Insatiable,” someone mutters. You can’t tell who; you’re too tired to even consider opening your eyes.

Helpless, blinded by the dark of your eyelids, you feel hands on you again, gentle this time. You’re dead weight, limp and satiated as you are, the soft rolls of your skin fever-warm beneath a sheen of sweat and spend. Yet they lift you from the table with surprising ease. You feel like a wisp as strong arms gather you close, cradling you against a chest that smells like smoke and salt and sex, the steady thrum of a heartbeat echoing dimly through your cheek.

As you rise, your head lolls, weightless, to the curve of a shoulder. Something ticklish like whiskers feathers your temple; a blunt nose presses to the crown of your head.

With the tiniest of sighs, you slip under— weightless and willing.

—

You wake to the sound of movement: the low rustle of fabric, the metallic clink of gear, the murmur of voices pitched low with purpose. Boots thud softly against tile, measured and unhurried. Somewhere nearby, a strap cinches tight; the teeth of a zipper rasps into place.

You stir, slow and disoriented, your body aching in that deep, satisfied way that makes time feel irrelevant. Your skin is tender-warm, sore and slick, and for a long moment, you can’t place where you are and why the air smells thick with something primal.

Then it returns in a rush— everything they’d done to you, everything you let them do. The hours between then and now blur into a molten wash of sensation, so thick with memory that it almost hurts to breathe.

You sit up too quickly, a dull throb blooming through your thighs. “Shit— I should’ve gone— hours ago—” you murmur, scrubbing shaky hands over your face, trying to wake yourself quicker. “I need to check in, find out what’s next, Laswell’s probably—”

But before your feet can hit the floor, Price is there. He crosses the room in two strides and presses a steady hand to your shoulder, keeping you down with ease.

“No,” he says, quiet but certain. His blue eyes—sharp and unreadable beneath the edge of his lashes—hold you fast. “You’re staying here.”

You blink up at him, still trying to clear the sleep from your head. “But I was only meant to make contact—pass off the intel. I wasn’t supposed to—”

“To what?” he asks, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

You open your mouth, but the words stick behind your teeth. Heat creeps up your chest, writes itself into your expression before you can stop it.

“I didn’t think I was meant to stay,” you finish, weakly.

A second shadow enters your periphery, and then Nikolai crouches in front of you, balanced easily on the balls of his feet. His sleeves are rolled, forearms bare, eyes lit with something almost like humor.

“Darling,” he says with a tilt of his head, “you think you’re getting up and leaving after that?”

You hesitate, brows furrowed, unsure if you should be embarrassed or offended. But he only looks entertained— pleased, even. It catches you off guard. The room has become a different world since you first entered it; now, somehow, you aren’t sure where you’re meant to go next.

Your mind, still hazy, circles back to a line that had confused you when you first heard it— something said while you’d been too far gone to question it.

And you didn’t think she’d take it. Look at her now.

The words bloom with new weight now, taking root.

You look between them, a slow unease beginning to knit itself through your ribs. “You said—” Your voice catches, then steadies. “Back when I was… when I had your cock in my mouth. He said you ‘didn’t think I’d take it.’” Your gaze catches on Nikolai. “But… when—?”

You don’t need to finish the sentence for him to catch your meaning: When could you have said it that I didn’t hear?

Price is the one who answers, offering you the faintest smile. “Laswell called,” he says. “Told us about the change. Jacobs was out; you were in.”

Lightly, Nikolai remarks, “Called us before she called you, I believe.” Your eyes cut back to him, wide and stunned as he grins, sharing a look with Price.

“She said you were solid. Smart. Reliable.”

“Said you looked sweet.” Nikolai’s mouth curves. “That was the part we liked most.”

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens, and when nothing comes, you let it fall closed again.

“And,” Price adds mildly after your silence, “you did take it.”

Nikolai chuckles. “The second I saw you at the door, I knew. You looked like the type who would.” His grin sharpens just slightly. “Soft little thing. Polite. Looked like you’d do what you were told.”

“And you did,” Price echoes with finality. “Right from the start.”

Your heart is pounding again, but not from panic. The heat curling low in your belly is too thick, too delicious for that.

Then Price steps in closer, and suddenly his hand is under your jaw, guiding your chin upward with one rough knuckle. “Get some rest,” he murmurs. “We’ll be back before morning.”

A second later, Nikolai leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth— brief, but deliberate. The kind that lingers long after it’s gone.

And then Price kisses you— slower. Firmer. His mouth claims yours like punctuation, sealing the moment with a heat that startles, even after everything.

You sit there motionless after they pull away, already moving with purpose— jackets zipped, weapons checked, movements efficient and quiet. But before reaching the door, Nikolai turns back.

“Don’t worry, kitten,” he says lightly. “We’ll lock up. No one gets in but us.”

Price glances back too, expression unreadable save for the faint edge of something like amusement behind his eyes.

“And you don’t need to go anywhere, darling.”

You just stare at them, blinking, still reeling from the feeling of their mouths on yours. For the first time, you realize, and the knowledge burns through you, leaves you breathless.

“Wait here,” Price finishes, slinging his rifle into place. “You’re ours now.”

There’s no smirk in it— no hint of smugness, no flourish or performance. Just the certainty of a man saying something he considers self-evident.

Like it’s fact. Like it’s always been.

And maybe it has.

You'd let him fuck once. 

A fuck that Simon had earned by getting in between some drunk dickhead and you, his chivalry manifesting itself as wetness in your panties. You let him walk you home and split you open on his cock, two things you normally didn't do.

Not saying it hadn't been worth it, it absolutely was.

He fucked you like an animal in heat, arching your back with your ass in the air as he pounded his long cock inside you over and over again. One hand was gripping your hip so hard he left bruises. His other hand was wrapped around your face, covered in the spit and drool you were leaking out as you moaned into his calloused palm. 

You swore you weren't normally like this, and part of you was flaring in humiliation at letting a stranger do this to you, to fuck you raw in your own bed and bend you in ways you felt for days after. He spewed nasty filth in your ear, but was gentlemanly enough to heed your warnings and pull out to paint his cum on your lower back.

