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I wanted to make this post to point out the fact that, yes, I’m still alive, and yes, I still use Tumblr.
I have had 0 motivation to write, and it’s really just been that. Same thing with Wattpad (yes, I wrote on Wattpad), but I haven’t touched Wattpad even longer than Tumblr. I still plan to come back and bring in more stories, either one-shots or longer, but I haven’t had great motivation recently since last year.
BUT.
I have been writing for the past 3 days..
It’s a request (I forgot to turn off my requests, so now they’re CLOSED, FYI) for RZ Michael Myers, and it was supposed to be straight smut, but I got lost in the sauce of writing so it’s now over— from when I last checked— 5 thousand words long. And still climbing.
I also want to make note that I do see my requests/questions/messages on here, and I know there’s a few requests that came in even before that one, but my main problem has been motivation, and also the fact that some of them I am not educated on enough to even begin writing a prompt.
My very first request I ever got has never been touched, which was about Plagas Leon (if that’s how you spell it) from an anonymous user, which was sent almost 2 years ago. And as we know, I have not written anything since the newest Albert Wesker one-shot, so it’s not because I don’t want to do it, but because (repeating again) I have had 0 motivation to expand and write.
I hope this request is done justice, since my writing style has changed and become more detailed and less inexperienced. I just have a hard time because I compare my writing to others— it’s almost like comparing the most perfect piece of story telling you’ve ever seen, to slop, aka, my writing.
But, yeah! I just wanted to put this out there because I feel bad leaving people that follow my work with absolutely no clue if I fell off the face of the planet or not.
Thank you guys for the support, even just passerby’s that read a few and go, I always smile when I see people hitting the heart button for my stories.
Anyways, back to the writing trenches I go! See ya’ll soon!!!
one genre of fanfiction that seems to have mostly disappeared since i became an adult is shenanigans-type fics. like not exactly crack but just "the gang goes to 7-11" type, extremely low-stakes plot stories. the beach episodes of fanfiction. i just feel like i don't see those around so much anymore. whered they go. i miss them :(
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WARNING [NO AFTERCARE, domination, worshipping, choking, degrading, praise, missionary, mouth covering, fearplay(?), VERY long drabble w/ marination]
You couldn't get enough of the plush pillows your head laid between with each rest, the deep crimson of their covers matching the gigantic silk comforter that swallowed you whole. Your sleep was always tender on nights of no stress or rapid thoughts, and, even then, you never felt a wink tired after you woke up.
Slowly but surely you became conscious, your eyes eventually cracking open and meeting with the slick alarm clock that screamed 17:30 in neon red. You pulled yourself upright against the ridiculous pile of pillows, blinking away your sleepiness as you untucked your legs from the blankets and swung them to your slippers at the side of the bed. Stretching up to reach the ceiling, you hear the center of your chest crack in with your shoulders as you put your feet into your slides.
They softly pattered against the wood floors as you went out of your room and down the hall, the bottom of your shirt caressing the middle of your thighs with every step forward. You knew where you were heading, what turn to take to get to the stairs, and even which staircase to use to get to where you wanted to go even faster. You frequented this home more than your own at this rate, getting a call every 2 weeks to confirm availability for your cleaning services at the same time, same dates, same hours.
Every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday⎯ your fingers slid against the banister that encircled the stairs⎯ and Friday were mandatory for you to show, while weekends⎯ you reached the top of the stairs and began to descend down⎯ you had to be on call. You were paid handsomely for being openly available during the weekends despite sometimes not having to show, and you couldn't be more grateful for a job that paid you as well as this. You thought that this gig would be a scam, a dud, a total waste of your interest, until you were paid for Monday. Then Tuesday. Then the weekend arrived, and you were stacked to the brim full of money⎯ money that you were not going allow to be put into someone else's pockets. Though, as you thought more about it, it comes together as to why the owner of such a home would pay as much; professional cleaners deserve a professionals' salary, especially when cleaning a house this large.
Your feet hit the floor and you were off towards the kitchen, your fuzzy slippers slightly dragging on the floor boards from their heft. You began to buy nicer items as your time spent with this job grew longer, up to the span of almost a year. The slippers you wore at this very second were, in fact, a splurge purchase from a brand you've been eyeing since you saw their popular furry boots, but could never afford.
You got to the dining room, the entrance of the kitchen just in sight when you turn to face the long dining table. You ate here⎯ you pass by a seat that sat under the wall mount of a large stag, its antlers stretching towards the ceiling like a tree growing for the sun⎯ whenever duty called, the long hours of the day passing by with every harsh scrub to the grout between tiles. You were cautious at first, when the owner's assistant informed you of your duties and boundaries of working in this house; you could cook food, eat at the dining table, use whatever you needed from select spaces. But soon, those boundaries shrunk, the assistant saying the owner was offering for you to use the furniture to subdue your aching muscles, use the showers and baths to ensure the water runs properly⎯ to even go as far as to want you to increase your availability for overnight stays, stating the beds needed to be used to keep the dust away.
Eventually, as the half year mark arrived, you finally met the owner of the manor. It caught you off guard when you saw a large shadow fall in front of your view of the bookshelf you were giving much needed attention to, your duster tensing in your hand as your grip threatened to snap it. When you turned to face your boss, your hold on your tool did not falter, and instead tightened to the point you swear you heard it cracking under your fingers. He had a dominant, overpowering atmosphere plaguing the room with his arrival, his demeaning gaze nailing you through his black sunglasses as he eyed you once over. He knew your were uneasy, he could practically smell the stench of your nervousness, and it was apparent to you with the way his gaze remained unwavering, like he was observing you, seeing how you would react to his sudden appearance. You could feel his eyes sink in to your face, then your hair, then your uniform, and finally, your eyes; you could feel them being drawn to stare, and never turn away, as if your very soul was being bound to submit through your sea of color. In reality, he knew what you looked like, his cameras across the manor watching your every move the moment you drove just ever slightly close to the property (eventually as you settled in with working for him, he would send one of his assistants to go pick you up and take you home in one of those sleek black cars you knew cost a fortune).
⎯ Soon, you turned to the kitchen and froze, your eyes skimming the sudden view of your boss who was leaned over the sink and washing the dishes. His usual uniform was gone, and in its stead, he had his casual white dress shirt on, it noticeably hugging his back and biceps like a perfectly fitted glove⎯ his sleeves were rolled up in an oddly meticulous way, you noticed⎯ with nice iron pressed pants and matching black dress shoes. His hair looked disheveled, just enough to where you could tell he ran his fingers through it in what few could recognize as irritation.
You felt sick, your face paling and your hands clamping onto the bottom of your shirt⎯ shit, your shirt. You looked down at what you were wearing and felt completely defeated, your chest feeling the snake of shame wrap itself around your beating heart to the point you truly felt it pause a beat. To top it all off⎯ you looked back up to view him once again⎯ he was doing the dishes. Your job.
What made the shame ever so slightly surrender, however, was the fact that your boss himself had told you if you ever felt the need to, use the guest room to rest. That's what you did, so perhaps he would excuse this first time instance?
You blink, and you realize you've been staring longer than you should be. You clamp onto your shirt one last time, letting it absorb any possible sweat, and relax your anxious expression before plastering on a soft, awkward looking smile.
"Good afternoon, Mister Wesker."
There was a pause in the air that felt as long as a year, yet was but a second, the sound of running water and the scrubbing of dishes being the only thing making noise. You cringed internally at the silence, half tempted escape while you still could, but you knew you would land yourself in a deep grave if you attempted such a thing.
"It took you long enough to address me."
You flinched when his voice cut through the air like a knife to butter. Your smile was wiped clean and your eyes dodged to the floor, the malice in his voice evident, even if it was but a small amount, "I apologize for that, sir. I was unsure if I was in the appropriate clothing to greet you."
Wesker didn't get home till late at night, compared to the regular 9-to-5 job, and when you were working, you were meant to greet him at the door and have the house spotless. Him arriving early is a first⎯ a once in a blue moon occurrence, if you will. You always follow the rules and have things ready for his arrival, his expected time varying between 9 PM to even 7 AM, and on late nights like those, you're either driven home, or allowed to spend the night; vigorous hard work is rewarded with a luxury bed.
He placed the last dish into the dishwasher and dried his hands on the rag placed to the side, his voice running through the room, "Dishes left in the sink, waiting to be cleaned, and you're sleeping upstairs."
Your hairs begin to stand, his a-matter-of-fact manner of speaking tipping you off, "I apologize sir, I did not expect you to be home this early.."
"I hire a cleaner to clean, and yet I find my hands taking over your occupation." Wesker folds the towel and sets it in its spot.
Before you could answer, he turns around, his ungloved hand running through his hair to home one of the blond hairs that laid slightly out of place.