He didn't stay the night, and you were a little thankful he didn't. But now every time you and your friends went back to that bar he was always there, sometimes alone sometimes with friends but always staring daggers at you. The hulking freak never approached you, despite having already fucked you. Your friends encouraged you to talk to him, and while he did give you the best sex of your life...you were honestly a little annoyed. If he wanted you so bad why the hell was he being so weird about it? 

Tonight was another one of those nights, where you were earnestly trying to have a good time despite the holes being burned into your back by Simon's eyes. You had pulled out all the stops tonight, low cut top and push up bra to shelf your tits pleasantly below your collarbone. A tiny excuse of a skirt, so tantalizingly short it was practically screaming to be pushed up to reveal your black lace panties. And he still hadn't moved an inch. 

So when you stood up to head to the bar, dizzying a bit as the alcohol rushed to your head, you were surprised when you were intercepted by another man that hung around Simon sometimes. He was handsome, not as big as Simon but still dwarfing you, and had a mohawk buzzed into his hair. He sidled right up next to you and purred a bit in your ear as he introduced himself as Johnny.

At first his pushy flirtations were a little disarming, and you fought back the urge to place a hand on his big chest and push him back where he came from. But then it dawned on you as you looked over at Simon, perched on the edge of his barstool and ready to pounce. 

Simon had sent his friend to bother you, so he could fake an intervention and take you home again. Coward.

You interrupted Johnny's rambling by grabbing his face tight, your hand barely able to fit across the broad expanse of his jaw. He shut up immediately, looking at you with a glint in his eye as his legs shifted, clearly chubbing up in his pants.

"You know that guy?" you asked, nodding to Simon. Hopefully Johnny was drunk enough that he forgot any script Simon had put in his head. He halfway glanced back at Simon, who narrowed his eyes at the Scot.

"Ye, thas my Lt." Johnny said, a grin breaking out on his face when he saw that the answer he gave had satisfied you. 

"Mmm." you hummed, "And he sent you over here to bother me, is that right?" 

That made him pause, clearly not wanting to tattle on Simon, "Uhhh..."

You pulled his face in closer to yours, giving him your best bedroom eyes as he breathed in the smell of your perfume, "If you tell me the truth I'll let you fuck me." 

His expression went blank for a second, clearly wanting to get his cock in you more than he cared about any plan his friend had concocted. 

"Ye. He did." he nodded, his pupils had swallowed up the bright blue of his irises as you pulled his squished face to yours and placed a light kiss on his lips. 

"Good boy." you smile at him, appreciating the way his lids flutter a bit. You shot Simon one last look, and if looks could kill you and Johnny would both have evaporated on the spot. His body language remained as stoic as ever, but even from across the bar you could see his dark eyes swirling with anger as he watched you drag Johnny out of the bar.

Johnny on the other hand, was following you like a puppy, hot on your heels as you led him by hand down the few block to your apartment. Once the two of you were inside he was looking at you like a cannibal, practically drooling at just the sight of you. Before you could get a word out he was on you, pushing you back until you both tumbled onto the stairs where he mounted you and pressed a wet kiss on your lips. You moaned into him as his big hands roamed over your clothes, his body heat already making sweat prick at your hairline.

He pushed your panties to the side and groaned when he found you already wet and sticky for him, pushing a finger inside without any warning. Your back arched up into him as he sped his hand up, his big thumb rubbing mean and irregular circles on your needy clit. 

"Johnny," you gasped the second his lips unlocked from yours, "Upstairs, now." 

He grinned and obliged, removing his fingers and wrapping his arms around your back to lift you as if you weighed nothing, trekking his heavy boots up your stairs and heeding your guidance to your bedroom.

Given his reactions to being called a good boy, and the fervor with which he was following your commands, you foolishly thought you'd be in control. Figured that be was probably more submissive than his friend who had rearranged you, and that you'd be able to ride him until he was begging you for a break. But the second he tossed you on the mattress all his pretenses were gone as Johnny stared at you, his bright blue eyes holding something dark behind them. The dynamic had shifted in a fraction of a second, the air thick with the anticipation that was oozing from your pores.

You were frozen in place as he stripped you, then himself, revealing a strong broad chest carpeted with a layer of dark hair, hair that led all the way down to the base of his thick cock and covered the heaviest set of balls you'd ever seen. You mouth watered at the sight, eyes flickering up to his again as you licked your lips in a silent plea to please let you get your mouth on him. In a mirror image to what you had done to him at the bar, he reached down to clasp your face, not a hint of submission in his eyes as he squeezed the fat of your cheeks. 

"You want 'im in yer mouth?" he crooned, voice low and dark. You nodded as best you could in his grip, limply letting him pull you up and force you down on your knees in front of him. His other hand came down to cradle the other side of your face as his cock rested heavily on your face, making him smile at the sight. 

"S'pretty." he grinned, "Balls first, love." 

Your body was on autopilot, your only goal to please him. So you opened your mouth for him to shift a bit and let his sack fall on your tongue. He groaned as you let your tongue wet both of them, before sucking one in your mouth as you palmed the other. They were warm and full, and his musk was egging you on as you tentatively reached a hand up to grip his shaft. He eyed you, but allowed you to stroke him slowly as you moved to the other ball. You batted your eyelashes at him and he hummed, pulling you off and guiding his tip past your lips and across the muscle of your tongue. 

His hands found their purchase in the hair at the base of your scalp, lazily fucking into your open mouth as he let you adjust. Simon was big, but Johnny was thick, and your throat had no room for air flow as he pulled your face all the way down to his base. You coughed around him, the thick hair tickling your nose and making him laugh at you. He thrusted once to test you, and laughed again when you gagged around him, a string of spit leaking out and falling onto your bare breasts. 

Johnny pulled out and let you get a quick breath of air before he was fully inside again, and again and again. His pace was borderline relentless now, not paying any mind to the tears that were falling down your face as you sobbed around him. Your body kept trying to expel him, but his strong hands held you in your place as he fucked your throat. 

Finally, he pulled out completely, a mess of saliva, snot, and precut all mixed together in a string that connected your lips to his tip. 

"Can see why he wanted ye so bad," Johnny said, using his cock to smear the mess all over your face, "Pretty bird." 

You whined as you felt yourself leaking out onto the floor below you, and once he was done defiling your face he tossed you back up onto the bed and flipped you onto your stomach. You barely had time to get your bearing before you felt his hands on your ass, spreading you wide open as he pressed his face directly onto your cunt. You let out a long, drawn out moan as his muffled voice told you how good you tasted. He lapped at you like a dog, eventually adding his fingers back in. He brought you right to the edge, before cruelly pulling off and standing up behind you. 

Now a whining mess, you begged him to let you cum, only to have him tut at you. Rough hands moved your legs into the exact position he wanted before cramming half his cock into you with zero warning. A brief shot of pain rocketed up your spine and you yelped out, only to have his thick fingers enter your mouth and gag you. As he pulled back and sheathes himself into you again, your walls finally spasm and relax, allowing him to slide all the way in with a grunt. 

"Thought Simon woulda stretched this cunt out," Johnny groaned, snapping his hips up and making your whole body jiggle, "He's losin' his touch." 

You couldn't muster anything more than a moan in response, the stretch from Johnny burning in the pit of your stomach as he fucked down into you. His thrusts were nonstop, setting a brutal pace that left you drooling into the duvet beneath you as grey matter oozed out of your ears. His hand was putting a delicious pressure on your back, keeping you pressed in place beneath him. He suddenly gathered your hair in a fist and pulled you upright so your back was flush against his chest. 

"Y'wanna cum, pretty girl?" he asked, his teeth nipping at your earlobe as you nodded frantically. "Earn it then."

His voice was blunt as he pushed you back down, pulling his cock out from your hole and once again snuffing out your building orgasm. At this point you were not above begging, now turned into a blubbering mess of please please please and I'll be good I promise. 

He hummed, not satisfied with your pleas as he manhandled you onto your back with your legs spread wide for him. One hand guided his cock back into you while the other gathered your wrists and held you down, forcing you to lay still and take him while he fucked back into you. 

Despite the mess still on your face, he leaned down and pressed a searing kiss on your lips, licking it off your lips as you whined into him. Your hips were aching as he kept pounding, his grip on your wrists only releasing when he moved to hike one leg up over his shoulder. The new angle hit something inside you, and he grinned at you knowingly. 

You felt like you were going to perish right there underneath him if he didn't let you cum, begging him for you release. He smiled through the sweat on his face, pinching your clit and making you sob again.

"Good girls cum when they're told, aye?" he said, your voice coming out in a blubbering yes yes yes!

You clenched down on him, trying to stave off your release as he built you back up once again. His fingers were exploring ever inch of your wet cunt that wasn't occupied by his own cock, his hand suddenly pressing down on your lower belly as he felt himself bulging inside you. Your hands were clawing at his wrist begging and pleading with him silently.

"Use yer words," he urged, applying more pressure to your already taught abdomen.

"P-Please, oh fuck," you said, "Please Johnny, I wanna cum so bad please." 

"Ya gonna let me fill this pussy up? Hmm?" he asked, smirking at the immediate YES! that escaped your lips at the promise of an orgasm.

"Should record this, show Lt. how it's done." he growled, leaning to the side to quickly grab his phone from your bedside table. Both of you knew that you'd agree to just about anything at this point, delirious as you could see the cliffs edge right in front of you. So you put up no resistance as he pressed record on his phone, aiming the lens right at where his cock was bullying your hole, a sticky white ring around his base proof of your want and arousal. 

"G'head baby," he croaked, close to his own release, "Show Daddy how good ye feel." 

Once the words left his lips you let go of the tension you had been holding, letting your core relax as the rubber band in you snapped. You threw your head back and screamed out his name at the feeling of his cock dragging along your walls as they pulsed, milking him as he finished deep inside of you. Acutely aware of the camera now pointed at you, your hands moved to grope your hard nipples as you squirted a bit around Johnny's base. 

"Fuuuuuck." Johnny moaned out, shifting back and pulling out of you, focusing the camera on where his cum was messily leaking out of you. One more push down on your belly had it spilling out of you in one go, your thighs shaking at the feeling of it running down along your ass. 

Simon had fucked you good, but Johnny had fucked you dead. 

Your one orgasm felt like three all at once, and your muscles were absolutely spent. Johnny chuckled to himself as he left your room, coming back with a warm washcloth after finding your bathroom down the hall. He started with your face, cleaning up the mess he had made, half of which had been wiped off on your duvet when he pressed your head into it. He cleaned the sweat off your chest, and most importantly he wiped away the stickiness between your legs, shamelessly cleaning every inch of you. 

After he went back to the bathroom to clean himself off, Johnny came back in the room yawning as he stretched his arms dramatically. He picked you up, tucking you into bed as he crawled in next to you, maneuvering you to drape you over his chest as he rubbed your back.

"Y'did so good, baby." he said softly, getting a small mewl in response from you. Your throat was going to be sore tomorrow. Hell, your whole body was going to be sore tomorrow. His warmth and the gently rise and fall of his chest lulled you to sleep in a matter of moments, too exhausted to tell him he didn't need to stay the night.

The morning after your night with Johnny, you woke up to an empty bed. You sighed, figuring he probably woke up before you and saw himself out. Tentatively testing your muscles, you stretched and laughed as your body protested. Every inch of you was delightfully sore. 

Sighing into a pillow, you were prepared to drift back to sleep when you smelled coffee. Your brows furrowed in confusion, surely he wasn't in your kitchen...

That is exactly where Johnny was. Happily cooking up eggs, toast, and some breakfast sausages he found in your freezer. He was too busy whistling to himself that he didn't hear you pad into the room behind him, only seeing you when he turned to plate the food in the pan. 

"There she is!" he beamed at you, "Mornin' beautiful." 

"Morning..." you said slowly, trying to piece together why the hell he was still here. He raised a brow at you expression, rounding the counter to walk up to you with his head cocked to the side. 

"I got two heads or somethin'?" he asked quizzically.

"I just wasn't expecting you to...be here." you gestured around the kitchen, offering him a small smile to let him know it wasn't an unwelcome sight. He nodded, stopping short for a second when he asked you something.

"Simon didn't stay?" 