"However," He crosses his arms, his watch glinting in an almost taunting way at you, "I don't mind touching with my humanity every so often."
You felt a weird sensation at his words⎯ you could sense something was out of touch with him the moment you had met Wesker, and the way he spoke about humans or humanity as if he were a higher being never sat well with you. Perhaps it was because he was rich, or perhaps it was because of his work being important to the people of the world, as he has told you before many times.
"Regardless. I pay you an extraordinary amount of money that any sane person would dream of, even kill for."
You stand in silence, clasping your hands over one another at your stomach as he continues on, "Have I allowed your rules to be too laxed? Or, perhaps I've spoiled you to the point of lower standards."
"No, Mister Wesker." You answer, "I just needed rest."
He eyes your attire, "I can see that, little lamb."
Your eyes widen, knowing you're in deep now, and you unconsciously pinch the hem of your shirt. Somehow, you work up the courage to bring your eyes up to give him the respect he deserves, but you grow the regret it as you catch his light hazel eyes peeking above his glasses staring at you in a way that screams you fucked up.
You breathe out your nose and let your shoulders drop.
"𝘖𝘩 𝘨𝘰𝘥.."
Wesker had shoved you against his office desk, fear coursing through your veins as your heart beat with the strength of an oil rig. You felt the world spin and your brain run oddly cold and fuzzy, every pump of blood feeling harder than the next as your back was pressed onto the mahogany table.
"Your punishment has been long overdue, lamb. Don't think I haven't noticed how you've been slacking off." He tensely spoke.
"I haven't been, Mister Wesker! I swear⎯!"
You froze as his hands slide just below your shirt and pull your shorts to your ankles, "Do not swear to me when being dishonest. The only thing it will do is get you into deeper trouble."
Your gut dropped to your feet as his fingers glid under the straps of your panties, your head beginning to go dizzy as you felt every vein flow faster and faster through your body. Slowly, his fingers curled around the hem and began to pull down, down, down.. You could barely breathe as every bit of air lumped together in the back of your throat, the muscles in your neck twitching when it became too much, then to implode with your heart and release all together just to start over in an endless cycle.
Yet, with the very fear that bled into your bones, striking every limb, muscle⎯ and you had the audacity to find pleasure in the pit of fright. You always have.
He firmly shot you a glare, "Eyes on me."
Your eyes snapped up towards Wesker, "Keep your eyes on my hands."
You did as he instructed, moving your gaze to his hands as they went down to grasp his belt. The veins that bulged and rooted themselves throughout the back of his hands and up his arms were noticeable, delightful; they intricately wrapped around each hand and slithered up his forearms, his left arm having a vein that slid itself down to the knuckle of his middle finger. You watched as he meticulously unbuckled his belt, the straps coming undone before he unbuttoned and carefully pulled down his zipper.
"Excited for your punishment, aren't you?"
He snapped you out of your daze, and yet your eyes stayed glued on his hands as he pulled down his pants just enough to allow his covered bulge to rest outside the opened zipper. You felt hot, and you knew you were the kin of a blooming cherry red with how tingly you felt all over your face.
"Punishments are supposed to be⎯" Wesker grabbed you by your throat in one swift motion, a short audible gasp passing through you, "hurtful. So why, my dear, do you seem to be enjoying this?"
You have the look of pure ecstasy on your face, your eyes trailing up his veiny forearm, then his toe-curlingly thick bicep, as you imagine the type of punishment you would receive by his hand.
".. Because I deserve it, sir." You quietly respond.
A smile of wicked entertainment spreads across his lips, "Of course you would be blissful from that. You should be grateful I'm even bothered to put a woman as disobedient as you in your place.."
With a squeeze from his hand around your neck, he released you and brought it to the slit of his boxers, "'You know what to say, girl."
The curl of his voice sent an ache between your thighs, desperation making a home in your brain and heart, maybe even your very soul with each second that passed. Embarrassment ran wild for you, your eyes averting to the corner of his office.
Just as fast as you pulled your eyes away, his hand shot out and grabbed your chin, your lips puckering and eyes snapping to him.
"Don't look away from me, you pathetic lamb."
The flash of aggression in his voice made your insides clench and spill to the desk, your thighs instinctively closing together. Wesker took a pause, then turned your head slightly to the right, and then the left, your eyes never once leaving his face.
"I have to say, you are quite the specimen.." He mused, turning your face back towards him.
"And those eyes of yours.. So expressive. Especially when I.."
His free hand slowly grasps the band of his boxers and tugs down, a veiny cock hitting his stomach before curving downwards from its heavy girth. Your pupils blow out and your eyes widen as they flash down to his pulsing dick that, to you, felt like it was gazing back with a thick bead of sheer white fluid gathering at the tip, almost as if it was tempting you to make a move.
You felt the grip on your chin tighten, your lips now in a full pucker as you feel his eyes pierce through your sockets.
Wesker's eyebrows furrow, "Oh yes.. Just like that."
He paused, "⎯ Now, are you ready for your punishment, little lamb?"
You look up at him, and give a short nod, your thighs spreading to allow his own to rest in between. You watch his cock glide under your shirt and rest on your lower stomach, the shape of it molded against your clothing to the point you could see its pulsating motion; there was even a streak of dampness where the tip had caressed your clothing.
Wesker let you go, only to quickly grab you by your neck with one hand, and the back of one thigh with the other to spread you farther apart. His thick tip drew back from under your clothes then aimed down, pressing into your clit and pushing against your weak spot before sliding down between your slick folds. When it caught on your hole, he pushed the head of his cock into your tight mess, watching as it settled in akin to a lollipop sinking between your sweet lips.
You felt your insides twitch around the tip, only a second spared for you to adjust, until he made sure you remembered that this was a punishment, not a favor. Wesker slammed his full, thick cock all the way in till you could feel his lower stomach pressed against your clit, and the head kissing⎯ no, bullying your cervix.
Before you could cry out, he moved his hand from your throat to cover your mouth in a firm hold.
"Remember, little lamb, this is your punishment, and I am not holding back."
Wesker snarled at you, pulling his hips back and snapping them back into your thighs. You moaned through his palm, your hands coming up to grab his wrist and dig your nails in just enough to sting. You could feel every ridge, every thick vein of his cock as he was beginning to plunge harshly into your mushy pussy, his hips getting into a violent rhythm as he painfully began to ravage your hole.
"Dear god, lamb⎯," He clenched his teeth and sharply sucked in air, "oooo..⎯ despite all of your nonsense, you have a delectable cunt I can't seem to stop craving for.."
You closed your eyes and whined behind his hand, his cock hitting one spot that just felt so painful yet indescribably good, as he vigorously made sure to sink his entire length into every quick, deep thrust. In a flash, he gripped your cheeks once again, your lips set agonizingly in an 'O' shape with his rough grab.
He snapped at you, "Do NOT close your eyes while I'm fucking you stupid, whore."
You flinched at that word; whore. It shook you deeply, sentimentally as tears brimmed your eyes in shame.
"You're nothing but a little cock whore to me.. -𝘴𝘩𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘱 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘱 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘩- A stupid toy for me to fuck and use."
You felt your tears roll down your cheeks, your face beaming red and your mouth letting out sickly pleasured noises as your cunt plaps over and over again against his heavy balls. He was mean, so very mean today, and yet you, the sick attention seeking girl you are, reveled in his words, your pussy clenching on his length.
He breathes heavy, "With a body like this, I expected it to be tainted long before me, little lamb. You should be grateful I was the one that let you see stars."
Wesker groaned a soft fuck, before letting your face go and slamming his hand onto the table, his brutality causing him to falter as he felt his balls fill up from the fast pace he set for you. You cried and moaned and whined with each passing second, the constant bullying of his cock hitting your cervix filling you with bliss, and yet, you were constantly battered out of it when he would thrust hard and cause a light pain to ripple through your womb; you honestly thought it was him being rough and creating a bruised spot, but you soon realized it was the pure force of his hips that caused the tip to break through ever so slightly into your womb.
Your eyes began to roll back, your legs beginning to shake as you laid your hands next to your head and took all he was giving you.
"You do so good taking me, little lamb⎯ fuck." Wesker's face tensed as he leaned his face down to the side of your head, grabbing his sunglasses and ripping them off his face.
He pinned his glasses down beneath his hand as he placed it back where he had slammed it before, his reality slipping through his fingers with every pound inside of you, and every bead of sweat that glimmered against his skin. He would never admit it, never, and he finds it impossible he even has such a mindset about you, but⎯ he slides the hand he held the back of your thigh with under your shirt towards your waist and squeezes⎯ you are perfect. Wesker finds it absurd he could even imagine someone like you would intrigue him, and at first, you were like any other maid he had hired in the past, but as he watched you through the cameras, there was something peculiar. Something that screamed at him that you were significant. Worthy.
And yet, with such thoughts, he could not shake the addiction he had for staring at you, talking to you, touching you, fucking you. You had him wrapped around your finger, and you would never know. To him, you were his goddess on earth, and he loathed that fact. To have thoughts of someone like you being compared to that of a god, before himself, ate at him alive. But he contently drowned in the thoughts of you like that of a sacrifice. You took him over. Sinfully, and absolutely.
He plunged forcefully back and forth into your wetness, Wesker groaning through clenched teeth as your moaning and whining sent him into a frenzy. He was close.
You grabbed onto his shirt towards his collar and cried, "Wesker!"
That completely unraveled him.
With one abusive thrust, he shoved the tip of his cock past your cervix and fed your womb full of all he had to offer. You let out a shaky moan as you felt his hot seed spill into your hungry hole, your walls convulsing with intent to suck him empty.
He did one last hard snap into you before letting it sit, then slowly pulling out. He stood straight and looked at your sex, seeing it fully agape from where he had let himself take you. Not a drop leaking out.
"You were starving for my seed that bad, huh." Wesker spoke, but it felt like it was directed to your puffy cunt more so than yourself.
You slowly closed your eyes, your body completely shutting down as he let you go and placed his sunglasses back on. Wesker eyed you once more, lust breaking through into his brain as he watched your chest rise and fall, and your pussy slowly adjusting to being without him⎯ but, he needed to get back to work. You heard him fixing himself up before going behind the desk and opening a drawer, soon closing it and setting something on the desk behind your head.
With a sigh and a comb through his hair, he went to the door and spoke as coldly as his usual self, "Clean yourself up and finish with the house, Miss (L/n). While you're at it, clean up the mess on my desk. I don't want your excrement ruining my mahogany table."
And with that, he left, shutting the door behind him and leaving you there to pick up after yourselves. That quick exit really hit your heart sore; he didn't even bat an eye at you, or help you pick up yourself. Fresh tears brimmed your eyes in shame, but you sat up and gained your balance when you stood on your feet to slide your panties and shorts back up.
You wiped your tears away and took a moment to process. Wesker never left you without aftercare, even if it was chopped when he would caress you in comfort, or intently helped you cum your soreness away. This really enforced the fact that this was a punishment. And you hated it. Which was a part of his plan.
You recall that he had taken something out of his desk, and you turned, seeing a leather red necklace box sitting with a note that had Lamb written on it. You stepped around the table and picked up the note, turning the clearly expensive card around and reading what was wrote in cursive.
𝑫𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅.
⎯ 𝑾𝒆𝒔𝒌𝒆𝒓
Wow, how nice. You bitterly thought, placing the note next to the box before picking it up. When you opened it, your sourness and sorrow washed away, a golden necklace sitting in black silk. It was a thin chain that had golden omamori shaped tag with what you could tell as Kanji engraved vertically on the small pendant.
子羊
Kohitsuji..
Your cheeks felt warm as you slid your hand under the pendant and lifted it closer to your face. You had been practicing reading Kanji and speaking Japanese for some of Wesker's important peoples that would visit the manor every now and then for a meeting, and it seemed to have really paid off.
Lamb.
You smiled and took the necklace, putting it around your neck when you faced the mirror by the door. Your heart was bursting with happiness, and it showed as you flaunted the necklace off to yourself. Until you remembered you had a mess to clean.
You turned towards the table and saw the mess you had made, some of it even leaking down the front... How embarrassing.
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I absolutely fucking loved The Ghost's Pet and was wondering if you'd consider a part 2? or even like another unrelated Ghostface fic? because the way you write smut is amazing and that petplay was... I don't even have words but it was good and I'd love to read more!! thanks anyways, love ya<3
I do not have any plans for a part two as of right now due to the complications of needing to re-design my entire writing account- (it felt too messy with how many character lists and master lists I posted and I admire the way other writers have theirs so I got inspired to clean mine up).
Due to this, however, I will probably end up getting around to making one, just at a later date. I will @ you when that arrives <3
I just read harsh directive, bitch (respectful usage) like I can’t. Just no words. I just like ????? So good ????? Like I can’t even form a thought???? I have never read something so GOD DAMN GOOD BEFORE??!!??!
Thank you so much! It may have been a while back that I wrote it, and you may have sent this a long time ago as well, but reading these replies about my stories despite the time frames makes me smile.
When I post another Ghost story, I will definitely @ you since I'm now alive and ready to write!
harsh directive was incredible you’re actually INSANE for posting such toe curling, well written smut oh my GOD it takes a lot for fics to genuinely turn me on nowadays cos i’ve read too many and they’re all similar-ish but the pacing??? the descriptions??? taking the reader away from the current situation just to put her in a super sexual flashback and then dropping her back in the main event??? DELECTABLE. finally some good fucking food.
I know it took me a billion fucking years to respond, so sorry about that, but I really appreciate the kind regards <3
I actually planned to post a separate COD fanfic account (that is ready and up, but no stories posted yet), so if you're interested, I will be announcing the @ very soon!
As soon as I'm done with all the requests and re-designing this account, I will 100% let you know!
Summary: Being Albert Wesker's wife was never easy. Yes, he gave you love, but it would come and go in small segments because of work despite him actually working from home. After discovering Albert's secret projects from having the last straw, you ran, scared he would kill you for finding out before his confession (if there ever were to be one). A full year had gone by, no sign of Wesker. Until now.
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Word Count: 2.6k
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MASTERLIST | Resident Evil List | Albert Wesker
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WARNING [dub-con, feral sex, doggy style to mating press, hair pulling, spanking, degrading, dumbification, major breeding kink, domination]
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He caught you, and now there was no escape.
"You are fucking delicious, my little cock starved slut."
Against all odds, he found you right in the comforts of your new home.
"Don’t you ever run away from me again."
How could your life have come to this?
Wesker fucked into you savagely, one of his hands tangled in your locks as he tugged you back on his dick, and the other holding your leg up. He screwed you nearly dumb despite your pleas and cries for him to stop, your pussy drooling his loads and your juices all over your inner thighs.
You let out a loud yelp when Albert’s hand came down on your ass, a sharp slapping noise echoing around the dining room. He had pushed your leg up onto the table before hanging his hand at his side, still keeping the tight grip on your hair as he made sharp, quick thrusts.
Wesker snarled down at your trembling figure, “If you even try to pull another one of your escape plans on me, I’ll make sure to fuck you stupid so you can’t escape.”
You managed to choke out a few words despite the fear that laid in your stomach, tears streaming down your cheeks as you turned to look up at him from behind, “I hate you!”
Albert couldn’t help but let out a laugh from your words, one that was taunting, dark. In several swift motions, he pulled you up by your hair and held your back flush against his chest, opposed to your pained whine. He then roughly grabbed your now struggling wrist, forcing your hand to flex out and reveal the shiny silver piece on your ring finger.
“If you hate me as much you say, why are you wearing your wedding ring?”
Wesker stopped thrusting, allowing you to sit on his cock and feel every pulse and twitch as you tried answering his inquisition. Your mouth hung agape, sputtering nonsense while your face flushed red.
Before you could even form a full sentence, he answered for you, "Because you don't hate me. In fact, I think you still love the very man you ran from."
"I do not-!"
Albert interrupted you with a hard thrust into your quivering sex, making you mewl in surprise before biting your lip to keep quiet. He smirked from your pathetic attempts to silence yourself before bringing your hand up to his lips and kissing your knuckles, making sure you saw his actions even if you had a disgusted look on your face.
"You are a horrible liar, dearheart."
Suddenly, you were slammed back on the table with a loud cry, his quick roughness knocking the sense out of you before he started ramming back into your cunt. The hand that still tugged on your hair loosened its hold, letting you rest your head on the table and take the fucking you were given. You tried desperately to fight back against Wesker's grip on you, but he was stronger, much more built than you, and at this point, all you could do was let him abuse your quivering pussy until he's had his fill.
It didn't stop the tears that still trickled down your cheeks, or your quiet begs that all meant nothing, "Please Wesker- mmph!- just l-let me go!"
Albert didn't hold back the chuckle that ran through his throat at your attempts to stop him, feeling your hands weakly push against his hips to yield his thrusting. His v-line stilled flush against your ass, but don't begin to think it was because of your efforts.. Wrapping your hair around his hand, Wesker slowly leaned down over you and tugged your head back, letting his lips just barely caress your ear.
"I'll never let you go again."