His question made your cheeks burn a bit, remembering you had now fucked two men on the same military unit. You shook your head, not wanting to make Simon seem like a bad guy, it truthfully wasn't a big deal...was it?

"Didn't see the need." you said, not sure whether you were indicating to yourself not needing Simon to have stayed, or that Simon clearly didn't see the need to stay. Johnny frowned at that.

"Shame." he tutted, "Gonna have'ta teach that boy a lesson." 

He shook his head while he said it, and something about his tone piqued your interest. Maybe you had Johnny's rank mixed up in your head? But you could have sworn he had mentioned being a sergeant, a lower rank than lieutenant, so what the hell could he possibly do that would teach Simon a lesson?

You didn't push the issue, opting to just sit down and eat a much needed meal. Johnny watched you carefully, encouraging you to eat all of it. Even just eating with him you felt the need to submit under his gaze. He insisted on getting your phone number, assuring you that your performance last night already had him itching for more. So he gave you a light kiss and a wink as he left out your front door. 

While you remained at home resting up on your couch, Simon was waiting at the base with sweaty palms awaiting Johnny's return. He hadn't accounted for you wanting to fuck Johnny instead of him, and when he checked the sergeant's location early this morning he was still at your flat. He also awoke to a notification from Johnny, a text containing a shaky video of his cock splitting you open as you moaned like a pornstar in the background. Blood rushed to his cock as he watched the camera pan to your face, sweaty and covered in what looked like spit and mascara. His grip on the phone tightened as Johnny finished inside you, his cum leaking out of your gaping hole as if to taunt him for what he was not allowed to do. 

So now he was lifting weights in the base gym, waiting for Johnny to arrive and regale him with how much better he fucked you or whatever stories he wanted to boast about. Then again, maybe he'd have more videos to share...

"She sniffed ye out, Lt." he heard from across the room, Johnny's grin plastered on his features as he made his way over to Simon's bench. "Figured out yer whole plan. Sorry but she was too pretty to pass up."

"You came inside her." Simon said flatly, making Johnny's grin just a tad more smug.

"She was beggin' for it." the man shrugged. "Heard ye didn't stick around after ye were done with her." 

Simon's back straightened a bit at Johnny's change in tone. He was all too familiar with that.

"She didn't ask me to." he gruffed, scratching behind his neck. 

"Not how you treat a lady Simon." Johny chastised, turning to walk out of the gym, "Come on Lt." 

Simon sighed, dick chubbing up in his boxers as he followed Johnny to an empty barrack room. 

So as you were in your apartment, settling into a warm bath to ease your muscles, you had no idea that Simon was enduring exactly what you had hours ago. Ass up in the air he groaned into the rough bedding on the sorry excuse for a mattress as Johnny pounded into him relentlessly. 

"Not nice to leave a lady high and dry, aye?" Johnny said, eliciting a whine from Simon's lips.

"M'sorry." he muttered into the bed.

"No yer not." Johnny said, snapping his hips up and making Simon's aching cock dribble out as it was left unattended. "Next time we see our bird yer gonna apologize like a man." 

Simon's brain went fuzzy as Johnny's hands gripped the flesh of his ass, spreading him open so he could spit down onto his hole. He feeling reached a hand around to reach for his own cock, but Johnny swatted it away. Tears formed at the corners of Simons eyes as he begged Johnny for just one stroke. Johnny did not budge, leaving Simon's cock aching and soaked. 

Johnny played with his own balls, squeezing the sack and rolling them in his hand as he reached his peak, shooting his load deep inside of Simon as he groaned out. He stilled, placing a hand on Simon's sweaty lower back to steady himself. 

"Ahh," he sighed as he pulled his cock out of Simon's gaping hole, "Good boys don't get to cum, Simon. Remember tha'." 

The empty feeling of his hole and the taught, full feeling of his balls was torturous, and Simon twisted slightly to look up at Johnny.

"Please." he croaked before pulling out a card that always worked in his favor, "I'll be a good boy, I will." 

"Prove it." was all he got. Johnny stuffed himself back inside his cargo pants and left Simon to clean himself up. 

Simon groaned to himself, collapsing on the soiled sheets as Johnny's cum leaked out of him. He should have known better than to involve his sergeant. 

                                                                               ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

None of your friends were available to come to the bar with you, but Johnny had texted you asking if you'd be there so you were dolled up anyway. Walking in, Simon was already in attendance, and for once he actually stood up when you walked in. He hurried over to you before you could even get to the bar to order a drink.

"Hey!" you protested as he grabbed your elbow, dragging you through the mingling crowd and towards the bathroom. He remained silent as he dragged you into a stall in the men's room and locked the door.

"Enjoyed making that little movie huh?" he spat, pressing you up against the grimy wall. You sputtered for only a moment before realizing that Johnny must have shown the video he recorded to Simon like he said he would.

"I did." you spat back, "He fucked me real good, Simon." 

"You let him come inside you." he growled, clearly upset that you had held up that rule for him but not Johnny.

"He cooked me breakfast." you shrugged, knowing it was a bullshit excuse.

"I fucked you first." 

"He fucked me better." 

"Bullshit. I know he's not bigger than me." 

You raised a brow at that. Sure, it was probably because they'd seen each other in the showers or something, but the corners of your lips turned up as your brain went somewhere else. Surely teasing a big macho military man about having gay sex wouldn't lead to any retaliation.

"How would you know? Huh?" you teased, "He fuck you too?" 

You expected a snarl, a biting comment, hell maybe even a hand around your neck. But before he grunted out a simple "no", something flashed across his dark eyes, something truthful. 

"Oh my God." you said, grinning, "He does. He fucks you like he fucked me, doesn't he? I bet you're a whiny bitch when he-" 

"Enough." Simon said, his hand coming up to grab your neck as he shoved your head back flush with the stall wall.

"Oh God if you're listening please let me watch that." you laughed, looking up tp the ceiling and lifting your hands in a mock prayer. 

Before he could get another word in, the door to the bathroom opened, and a familiar set of boots walked up to the locked stall, easily turning the lock open with a knife. Johnny swung the door open, bumping it into Simon's shoulder as he had you pinned against the wall.