He began plunging deep into your drooling sex, his hand finally leaving your hair and being placed on your waist. Wesker picked up your hips so you were arching against the table, your leg coming down to touch the floor, before hammering straight up into your cervix. You felt your eyes widen and your heart thump hard when you felt his tip reach deep inside of you, your tongue pushing past your lips on instinct and allowing saliva to drip down your chin. A low, gruff grunt came from Albert when he felt your pussy clench around his dick, the grip on your waist tightening to the point of bruising while his nails practically punctured through your skin. He ravaged your insides, milky white streaming down your legs and onto the floor that would soon be replaced by another one of your husband's loads.
"Deeper.. Guh- I need it.. deeper."
Wesker paused his onslaught and quickly flipped you over onto your back, now staring at your tearstained cheeks and scarlet face. He watched your chest heave up and down as you continued to pant, eyeing your nipples that perked up over your tank top as your breasts shuddered from his piercing gaze.
Albert quickly slammed back into you, earning another strained moan from your abused mouth before it became pained when he grabbed your legs and forced them widely apart. Your spread pussy gave him more room to shove his cock inches deeper, your eyes crossing up to the back of your head when he hit your cervix again with the tip of his dick. Before he could begin his assault, he paused when seeing you shakily bring a hand up to his chest and give it a weak push as your last attempt to get him to stop.
"Please, Albert.. No more.. I can't take it." You whispered with a strained voice, your eyes glossy from crying as you gazed into his firm ambers.
To your surprise, Wesker took one hand away from your leg and brought it up to your cheek, cupping it gently while rubbing his thumb lovingly across your trail of tears. Involuntarily, you leaned into his touch, and brought up your other hand to hold onto the back of his to keep his warm palm against your cheek. You allowed yourself to close your eyes and savor his affection, even if it could've been fake; you were so touch deprived after being on the run for so long, and now that the person you secretly longed for was giving you attention, your body just melted.
When you felt Albert's blonde locks graze against your forehead, and his nose brush softly against yours, you opened your eyes to gaze into his. You almost cried when you noticed the familiar glints of love under his firm gaze, some unknown relief flooding through your system.
Wesker's voice pierced through the silence, his tone low and tauntingly gentle, "Dearheart, do you even realize that you're leaning into my touch despite what you've been telling me?"
You finally broke, the overwhelming emotions of missing and hating your lover collapsing, "It's okay.. Just let me have this.."
He chuckled silently and allowed you to nuzzle into his hand, continuing to stroke your cheek as he watched your every move. God, he really did miss you. That full year of not having you by his side made him more aggressive, fully honed in on finding you and bringing you home. The little things he never thought he'd miss made him regret every second of not giving you his full attention, and the nights you both shared in your bed, either intimate or just sleeping, practically made him an insomniac now that he never woke up with you next to him. You really turned his world upside down.
Slowly, Albert leaned close to your face, kissing the tip of your nose before saying, "I'll stop when you're finally honest with me."
Wesker snapped his hips into yours, making you throw your head back and let out an airy moan, before retracting his hand back to your waist. He didn't bother to start out slow, plunging in and out of your drooling cunt with burning desire. You kept a hand on his chest while using the other to grip onto his wrist, trying your hardest to ground yourself and keep your eyes from blurring up from the pleasure. You refused to be fucked dumb by Wesker. You were supposed to be mad at him, scared of him - that's why you ran, after all. You were suppose to be angry and sorrowful because of him bursting into your new life and slamming you on your dinner table to fuck you breathless. Where did all my sanity go?
Albert watched your conflicting eyes with a devilish smirk, giving a harsh thrust to gain your attention, "Come on, sweetness. All you have to do is confess and this will all stop just like you wanted."
You stared at him with hazy eyes, blinking away your fading tears as you stuttered, "Y-you promise..?"
His smirk widened into a grin, "I promise, my dear little wife."
Taking in a shaky breath, you began letting out your confession like it was a sin, "I missed you- I missed you- I missed you! I missed your body, your touch, your kisses, your love! I missed the way I'd wake up to you every morning, and I missed the way you'd fuck me dumb into our bed!"
Against what you thought would happen, Wesker let out a feral growl and fucked into you faster, snarling at you, "Keep going."
You gazed down at him, finally letting your eyes fill with love and spill out your true thoughts, "Wesker, I missed you so much! I'm sorry for leaving you! I love you so so so much! Please forgive your cock hungry whore of a wife!"
"Atta' girl.."
Albert roughly grabbed your thighs and threw you into the mating press, slamming his dick directly into your sweet spot over and over with every carnal thrust. Finally, oh-so finally, your mind went blank and your eyes turned foggy, your moans and cries sounding euphoric against the squelching of your pussy and the slapping of his balls against your ass. You grabbed sloppily at Wesker's shirt to pull him closer, the yearning to kiss his lips winning over your fried mind.
He remained solid as he rutted into you, looking down at you through his loose strands of hair while firmly growling, "I've trained you better than this to try and get what you want. What do you say, you disobedient bitch?"
"Please kiss me, hubby! I need it- I need it- I need it!"
Wesker grinned madly at your use of your husband nickname, now fully confident that he won you over, "That's my good little wife."
He smashed his lips onto yours, swallowing up your lewd moaning and whines as he shoved his tongue straight into your mouth. You licked at his wet muscle as he dominated yours, tears of deranged happiness leaking from the corners of your eyes as you finally got the kiss you've dreamed about ever since you made the stupid mistake of running from your husband. You held his cheeks with the palms of your soft hands, earning a tighter grip on your thighs that were sure to turn purple later. Fuck, he was just eating you up; this is what depriving a husband from his wife for so long does to a man.
With his skin rubbing up against your clit, and his thick cock bursting into your tightening cunt with seemingly no end, your womb began to feel heavy and clenched. You knew this feeling all too well, Albert being your first and only partner to ever make you squirt and see stars.
Despite not wanting to, you pulled away from his lips and looked straight up at him through lidded eyes, "Albert, I'm- I'm going to- fuck.. cum!"
Through clenched teeth, Wesker snapped his eyes up into yours and raised his voice in command, "Cum on my cock like the good slutty wife you are!"
From his rough words, the slapping of skin, and the erotic wet noises coming from your sex, your body lurched forward and let out a high pitched whine. Your quivering cunt spurt out all of your pent up honey and glazed it all over his dick and stomach, your knot finally coming undone. You saw bliss from how much your body released, your eyes remaining at the back of your head as your muscles convulsed and twitched. Your toes were in a tight curl, and your legs were bent up towards the sky despite cramping up from your position.
Still, Albert continued fucking into you with every ounce of strength he had, his intention to make you cum fueling his need to release.
With an animalistic snap, he slammed his hands on either side of your head and leaned over your small figure, "I'm going to breed you with my young. Be thankful that I even want to fuck you full of my semen after running away from me like that. Say, 'Thank you for breeding me, my darling.' just like how I taught you."
Doing just as he said, you dumbly followed his command through your overstimulation with slurred words, "Thank you for breeding me, my darling.."
With the last slamming of his hips, Wesker buried his dick fully inside of you and let out a feral groan, spilling his hot cum straight into your womb. He missed how he bred you on your sheets, filling you full of his boiling hot semen, rope after rope, load after load. Of course, you were always on the pill to prevent any accidents, but knowing that you were fresh and fertile made it his absolute obsession to release inside of you round after round tonight. Albert let his basic male instincts take over, fully aware of the consequences, and practically asking for them.
This would make you stay at home for the safety of you and your child, his protection being the only thing you'd need now that you were heavy with his kid. And after you were normal and well with your baby, he would just breed you full with another. This was the only solution to keep you with him; your body constantly carrying his young.
You practically purred at the sensation of his milk spilling into you, rolling your head back onto the table and letting his cock plug you full. Wesker's heavy panting puffed hot air straight into your face as he leaned over to catch his breath, holding your hips up to prevent any leakage.
Finally stabling himself, Albert gazed down at your blissfully hazy eyes, grinning at his work on your body before returning to his serious exterior. Catching his now semi-tense stare, you looked up to his eyes as you let your mind come back to earth. Slowly, Wesker pulled out of your abused hole, leaving it gapping and clenching around the sex filled air. You let out a weak whimper when you felt his warm love begin to trickle out of your pussy and to the table below, but before it could get any further, Albert wiped it on his fingers and plunged them back into you. You bit your lip and held in a moan as you felt your husband's seed leak back into your sex from his fingers, your legs shaking despite Wesker's firm hold on your thickness.
"Don't think for a second that you're not keeping every drop of me." He whispered violently, thrusting his fingers into you once and earning a surprised yelp from your plumping lips.
This wouldn't be the last time of the night you would be fucked stupid, trained, and bred from your lover's hand. And as much as you hated to admit it, you couldn't wait.
With another grin, Albert pulled you up against him and forced you to look up at his piercing gaze, "I'm going to fuck you numb, dearheart. Just you wait."
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I've been seeing a lot of screenshots and videos going around recently about the cod fandom and the VAs that I thought I'd touch on. I've seen some people mention this topic and I'd just like to reiterate that people need to separate the character from the person. That person has boundaries and deserves respect just like everyone else.
Especially with a fandom as interactive as the cod fandom. Neil and Nick particularly are people. As human as us. They don't deserve to be impersonated on the internet or AO3 (it's illegal).
They deserve space and are allowed to do what they want. Specifically people yelling at them not to find AO3 or Wattpad or sending them edits and fanart. At the end of the day I understand why people would act that way, but they are not their characters. A lot of people have said this probably better than I have, but I just want to try and remind people that there is a difference and anything you wouldn't want done to you on the internet, don't do to the VAs. We are blessed to have interactive VAs like Nick and Neil. And even Alain, Barry and the others even if it's not as much. We are a good community and it only takes a couple bad apples or interactions to push them away.
I've seen how happy people are to have the two and I am one of those people. But there are some people that can take that further than it is meant to be taken.
I know that at the end of the day if they find what I've written about the characters I'm not going to care. They are adults, they can handle it. If they want to explore it and find the art, fics, and whatever else they don't need us yelling at them to not look or throwing stuff at them.
There are other Twitter posts about this that I'm having trouble finding but please remember to respect decent human boundaries and any other boundaries set by the VAs.
Rating: M
Wordcount: 8k
Tags: Aftercare, Post-nut clarity, Praise kink, Taking a bath together, Just 6 dudes taking care of their girl after completely and utterly wrecking her
A/N: ...This was supposed to be a drabble. No few regrets. My personal take on the aftermath @yeyinde 's "Body electric". Special thank you to @guyfieriii @moondirti @zwiiicnziiix @ladiilokii and many others
Summary:
It’s over.
The world around you feels dense, cryptic, laden with mysteries and vagueness as you still try to process how you ended up here. Your eyes stare up at the creaking, wooden rafters of the safehouse, vision still swimming, dried tears flaking at the corner of your gaze. Every small motion seems to roil with a discomfort that’s heavy with the aftereffects of pleasure, bleached to the bone and dull, cracking at the edges. Splayed over the table where maps and gear had been hastily shoved aside you can’t deny the chafe, the rawness that manages to soak deep into your veins.
The boys are milling around you, speaking in tired, disbelieving tones at the events of the past few hours, at how you had managed to take them, all of them at once.
It had been a blur, your memories drowning in a cacophony of slickened skin and torrid, whispered praises, or grunted pleasures and hissed curses as they all took as much as they gave. You weren’t sure who’s idea it was at first, but in the course of fucking you, of ruining you, you had surrendered completely to them, let their hands and voices guide you as you floated on an endless sea of sensation and desire. Even as they had drunk their fill of you, of your salted moans and whimpered, pleasured cries, they had been ever attentive, listening to the roll and tide of your ebbing lust, knowing exactly when to push and pull you like the ever-changing undercurrent of the ocean itself.
Now, in the aftermath you feel like you’ve been washed ashore, left there by the churning waves as fluid drips across your skin and clings there like salt.
You don’t survive this long with the 141 without your fair share of injuries. Burns, cuts, and blisters are your war medals, decorating your skin with a silent story of pride. Grenades, IEDs, the ground shattering sensation of a missile launch or the back-kick of a rifle. These things were familiar to you. Not this.
When you blink, it’s to wince at the rough chafe between your legs, the tender touch of a love bite sucked into your throat. You ache all over, and while the afterburn of pleasure still roils low in your stomach, sated and simmering with fading euphoria, the dull, insistent stretch and soreness of handling five men at once feels at once too much, too sharp, too severe.
A whimper bubbles up your throat when you try to shift, try to roll over onto your stomach with your back still braced on the harsh metal table braced against your back. Someone had been kind enough to spread a towel under you, but it’s still not enough to ease the bite of discomfort clinging to you like rose thorns.
The chatter around you ceases instantly at the sound that pours from you when you try to move. The world around you seems more like hazy, indiscernible shapes with how overstimulated your senses are, an abstract of shades and shapes that make little sense to your pleasure-addled brain. Yet even so, it’s Rudy’s face that flickers into your vision, brow still slick with sweat but scrunched with concern.
“Shh.” He hushes you, and his hand is petting your hair from your face and your eyes flutter shut under his touch. “Easy, mi Corazón.”
“How is she?”
The voice is gruff, accented, and the question itself seems more like a demand than a question, spoken with an air of unquestioning authority. Price.
“Tired.” You manage, voice tacky and stick in your dry throat as you swallow and taste bitterness there. “Sore.”
Rudy clucks at you, and the sound feels for all the world like a worried mother hen. His thumb smears a drop of flaking cum against your cheek, and the touch is tender, careful with your over exhausted state.
Except then there’s another touch, one that grasps at your hand and raises it between two calloused palms, bitten with years of duty.
“Ya did good, hen.” Soap coos, and you twist your head to see him, his eyes still glazed over but bright, warm as they regard your lidded gaze. “Did so well for us.”
You can only hum, trying and failing to find the wherewithal inside you to summon a proper response. Soap smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling.
“What do you need, doll?” A different voice asks, and you tilt your head to see Gaz leaning on the table next to you, one hand planted next to your shoulder as he gazes down at you. His head is tilted, eyes tracing over the mess of fluids and grime caked on your skin. There’s something that flickers across his eyes, bitter and almost guilty, and had you not been so spent you would have reached for him, murmured reassurances against the curve of his jaw.
“Water.” You mutter instead, and instantly Gaz is gone from you. Before you can try and follow him with your eyes there’s hands bracing at your shoulders, fingers spreading against your bare skin. The world shifts around you, body bent and raised up to a sitting position.
“Easy, querida.” Alejandro soothes as you let out a little whimper of discomfort when he sits you up. “Con suavidad, mm? Gently now.”
You don’t have the strength to sit up by yourself, choosing to lean heavily on him instead, body slouching and trembling. From what you aren’t sure. You’re bare as the day you were born, and though the safehouse seems a touch chilled by the evening air, the shiver in your limbs runs deeper than that, wear and overspent.
“Soap.” Alejandro speaks, and his voice is muted, quiet so as to not startle you. “A blanket.”
Soap’s footsteps fade just as Gaz draws near once again, wrapping your hands around a canteen even as your grip shakes unsteadily. When he helps you tip the flask, the water soothes mercifully over your chaffed and cracked throat, and you gulp greedily. Yet it’s too much too fast, and it only takes two deep swallows before you cough and splutter, water trickling down the corner of your lips.
“Careful.” Gaz warns, voice low as he hovers in front of you, one hand still engulfing the hand holding the canteen. “Not too fast, doll.”
Yet then you feel him pause, shift and make room for a different figure that presses closer to you, a calloused hand gently gripping your chin and tipping your head back once you’ve caught your breath. When your eyes flutter open once more, it’s to meet the vision of Captain Price, eyes grim as he faces you head on, gaze never wavering.
“How bad?” He asks, and you know that tone, firm and demanding to know what you know, for you to not lie as you convey the depth of your awareness into his.
You swallow.
“I’m fine.” You tell him, and it’s the truth. You feel the ripple of suspense, of apprehension dissipate with a sigh from the men around you, relieved yet still precariously concerned with the sight of you, shivering, exposed, and exhausted from the inside out.
“I’m just…tired.” You emphasize again, incapable of conveying much more. “…and kinda gross.”
Price nods, the motion firm. You can see him digesting the information you’ve given him, letting it simmer and ruminate as he configures his next attack like a battle-hardened soldier.
“Rodolfo.” He states, and you hear the sergeant shift somewhere behind you, standing at attention on instinct at the solid, instructive tone of the captain’s voice. “Is there a bathtub here?”
“Si.”
“Good. Go run a warm bath. Not too hot. Gaz will help.”
“Rog.” Gaz affirms, and when his touch vanishes from you it’s Alejandro who keeps your hands steady, with your shoulder still pressed to his chest and head lolling onto his collarbone. He’s murmuring soft words at you that you hardly hear, fatigue dragging at you insistently like a riptide.
“Soap.” Price summons next, eyes turning to the Scotsman who still hovers close to the three of you with the blanket he’s retrieved. “Think you can find a clean set of clothes and fresh sheets?”
Through your wobbly gaze you see Soap perk up, eyes glinting with the look of a mission driven soldier.
“Aye, cap.” He confirms and takes two large steps before he’s again vanished from your sight.
It’s only once he’s gone that Price turns back to you, his calloused hand cupping your cheek and tilting your head up to face him once again. You whine at that, at the way the motion reminds your body of what’s already there, tender and raw and aching.
“Easy, love.” He gentles you, and his voice rumbles rough in his chest like cigar smoke, smoggy, acrid but warm all the same. “You did so well for us.”