"What did I say about apologizing?" Johnny said flatly, making you blink in confusion. Simon faltered, and when you looked back at him he was staring wide-eyed at Johnny. The air was thick, tension brewing between all three of you as Johnny's eyes moved from yours, to Simon, and back to you again. Simon only moved when Johnny nodded towards the door, dragging you with him. 

You thought the car ride to Johnny's would be dead silent, especially since Johnny had banished Simon to the back seat. But he made sure the big man sat directly in the middle seat so he would have a good view for when Johnny reached over and stuck his hand up your skirt and into your panties. He lazily fucked his fingers into you, barely looking your way as he unraveled you with just one hand. You could feel Simon's eyes on you, watching every twitch of your facial muscles as you moaned quietly. 

While stopped at a traffic light, Johnny sped up, angling himself to pump further into you and bring you up and over the edge, letting you cream all over his fingers as you gripped his wrist and keened out for him. Once he pulled his hand out from between your legs, he sucked his fingers clean and turned around in the seat to look at Simon.

"See what good pets get?" he questioned lowly, making your breath catch. 

Your mind was spinning with the fact that you had been correct about their dynamic. You had meant it just as a jab to what you thought was Simon's hyper-masculinity, but that clearly wasn't the way it landed. Can't always judge a book by its cover, sometimes the giant hulking behemoth who fucked you to so hard you cried also enjoys being submissive to big hairy men. You kept your giggle to yourself, wanting to stay in Johnny's good graces for tonight, but you couldn't help give him a dopey smile. He winked at you and pinched your cheeks as the light turned and he continued driving, Simon crossing his arms and pouting like a child in the backseat. 

Simon was still pouting when Johnny finally got you in bed. You could barely register where in the room he was, Johnny had you folded so intensely you couldn't decipher left from right anymore. But when he flipped you onto your stomach, you were facing where Simon was sat, relegated to a chair in the corner of the room, forced to watch as his sergeant bullied his cock into your already sore pussy with double the ardor he had a week ago. Johnny pulled your face up so you were staring directly at Simon, and leaned his face down next to yours with a big grin on his face.

"Boy's conflicted, pet." he said, loud enough for Simon to hear. "Doesn't know if he wants to be in my place or yers." 

The thought of that drew a long moan from your lips, and Johnny laughed in your ear. His thrusts had shown down, just enough so that Simon could hear everything that Johnny spoke to you.

"What do you say?" he cooed at you, "Should I let him replace me? Hmm?" 

Though you would love for them to both take turns on top of you, there was something you wanted to see more. You whined and shook you head, a little to Johnny's surprise.

"No? What do you w-" you cut him off before he could finish the question.

"Me." you said, unable to form a full sentence.

"You? Tell me what you want baby, use your words." he urged, rolling his hips once to encourage you.

"Want him- ah - t'replace me." you croaked out, and you felt his brows raise as he laughed again.

"Dirty girl." he murmured into your neck before sitting up and pulling his cock from you. He pushed you to the side, rolling you onto your back as he beckoned to the man in the corner.

"Yer lucky day big guy. Birdie wants to see how I taught you your lesson." 

If being fucked by Simon was good, watching him come undone under another man was heavenly. Johnny was a bull, and when he got into a rhythm fucking Simon on his back, you clambered over Simon's chest and peppered his face and neck with kisses as he let out the sweetest moans you'd ever heard. Looking to Johnny for permission, you glanced at Simon's leaking cock, hard and red as it went unattended once again. 

"Not yet." Johnny grunted, making you frown. 

"Please?" you whined, getting a shake of his head in response as he pushed Simon's legs apart farther, earning a groan from the man. 

"Sit on his face." Johnny said, making you freeze. "He can cum if he can get you off."

You swung your leg over Simon's chest, still facing Johnny at his request. Simon's arms came up and gripped you around your hips, pulling your cunt down onto his lips. Your eyes fluttered closed as he suctioned onto your clit, and you felt Johnny's lips on yours as hen leaned in to kiss you. The three of you had formed an erotic triangle, hot and sticky as the you all moaned in tandem. 

Soon enough, you lost control of your lower half, you hips rocking along Simon's nose and face at their own pace. He was eating you with a fervor, knowing that when you came on his face Johnny would allow you to service his cock finally. A light yelp escaped you as he gently teethed at your clit, applying pressure that made you leak out so he could lick you clean. Your shaky arms were reaching out for Johnny who was lost in a cloud of his own pleasure and the sight of you. 

You looked at him, silently asking for permission to cum before you did anything out of line. He nodded at you, and the sight of his cock stretching Simon and making his cock bounce ripped an orgasm from your abdomen that surprised even you in its intensity. You felt a small stream flow out of yourself and Simon greedily lapped it all up, and you were unsure if that was to please you or Johnny. 

"Good lad." Johnny said, reaching out and slotting his hands under your arms and dragging you closer towards him. He guided you down onto Simon's cock, making Simon jump a bit at the sudden sensation. 

Johnny moved you up and down, almost as if you were a flashlight for Simon, and your poor cunt had no time to recover from your orgasm before the veins in Simon's cock were rubbing all the perfect spots deep inside you. The two you you moved in sync, and Simon was a mess under the two of you. 

Suddenly, Johnny pulled you off and himself out, hauling you up and over his shoulder as you watched Simon's legs shake as he nearly sobbed. 

"You said-" he started, only to be cut off by a look from Johnny.

"Clean me off before I go back inside her." Johnny demanded, and from your position dangling upside down you couldn't see Simon licking and cleaning Johnny's cock but you could hear all the wet, needy sounds his mouth was making. You wiggled a little, desperate for a better view, but Johnny swung a palm around and sharply smacked your ass to make you stay still. 

Once he was satisfied with Simon's work, Johnny told the man to lay back against the headboards as he let you back down onto the mattress. He gave your ass a little tap, encouraging you to climb back onto Simon but the other way around. Johnny let himself rest for a moment, enjoying watching Simon fuck up into you while you straddled his wide frame in a pathetic attempt at cowgirl.

Just as you and Simon were both nearing your peaks again, you felt the bed shift behind you as Johnny loomed at your backside.

"Let's see how far she can stretch, huh Lt?" Johnny said, the smile evident in his voice. Simon chuckled and it became very evident that it was no longer Johnny fucking you and Simon, rather Johnny and Simon were fucking you. 