His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, touch firm and insistent despite the little hiss of tenderness you summon in response. Yet then the captain’s eyes soften, drinking in your flushed face and clouded gaze, lips parted under the rough pad of his thumb.
“So well.” He repeats, eyes distant for a moment as they trace over your lips before at last flickering up to your eyes. “Now let us return the favor and take care of you.”
It takes a moment for your hazy thoughts to process his words but when you do, you ease into his touch, breathy exhale spilling across the flat of his palm and eyes rolling shut. With a single, blissful sigh, you surrender once more to these men, let them take care of you in the way only they can, with their soft, firm voices and calloused, tender touches that bouy you as if you're lost at sea.
Then, the soft touch of a fabric as Price helps Alejandro drape the blanket across your form, enveloping you in a soothing warmth. You go limp, more pliant than you already are, leaning into the warm embrace of Alejandro’s form. A single hand comes up to clutch the blanket, velvety and worn under your fingertips.
Price vanishes somewhere beyond you, and Alejandro tucks you further into his side, nose buried in your hair as you shiver against him. Your bare legs dangle from the edge of the table, feet barely skimming the ground. Price’s voice is somewhere nearby, murmuring to someone you can’t see. You think you hear the sound of running water somewhere, but your thoughts feel clouded, hazy and sated with the knowledge that these men are intent on your care as much as your pleasure. For a moment you feel the riptide of fatigue pull at you, lulling you under as sleep beckons with an insistent, raw promise.
Footsteps. A presence, omnipresent and heavy like the force of gravity itself. You don’t open your eyes, don’t need to, already knowing who’s shadow falls across your form.
“Give her here.” Simon asks, demands from the colonel, voice low like the rumble of distant thunder.
You feel Alejandro stiffen, hesitate at the thought of entrusting you to the hulking soldier, remembering the way you went blank-eyed and completely limp under him, under the weight and pressure and force that is Ghost.
“Let him.” Price encourages, voice careful between the two. “I’ll need your help in here, mate.”
That seems to do it, because Alejandro is pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head before he extricates himself from you, steadying you long enough for Simon to catch you by the crook of your knees and width of your shoulders, hauling you up against him. The blanket bunches around your form, legs dangling and head lolling into the breadth of Simon’s chest.
Yet the motion isn’t without punishment, not as you’re shifted and your body protests valiantly at the abruptness of it all. A choked, pleading moan frees itself from your throat as Simon begins to walk away from the common area, strides large and purposeful.
“S-Simon-“ You try, unsure exactly what you’re pleading for but wanting to be closer, huddled deeper into his massive form.
“Easy, love.” He murmurs in response, accent thick and cloying in your thoughts. You settle at that, at the illusive, strangely sympathetic tenor of his voice. You’re too tired to do much else than recline against him with a shivering sigh, limbs aching and caked in grime.
It’s the sound of his boots against tile that rouses you only moments later, the warm steam of the bathroom curling across your skin and licking against clammy, chilled flesh. Ghost hovers just inside the doorway, hands splayed against you as they cup you to his form. You wish you had the forethought to lift your arms, tangle them around his neck, but the thought is gone as another figure hovers at your side.
“I got it from here, LT.”
Simon gruffs a sound of affirmation, and with surprising care dumps you into Gaz’s waiting arms. The blanket wrapped around you gently pulls away, and when you shudder Gaz’s lips are pressed into your temple.
“It’s alright, pretty girl.” He hushes. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”
He’s bare, you realize dimly, exposed flesh pressed against you. The thought is strangely mortifying, considering the man has been balls deep in your ass earlier. Yet you don’t realize why he’s naked until he’s stepping into the tub, lowering you down with him into the warm, soothing water.
It takes a few moments for you both to settle, some of the water sloshing out onto the tile with both your forms inside the tub. Yet Gaz’s chest is pressed against your back, legs on either side of you and arms caging yours as you sink lower into the water with a blissful sigh. You feel it when he rumbles a chuckle, a hand vanishing as he reaches for the supplies Rudy no doubt provided him.
You reach for them as well, but your hand is gently knocked aside by the sergeant you’re pressed against.
“Nuh-uh, love.” He chuckles. “This is all me.”
You find it difficult to protest, instead sinking further into the warm water.
He starts by gently pouring water over you, dunking your sweaty, matted hair and loosening the strands carefully with his fingers. The sergeant works systematically, lifting each limb and scrubbing it free of flaky cum and caked sweat, the soft bubbles of soap grazing across your arms and legs. You relax into him completely limp and utterly euphoric. Everything smells like coconut and aloe, aromatic and perfumed and warm as the water laps at your legs and chest.
Gaz takes careful attention to your face, gently cleansing it free of the tear trails and semen caked against your cheeks and the corners of your mouth. He’s murmuring gentle encouragements to you all the while, voice hushed and soft in your ear, full of “There we go, that'sa girl, sit up for me? Thank you, doll. Almost done, back next, shh, easy.”
When he gets to the apex of your thighs however, you flinch at his touch, just barely too firm against your chaffed, stretched holes.
“Take it easy.” A voice gruffs, and you blink your eyes open, vision adjusting to the dusty brown hues of the bathroom, seeking the cockney laden voice.
He’s there, in the corner, arms crossed and lurking, massive frame hunched into the otherwise too small space. Ghost’s eyes level at the both of you, gaze unblinking, blistering as he observes, watches, intent on observing and seeing through whatever mission he’s been tasked with.
Gaz only nods at him, his voice quiet in your ear as he speaks.
“You want to do this?” He asks, tone low, concerned at your reaction. You manage a nod over your shoulder, delicately taking the washcloth from his grip and letting it sink beneath the murky water.
It takes a moment, but you manage to hiss past the pain and arch up to scrub yourself, cleaning the mess of caked fluids that decorate your inner thighs and ass. You can feel Simon’s gaze on you all the while, the way he’s taking in every wince and jolt that flashes across your face.
“Deep breath.” Gaz encourages softly in your ear, and when you oblige there’s a slosh of water pouring over your head and dampening your locks.
You moan when Gaz works his fingers into your hair, massaging shampoo into your scalp and raking his fingers against the crown of your skull. You melt into the touch, all previous indications of soreness vanishing in the instant it takes him to chuckle warmly at your response.
“That’s nice, yeah?” He asks, and you can hear the touch of smugness in his voice, pleased with the way you grow limp and pliant against him, the way your eyes roll back into your head at the gentle, rolling motion of his fingers into your scalp. You can only hum a sleepy “Mmhmm.” In response, blissed out on the sensation.
He’s surprisingly good at this, you find out, making sure to go so far as to condition from the tips of your hair up, carefully combing your hair through his fingers. You relax fully into him, sink yourself up to your nose in the cooling water and let drowsiness take hold. Yet it’s only when you shift that you feel him, feel the hardening nudge at the small of your back that has you stiffening, sucking in a sharp gasp of air.
“Gaz…” You warn, casting a pleading look across your bare shoulder.
You’re not sure if it’s the warm water, the lingering haze of lust, or the blissful, relaxed sounds that spill past your lips, but you can feel him, can feel the blunt pressure of him against the nudge of your spine. It sends a lingering shower of sparks racing through your veins, but the heat of it is dulled, muted by exhaustion. You can’t, not again, not right now.
Gaz seems to read your mind, sees the way your eyes flicker with wariness. His hands still for a moment as he leans, entering your field of view with warm eyes that dance with a touch of mischief below the caramel surface.
“Don’t you worry about me, doll.” He replies softly, but there’s a sultriness there that isn’t fully extinguished. “This is all about you.”
And when his thumbs dig a dull, heavenly touch into the nape of your neck, you find it hard to complain.
All too soon, you hear the bathtub drain gurgle as Gaz pulls the plug, the water receding like the tide gone out to sea.
“They done?” A voice asks from the doorway, and your gaze blinks up to reveal Soap, present with what looks like two changes of clothes in hand.
“Just about.” Gaz replies, and you feel him shift as he detaches himself from you, scooting so he’s halfway out of the tub and can help you wobble your way to a stand to step out onto the cold tile.
Yet at the first step your legs tremble like an unsteady filly, and it takes both Soap and Gaz to steady you, sit you down on the edge of the tub. When you plop down on the edge, however, a remainder of soreness shoots across your hips and up your spine and you’re unable to bite back the moan that escapes you.
Gaz and Soap shoot each other a look, self-satisfied smirks tugging at the corners of each of their mouths.
“Shut up.” You grumble, feeling warmth threaten to flush across your face once more.
They spare you, thankfully, and as Gaz dries himself off it’s Soap who’s drying your hair, wiping the water from your shoulder and back. You trace the planes of his face as he does, watching the way his brow scrunches with concentration, the way his eyes linger over the swell of your tender, bruised breasts and the curve of your hips. The plumpness of his lip is sucked between his teeth, and you can tell he’s restraining himself, trying not to indulge with his touch on you, letting his fingers wander and press and summon whimpered pleas from your bones. His hands are assertive in the way only soldiers are, resolute with duty and yet still somehow gentle, considerate when he grazes over the soreness of you.
You attempt to help, feeling a trembling strength returning to you now that’s your hydrated and clean. Yet Soap merely grumbles at you, refusing to hand over the towel.
“Just sit back, hen.” He tells you, and his voice is firm despite the tenderness there.
You purse your lips at him, feeling a flash of guilt at letting yourself be so completely pampered like this, not allowed to do so much as properly dry yourself. Yet Soap notices, steely blue gaze flickering to yours when he notices your hesitation.
“Lass.” He begins, that cocksure smile tugging at his lips once more. His eyes are sparkling, and you can’t stifle the helpless flop of warmth that pools inside of you at the sight. “You just let us shag you seven ways to Sunday and were bloody perfect for it. Let us spoil you, aye?”
Yet you’re still unsure, and when the Scotsman sees you’re unconvinced he sighs.
“When else are you going to have five burly men at waitin’ on you hand and foot?” He asks almost impatiently, and that thought is intriguing to say the least, enough to make your hand fall limply back to your side.
Soap grins. The warmth thickens.
“That’s a good lass.” He murmurs, and there’s a touch of smugness in his voice, at the way he’s managed to school you into surrendering, letting yourself succumb to his touch once more. Yet that conciliation is enough to get him chattering now, tongue loose as he purrs little praises and encouragements at you all the while.
“So pretty.” He coos as he turns your face up in his palms, towel brushing hair from your brow, as he wrings water from your hair and carefully wipes at your still tender hips and thighs. “Perfect little bonnie for us.”
You’re pliant, docile under his touch, letting him do as he needs to and letting the familiar touch of hebetude pull at your senses. It would be easy to fall asleep right here, to lean against him and let rest take hold of you, drown you as it's meant to. Clean now, warm and undeniably sated, the promise of sleep creeps near with a touch that feels achingly familiar. The temptation is an enticing one, the promise of deep, velvety unconsciousness dragging at you even as Soap reaches for your change of clothes.
“Arms up.” He encourages, and you can’t help the drowsy little grumble that escapes you in protest.
“ ‘m tired, Johnny.” You slur at him, but the sergeant merely tuts at you.
“I know hen. I know. We’re almost done.”
You grumble even as you oblige, lifting your arms up and letting him slide a T-shirt that seems far too large for you over your bare torso. Pants follow, and you have to fumble with the drawstring of the sweatpants to cinch them around your waist so they don’t pool at your hips. Yet it’s the hoodie that Soap slips your arms through that makes you slouch into comfort, hum a note of appreciation at the back of your throat.
“Smells like you.” You mumble, eyes sleepy and warm at your sergeant, and you see Soap melt.
“Only the finest.” He grins back at you, eyes glinting with that tell-tale elation he has whenever he’s got your full attention.
There’s a call from down the hallway that you don’t catch, one that draws Soap’s attention and causes him to turn his head. You follow his gaze at first, but find yourself distracted by the shadowy figure still present in the corner, head tilted as he observes you, watches you watch him. You can see his eyes, see the way they’re slightly narrowed at your slouched form on the edge of the tub. It isn’t clear exactly what Simon is looking for, but he seems to find it nonetheless, gaze darting up from your pebbled nipples to your open, curious expression.
“Think you can stand?” Soap asks you, drawing your attention back to him. You nod, and with his help wobble to your feet, bare soles still sliding across the wet floor.
Yet again, when your legs shake with weakness it’s all you can do to remain standing, hand gripping Soap’s arm with a trembling, unsteady grip. Your gaze flicks upwards, once again finding the skull mask that haunts the edges of the room and the periphery of your thoughts. You don’t make a sound, barely alter your expression, but within moments Ghost is rolling his shoulders to push off from the wall, closing the distance between you both and wrapping an arm around your waist.
He doesn’t say a word as he scoops you up once more, and even Soap seems a bit surprised at the sudden gesture, eyebrows arched as the mammoth soldier cradles you into his broad chest.
“I-“ You try, but when Ghost’s eyes peer down at you your throat feels dry, tongue heavy, and the words are lost.
Soap trails you both as Ghost escorts you back in the direction of Price and the others. As you round the corner your nose instantly fills with the thick, scented spice of garlic and onions, and soon you find Rudy and Alejandro in the kitchen, turned to each other with smirking, tell-tale smiles as they bend over a pan of something that you think smells like heaven.
“Here.”
You turn at the sound of Price’s voice. He’s seated at the head of the table, and the chair creaks as he scoots away from the table, widening an arm in Simon’s direction. Simon follows the order without protest, gently depositing you into Price’s lap even as you whimper at the tender flesh of your ass coming into contact with him.
You should be embarrassed, you think. You should be a little bashful at this circumstance, perched in the lap of your captain who smells like cigar smoke and gun oil, at the way his arm closes around you and keeps you braced against his chest. Yet Price is warm, solid, his grip on you firm and reassuring, so you struggle to find yourself to care.
Price reaches for something on the table, a tube of what looks like ointment. You blink at it for a moment, brow furrowing even as he deposits a liberal smear on his calloused fingertips. When he catches your wary expression he merely huffs, the mutton chops of his beard twitching upward with his smile.
“Ointment.” He explains. “It’ll help with the tenderness.”
You arch an eyebrow at him, surprised but also a touch curious.
“You say that like you’ve been in this situation before, captain.” You remark carefully, but Price merely huffs at you, warm, smoky breath ghosting across the planes of your face.
“Years of experience, love.” Is all he gives you before his hand is snaking under the hem of your shirt, up to the tender, suckled flesh of your breasts. It’s a shock, you flinch under the cold touch of his slickened fingertips. Yet Price’s opposite hand digs into your thigh, steadying, guiding in the way only he is. You arch into him with a little protest as he smears the ointment across the rise of your chest, whimper caught in your throat.
“Easy.” Price gentles when you squirm, and the tickle of his beard whispers over the nape of your neck when he presses a kiss there. “I got you.”
You only nod, eyes scrunched shut and breath stuttering in your chest, hands gripping his arms and head tucked back against his shoulder. Your heart thrums louder, skin burning, yearning for the grip of him but knowing it’s too much, too soon, that you can only sit there and take it as his war-worn hands smooth the cream against your battered flesh.
Yet it’s when his touch vanishes from you, when you sigh that you hear him huff, chest jolting with the motion as you brace against it. Except then he’s shifting, and you feel a hand pull at the hem of the sweatpants you’re wearing -black, you notice- as his fingers descend past them, along your belly and towards the core of you.
“C-captain-!” You shudder when Price smoothes lotion across your folds, and suddenly the world is too hot, too bright, and you’re shivering under his touch, body growing taut. Yet Price’s touch is purely medicinal, purposeful and clinical even as you gasp and writhe weakly against him.
“You can take it.” He encourages, voice grumbling and firm, ever the leader, anchoring you from the discomfort and the rapid, uncertain flutter of your heartbeat.
You try to stay still, you do, but Price’s and feel like a warming brand against your skin, reigniting a coiling flame there, one that you can’t indulge in despite the wish that you could. It’s all you can do to tuck your head back against him, shiver under his hand cupping the core of you, your hands digging into him as you seek gravity. When you whimper, Price’s touch softens, soothing circles into your hips, your thighs, your ribs.
“There we go, love.” He rasps when you sink against him, caressed into docility as you perch on his lap. “That’s a good girl.”
You whimper, and the sound is enough to summon a grumbling groan, caught like the grind of gravel deep in his chest.
“So fuckin’ beautiful.” And it’s Soap’s voice nearby, lilted low with desire as he watches you writhe and whimper on the lap of his captain, eyes scrunched shut and hands clutching at him to ground yourself from Price’s perseverant hand slid under the waistband of your pants. You look at him, gaze half-lidded and hazy, and when you do his eyes flash darkly at you, a curse bitten off in a language you wish you understood. It summons a weak, distant burst of arousal in you, one that has you squirm back against Price, seeking ground on which to retreat.
Yet all you find there is a grunt, a hand digging into your thigh with a warning as you recognize the bulge that presses up against the swell of your ass.
“Careful now.” Price mutters darkly, and you shiver at the desire there, even with his hand flat against the front of you, his beard tickling the nape of your neck as he at last withdraws his hand. “I don’t think you're quite ready for us again, sweetheart.”
For a brief, dizzying moment, you wish you were.