At first you thought the Scot was going to try and press into you ass, so you squirmed a bit only to be met with Simon's big hands holding you in place as Johnny mounted you from behind. He told you to relax, and your brows furrowed as you felt his tip press at the entrance of your cunt rather than your ass. Simons massive length was already buried inside of you, and Johnny was trying to join?

"No, no, no, Johnny please," you sobbed as he pressed harder, his wet tip burning the edges of your hole as he stretched you further and further until he finally notched it inside you.

"Shhh," Johnny shushed in you ear as you begged him to have an ounce of mercy on you, "Just relax baby you can do it." 

Not like you had a choice. There was no where to run with Simon's wide waist keeping your legs perfectly spread and Johnny's weight now anchoring you in place. So you sat there, trembling and unable to breathe as Johnny pressed further and further inside of your already occupied hole. Once he had as much in as he could stuff, the two of them moved as a team, one fucking in while the other pulled out. Your brain was completely fried, absolutely no thoughts in your skull as the overwhelming feeling between your legs was making your vision go white. 

They were speaking to each other, but you couldn't decipher what they were saying as they sped up, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as they allowed you to collapse forward onto Simon's chest while they fucked you. As you felt another orgasm building it felt so close yet so far away, almost as if you were looking down at the scene instead of taking an active part in it. All you nerves were so overstimulated you might have missed your own orgasm if you didn't feel a river flowing out of you and onto Simon's pelvis.

The scream that left your lips was sure to cause a neighbor to call 999, a loud sound that felt foreign to your ears. They are fucking in time with one another now, and they both had their massive mitts on your hips as they released inside of you.

Simon was first, letting out a guttural noise that vibrated the entire bed as his hips snapped up into yours one, two, three times as his seed finally met your walls. Johnny wasn't far behind, adding his own spend to the mess between your legs as he rutted into you. They both fucked their cum into you, letting it spurt messily out around their bases. 

You were totally limp laid across Simon's chest as Johnny eased out of you, coaxing Simon out after him. He let the two of you lay there while he sat back and caught his breath again, Simon's hand coming up to stroke your back. You had never felt so utterly ruined in your life, and a part of you wondered if one cock was ever going to be enough again. You groaned as you tried to move, both men shushing you and telling you to stay still. 

Johnny was the first to get up, leaving the room while you lay strewn across Simon like a throw blanket. Eventually, Simon swung his legs around with a small huff, standing and carrying you into the bathroom where Johnny had run you a warm bath. 

They let you soak as they cleaned themselves off, before Johnny reached into the water to clean you himself. 

"Ye did so good." he said softly, a small smile cropping up on your lips as he gazed at you, "Did ye have fun?"

Your voice was completely shot, so you gave him a nod in response. He told you Simon was getting the bed ready, so he helped you out of the tub and toweled you dry. It was so interesting to watch them working as a team to take care of you, and it made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. 

Simon’s aware it’s childish, but the real answer is one he doesn’t want to give. His issues are his own and he covets them like a dragon guards treasure. He doesn’t want to share them; doesn’t know who he’d be without it. And he knows it’d be all too easy to get lost in you. 

“Bah. Yer no fun!” Johnny said what Simon assumed was an insult in gaelic before taking another shot from the table. 

But the seed had been planted, and as the alcohol flowed ever freer and the clock’s hands ticked steadily into early night, the urge to go to you grew ever stronger. It crawled under his skin, buzzed around in him like a swarm of hornets, cheeks reddened with too many emotions to tell what was currently causing the myriad of issues plaguing him. His eyes find you and it’s difficult to convince himself to look away. 

You’re just so pretty. He bets you’re warm and real soft too. Too soft for a man like him, but he craves it all the same. 

“It’s okay to want things, Simon,” Captain Price’s voice echoed faintly in the back of his head, like a persistent gnat you just couldn’t kill. 

Despite the hours passing by, you’re still interested, still giving him those looks of interest coupled with barely-there blushes and a brief wiggle in your chair. Women seeking him out because of the mask is hardly something new, but this feels different. Deeper, somehow. Less of a fleeting attraction based solely on him being masked, and more like a potential something. 

Once upon a time, he’d be over there before you could blink, drink already ordered for the two of you before the first greeting, and you in his before the clock strikes eleven. But he’s too old, and quite frankly, not interested in a casual one-night-stand where he’s left feeling empty, wholly unsatisfied, and used, by the end of the night. He craves that something that Price found. 

Love. 

Home. 

Security. 

A future worth fighting for.

Meaning beyond the adrenaline found in the battlefield. 

He wants to talk to you, to see if you could be that something; that meaning, but he knows what he’ll find, and so he doesn’t. Simon remains in his seat, ignoring the heavy disappointment practically radiating off Johnny. Simon knows that you could be the one for him, and so he stays away. He’s not even half a man, and he knows you’d give everything you are without a second thought; pour every fiber of your being into loving damaged goods like him. One conversation with you and he’d be done for, he’s sure. And knowing that is bordering on humiliating. Simon feels like more of a boy seeing a woman for the first time than a war-hardened soldier who’s spilled enough blood to fill an ocean and then some. 

And so he stares with heavy, half-lidded eyes, and hopes that maybe you won’t notice. That you’ll go home, bundle yourself up in your no doubt heavenly soft blankets, lay your head on expensive satin pillows, and forget all about the coward of a soldier hiding behind a mask in the back of a dingy pub. 

But you don’t. The alcohol’s given you more than a pretty blush, and you walk with surprisingly steady steps over to his and Johnny’s table, a glass of vibrant drink held loosely by a dainty hand. Fragile. 

For a brief second he manages to delude himself into thinking you’ve spotted a friend and it only looks like you’re coming over to them. But as you pass more and more tables, and Soap starts jeering and shoving Simon’s shoulder, Simon knows his fate is sealed. He’s walking out this bar a taken man, even if you don’t know it yet, or perhaps not even then. Doesn’t matter. Simon is patient. He can wait. 

“Hi. May I?” 

Even your voice is sweet, practically dripping with syrupy sweetness. If you keep talking he’ll end up with a mouth full of cavities. God forbid. 

“‘Course.” Johnny steps out of the booth before gesturing for you to jump in. 

Simon’s heart sinks a bit when you do so, but it kicks back into rapid beats as soon as you turn those pretty eyes back on him. Heart practically beating out a samba in his chest as whiffs of your perfume clouds his brain. 

You tell them your name, and Simon whispers it under his breath. It feels right. Like he’s always meant to say it. 

Johnny clears his throat and Simon looks up. Both you and Johnny stare at him with altogether different expressions, yours of patience and softness, and Johnny with a shit-eating grin, fingers most likely typing away a message to Kyle gossiping about the situation he’s forced their L.t into. 

“What’s your name?” You repeat for at least the second time. But there’s no irritation bleeding into your voice, no impatience or anything. Your face remains soft, open, interested. Like his answer means something, that he is worth hearing. 

“Simon.” He chokes out. Simon shouldn’t have given you his name. He’s utterly fucked. Imprinted himself on you like a fucking baby chick. And the worst part is that you don’t even know. Can’t see the raging storm of conflict that screams in his head, or the way his heart clenches to the point of losing his breath, or how his arms suddenly feel too cold and too light when he’s looking at you. “Simon Riley.” 

“It’s nice to meet you, Simon Riley.”

Yeah. 

That’s it. 

He’s so utterly, 

utterly, 

center of the universe

it all comes full circle.

false alarms

you hate when history repeats itself.

sick day

all you can offer is a sneeze, but they're still here.

focal point

in Johnny's absence, you see something and turn your head away from it.

new order of things

the Sergeants discover something about the way you are.

to-do list

things that the Sergeants have no problem doing with you. and for you.

holiday spirit

the Sergeants are here. with you.

sticky situation

Johnny get himself in a bind.

sugary sweet

a kiss for a cookie... or a few.

birthday blues

your birthday comes every year. why's it such a big surprise?

cast the last stone

reminders of the past are often the key to moving on.

vertigo

the Sergeants show you what courtship means.

cooling embers

rage is nothing new to you.

by any other name

things you'll never tell Johnny. and the one thing he'll tell you.

point of contact

there's always going to be a tether between you and them.

pinnacle of happiness

note to self; the Sergeants like your smile.

if looks to kill

it's not Kyle's tongue that he needs to mind. it's his pretty face.

old flame

the reckoning.

pages to burn

maybe if things were different.

two vices, one virtue

it's not rotten work to them.

updates are not going to be in chronological order.

banners by @cafekitsune and @vase-of-lilies

offer a coin to the picklejar

[main masterlist]

He props himself up on one elbow and guides your hand to wrap around his shaft. “First—spit on it a bit. I got lube if you need it, but I like it wet and sloppy.”

You do, cheeks warming when he groans at just the sight of your spit gliding down his tip. He reaches down to tuck hair behind your ear.

“Good. Real good. Now kiss it—just the tip. That’s it.” He sucks in a breath. “Don’t worry ‘bout takin’ it all. Just get used to the taste. The weight of it.”

He keeps coaching you, soft and breathless, calling you “sweetheart” and “brave thing,” praising the way your mouth looks wrapped around him—even when you pull back, embarrassed by your own gag reflex.

“You alright?”

You nod, frustrated. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I love that you are. You’re doin’ better than you think.” His fingers brush your jaw. “Lemme show you something—open up for me?”

You part your lips and he guides you down, slow and gentle, just to the point where your throat starts to twitch. He holds you there, thumb stroking your cheek. “Good… good. Now pull off. Don’t fight it. You breathe through your nose, yeah? Stay relaxed. Pretend you’re kissing, not swallowing me whole.”

You laugh a little, and he grins—until you go down again and moan.

“Oh—fuck,” he hisses, head tipping back. “You feel that? My cock loves your mouth, baby.”

He lets you take breaks, wipes the spit from your chin, kisses your forehead. “We’ll work on that reflex, yeah? But for now—just keep makin’ a mess. I don’t care if you choke. I’ll clean you up after.”

And true to his word—when you do gag a little again, when your eyes water and you try to apologize—he just cups your face and says:

“You’re perfect. Try again, yeah? And this time, keep lookin’ up at me like that.”

You nod, licking your lips, eyes a little watery but determined. “I wanna try again.”

Kyle doesn’t even try to hide his grin. “That’s my fuckin’ star,” he says, voice low and reverent like he’s talking to a miracle. He runs his thumb across your bottom lip. “C’mon then. Let’s see how far that sweet mouth can go.”

This time, you’re more confident. You let your spit coat his cock with ease, hand stroking at the base as you take him in again. You still gag a little—but you push past it, and he lets out a ragged, “F-fuck, yes, just like that—keep goin’, love.”

You bob your head, messy and slow, drool slipping down your chin. His thighs are tensing. You can tell he’s close when his fingers dig into the sheets.

And then he warns, voice shaking, “M’gonna cum—pull off if you want to—fuck—”

You don’t. Not fast enough, anyway. Hot spurts hit your tongue and the back of your throat before you pull off, spit and cum spilling from your lips as you immediately turn and spit it out onto the towel he’d set nearby.

You grimace. “Fuck, that’s gross.”

Kyle’s panting, staring at you like you just painted the ceiling gold. He blinks slowly, dazed, then laughs. Not mocking—just overwhelmed.

“Yeah? Can’t say I blame you.” He sits up, tugs you gently into his lap despite the mess. “Told you it wasn’t gonna taste like strawberries.”

You pout a little, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “You could’ve warned me it was gonna hit that hard.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “You looked so good on your knees, sweetheart, I forgot how to speak.” Then, sheepishly: “I owe you something now, yeah? Want my mouth next?”

You nod slowly, and he grins against your skin.

“Good. Let me make it up to you. Bet I can make you taste better.”

You’re still catching your breath, wiping away the last remnants of your attempts, feeling both satisfied and a little frazzled. Gaz watches you with that mischievous grin, his cock still hard and twitching as he sits back against the bed, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Alright, love, you did well. But I think it’s only fair I show you what it feels like,” he says, voice smooth and full of that dangerous promise.

You raise an eyebrow, a little curious but still unsure.

He chuckles low, practically smirking. “Sit on my face, sweetheart. I’ll show you exactly how good it feels when someone makes you lose your mind.”

You blink, processing what he said. “Wait, what?”

“C’mon, don’t be shy now,” he teases. “You think I wouldn’t return the favor? Let me taste that sweet cunt of yours. Bet you won’t want me to stop once I get started.”

Your heart races, a mix of excitement and nervousness running through you. But Gaz isn’t giving you the chance to back out. He grips your hips, guiding you over him, his cock twitching as you straddle his face. His eyes are full of hunger as he looks up at you, hands sliding up your thighs, pulling your legs apart just a little to give him a better view.

“You’re gonna love this,” he murmurs, the low tone making your body shiver. “Trust me.”

With that, he pulls you down, gently but firmly, until you feel his warm breath on your cunt, his lips barely brushing against your folds.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he breathes, “just like I imagined. You look perfect like this, baby.”

You gasp when he presses his tongue to you for the first time, slow and deliberate, teasing just the tip against your slit before swirling it in a smooth, firm motion.

The shock of pleasure shoots up your spine. The sensation is overwhelming—more intense than you expected, and it has you gripping his hair, desperately holding onto something as your hips instinctively start grinding down into his face.

“God, Ky,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut. “You—fuck…”

He grins, knowing full well what he’s doing to you. “That’s it, sweetheart. Ride my face. Let me feel how good you are when you’re on top. Fuck, you taste so good.”

His hands find your hips again, helping you move in a rhythm that has your whole body trembling. His tongue flicks against your clit, teasing and sucking, and you can't stop yourself from moaning louder.

But he doesn’t stop. He pushes you further, pulling you down just a bit harder, until your body is quivering, your breath catching in your throat.

“You close, baby? You gonna cum all over my face?” Gaz growls, the words almost making you shudder.

With his mouth on you, he doesn’t let up. His tongue moves in time with the way your hips grind, skillfully coaxing you closer to the edge, the feeling of his face buried in your cunt leaving you breathless.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he urges, his grip tightening on your thighs as he holds you in place, “let go. I want you to come all over me.”

And just like that, you snap—back arching as you lose control, your thighs shaking as you come hard, spilling your release all over his face.

He doesn’t pull back, not even for a second. Instead, he sucks and licks you clean, making sure you feel every sensation, every pulse of pleasure. His hands keep you in place, gently but firmly holding you as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm.

When you finally pull away, he’s panting, eyes hazy with lust and satisfaction. “Told you, didn’t I? It feels fucking incredible when someone really takes care of you.”

You collapse beside him, still catching your breath, and he immediately turns to kiss your forehead.

“Best fucking thing I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, voice rough. “I could spend all day between your legs, baby.”

You smile, weak but satisfied. “You’re a fucking freak,” you say, but you say it with affection, because, well… you kind of love it.

It’s late. You’re curled up beside him, both of you still half-naked and lazily basking in the afterglow after he practically made your cunt weep. Kyle’s fingertips are trailing lazy shapes on your thigh, his lips brushing your temple every so often, and everything just feels… soft.

That’s when you mumble it, barely above a whisper.

“…I practiced.”

He pauses. “Hmm?”

You glance up at him, shy and pink-cheeked. “After that first time. When you, um… taught me how to… y’know. I practiced. On a toy. A lot.”

There’s a second of silence. Just one.

Then: a slow, absolutely devastating grin spreads across his face. “You what?”

Your face is burning now, and you half-bury it into his shoulder. “Shut up.”

“No, no, no—hold on.” He sits up a little, guiding your chin so he can see you. His eyes are wide, his pupils blown, voice dropping low. “You’re tellin’ me… you took what I showed you and—studied? Practiced on a toy? For me?”

You nod, mortified.

And Kyle? He groans, like it physically hurts him.

“Oh, fuck me,” he breathes. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. You—you sat there, all quiet and sweet, workin’ your pretty little mouth on some plastic cock just to make me feel good?”

He’s rock hard again. No shame. “Jesus Christ, baby, you could’ve just told me. I would’ve helped. We could’ve had study sessions.”

You smack his chest weakly, still hiding your face.

But he’s already kissing you—soft and slow at first, then deeper, dirtier. He murmurs against your lips:

“You gonna show me what you learned, yeah? Let professor Ky grade your homework?”

It starts the same way it did before. You drop between his thighs, palms smooth on his skin, and he’s already smirking, cock heavy in his hand.

“You sure about this?” he teases, like he hasn’t been watching your progress like it’s the World Cup.

But you don’t answer. You show him.

You wrap your lips around the tip and take him slow and steady—and this time? No gag, no panic. Just the wet slide of your mouth and your tongue curling under the shaft like you were made for this.

Kyle chokes on his breath. “Oh. Oh fuck—you—”

You glance up through your lashes, hollow your cheeks a little, and that’s it. He’s gone.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, gripping the sheets like they insulted his mum. “Where the fuck did you learn that—no, don’t answer—don’t stop—fuck, please don’t stop.”

Your hand works in tandem, spit glistening from your chin to his balls, the slick sound filthy. He’s already babbling.

“Oh my god, you’ve—you’ve been practicing, all for me? You dirty little thing—training that throat just for me—fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He twitches against your tongue and you push down further—past where you used to gag. Your throat relaxes just enough to take him deep. He feels the squeeze.

Kyle gasps. His hips jerk up before he catches himself. He’s shaking.

“Holy shit—‘m not gonna last, I can’t—fuck, if you keep doin’ that I’ll cum so hard I’ll forget my name—”

You hum around him and he screams.

“BABY. You’re—goddamn, you're gonna kill me—”

You don’t stop.

You don’t need to stop. You’re in your element now, sucking him like you want to crawl inside him and stay there. Your tongue flicks just under the crown, just how he taught you, and when you flatten your tongue and let him thrust just a bit? He fucking loses it.

Kyle comes with a strangled sob, back arching, hand over his eyes like he can’t bear to watch you swallow it all—but he does, peeking through his fingers like a mess.

“Ohhh fuck me,” he groans, voice wrecked. “You—what the fuck—where have you been all my life?”

You pull off with a satisfied little pop and wipe your mouth. He stares like he’s never seen you before.