Footsteps, and when you turn your head Alejandro is approaching from the all too distant realm of the kitchen with a plate that has steam curling into delicious, mouth-watering whisps. When you catch his eyes you see him grin, and it feels for all the world like a promise of things to come, blooming like cumulus clouds against a far-off horizon.
“Arroz rojo.” He announces as he sets the plate in front of you, the red rice blooming with the scent of cumin at the back of your throat. “Rudy said you might appreciate something easy on your stomach.”
You twist in Price’s lap towards the direction of the kitchen, catching Rudy’s dark head of hair as he turns to meet your gaze. Contentedness blossoms across his expression, deeply satisfied and almost glowing with the hazy aftereffects of a man completely and utterly sated.
“Let me know if you like it, mi Corazón.” He replies, and his voice is almost shy, a touch bashful despite the fact that he’s the same man who spilled down your throat earlier.
Price’s fingers tap on your thigh, drawing your attention back to him. You crane your head to look at him, and then shiver at the darkness there, restrained but still ominously present.
“You’re going to have to move, love.” He gruffs at you. “Unless you want me to spoil your appetite.”
You gulp.
“Here.” Alejandro offers, arms open. You don’t have a chance to protest before you’re being moved between them, transferred from one set of arms to the other, adjusted until you balance on Alejandro’s lap.
“I-I can feed myself.” You try, feeling the ripe blister of embarrassment creep up your face as Alejandro reaches for the plate before you.
Yet the colonel ignores you, fork clinking as an arm keeps you braced against him, even as you try to appeal to him with half-lidded, weary eyes.
“Can you?” He asks, and that damned smugness that’s present in all of them is there in him too, as his eyes gleam down at you, a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth.
Still, you nod valiantly, grappling the fork away from his hand even as your own grip shakes lightly, spilling grains back onto the plate. When Alejandro chuckles the sound is warm, like the blaze of sun-kissed skin and spices curling on your tongue. His hand engulfs yours, steadies it as you raise the fork to your lips, letting the warm, cloying spices curl across your tongue.
When you give a little hum of enjoyment Alejandro practically purrs in your ear, and you realize that this must be doing something to him. With your tender and sore figure perched in his lap, the object of his desires smelling like musk and aloe and just a touch of him-
“Me estás volviendo loco con esos ruidos.” Alejandro murmurs, and the sound is more of a groan than anything else, spoken into your damp hair, arms hauling you tighter against him as you savor the food, a happy little noise hummed high in your throat. “The sounds you’re making are almost as pretty as you, bonita.”
“I take it that means you like it?” Rudy asks as he sets down a glass of water in front of you beside the plate, and you grin up at him, pleased.
“Mm.” Is all you manage around a mouthful of rice, and you see Rudy’s eyes melt, glaze over at the sight of you, fed and happy and satisfied. His hand flicks out, and you still as he brushes a stray grain from the corner of your mouth, drawing his thumb back to let his tongue run across the tip of his thumb. You still, tracing the motion with your eyes as a different heat flicker within you.
“Agua.” Alejandro encourages, reaching for the glass and tipping it up towards your waiting lips. You follow the command, the motion is easier now than it was before, when you were fresh out of a warzone that left you blistered and bruised but sated.
The two men before you seem entranced by you, damp and warm and docile in Alejandro’s arms. There’s a sense of pride there, you know, something about keeping you warm and fed and clean and protected that makes something primal pace against the confines of their thoughts. It’s the thought that they’ve rendered you to this much, carved gasping, lecherous words into your flesh and pushed you over into the abyss, time and time again, only to haul you back into their waiting arms.
It's not just them. When you cast a glance about there’s chairs pulled up to the table you were defiled upon, the men around you quiet but observant, gazes looking over your slouched, cuddled form with your drowsy, pleased expression and damp hair sticking to the corners of your face. Price, with his smoldering stare like the glowing burn of tobacco; Soap with his bright, keen gaze that glints at you from the distance between; Gaz with his softer, warmer eyes that still hold the hazy dying dusk of desire.
Ghost, who lingers against the wall just beyond. His eyes haven’t left you this entire time. It feels almost wolfish, the way he doesn’t shift, doesn’t blink when you look at him, arms crossed and gaze still dark, hungry for you in a way he doesn’t bother to conceal. You can still feel him, feel the way he split you open and left a piece of himself there, branding you with the heat of him nestled against your womb and his teeth grazing possessively over the underside of your jaw.
Alejandro’s fingers trace there instead, drawing you back to him, and your lips part around another forkful of arroz as he’s murmuring words into your skin that taste like cloves and paprika, aromatic and piquant.
“Wish we could keep you here, carina.” He mutters as you swallow, as his thumb smoothes over the still-trembling hand in his grasp. “We could keep you happy here.”
You are happy. Blissfully so. Despite the tenderness and fatigue, you’re undeniably comfortable, clean, fed, warm, satiated from the attention of the men around you. These men, who you’ve fought beside, who you’ve entrusted your life and body to, the ones who took their own pleasure from you as much as they gave you yours.
Maybe it’s the simmering coolness of your nerves, the way you’re so exposed and vulnerable like this, or the way Rudy’s hand pets your hair, the way Alejandro is murmuring to you, or the way Gaz looks at you with something that feels suddenly like longing-
You feel tears swell against the corner of your eyes, fat and heavy and too hot for your blistered skin. There’s a tightness that clogs your throat when you tilt your head back, trying to keep them from spilling like a cup over filled.
“Hey, hey, hey-“ Rudy coos, and his finger smears the growing wetness from your gaze, clearing it so you see his face flicker into view, brown-eyed gaze tenderly soft and worried at this sudden change in you. “Mi vida, what’s wrong?”
You swallow, and the capsicum taste of cumin lingers there. It does nothing to quell the tightness there, something skin to a sob threatening to bubble up when you speak. It dissolves as a sigh instead, one that falls across Rudy’s fingers cupping your face as you gently shake your head.
“Nothing.” You say, but your voice cracks in betrayal as you try to find the words needed to explain this strangeness in you, overwhelmed and burning at the edges but undeniably happy in a way you’re unfamiliar with. You feel like you’ve been dragged from hypothermia and into a sauna, body and mind reeling at the adjustment but grateful all the same, trying and failing to express the rawness of the sensations that threaten the crux of you.
“I’m just…happy.” You tell him at last-
And begin to cry.
Now they crowd around you, hush you with gentle words even as mortification and contempt flood your veins. When you try and wipe your tears, hide your face as you sniffle, there's a hand that pulls it away, wipes your face. Hands smooth along your shoulders and sides, rubbing gentle reassurances there that echo into the air around you.
“I’m sorry.” You manage between stifled hiccups. “I-it was good, really good, I-I don’t know why-“
“You’re exhausted, love.” And it’s Price who’s talking now. You think it’s his hand that cups your chin, over your quivering lip as you try to contain yourself. “You’re overwhelmed and tired. ‘s not your fault.”
“ ‘M sorry.” You try again, but he merely tuts at you, and there’s hands in your hair and Alejandro’s voice against your shoulders and someone’s holding your hand and rubbing circles into your hips and-
“Don’t you worry about that now.” The captain tells you, and his voice is softer now, almost ginger in the way he’s regarding you, you who’s taken bullet wounds and shrapnel and yet have become undone by the simple, irreplaceable act of being cared for.
You nod, feeling your shuddering gasps begin to wane, the shiver in your limbs subside as they once again drag you ashore, out from the blazing sun and into the cool shade of their embraces.
“Think you can handle a few more bites, Querida?” Alejandro asks, and you nod, let him lift the fork to your mouth even as salt obscures the taste.
“Next time I’ll have you come to the ranch and make you elote e carne asada.” Alejandro rumbles, and you feel the smile of him against your shoulder.
“ ‘Next time’?” Soap chuffs, and that’s enough to draw the attention away from you and to the sergeant, who crosses his arms in Alejandro’s direction. “What makes you think there will be a next time, mate?”
“Yeah.” Gaz chimes in, and he’s leaning forward so one arm rests against the table. “Besides, your ranch? Next time will be back at Beacon base in the UK.”
“You’re both wrong.” Price grumbles, fingers tapping on the width of his arm. “We’re staying in Lancashire at my place.”
“Now hold on, captain-“ Rudy objects. “Do you know how expensive it is across the Atlantic? Tickets these days are-“
They’re bickering, the previous, united camaraderie of soldiers evaporating as they discuss the group’s future endeavors like mapping out battle plans, pinpointing targets and 0600’s and supplies. You don’t bother to listen, not even as Alejandro’s tumbling voice echoes over your head and his arm wraps around your middle in a gesture that seems more possessive than it does stabilizing, the warmth of his hand burrowing against your ribs with nothing but the cotton of your too-large shirt to separate him from your skin.
Full now, belly warm and senses cloudy with contentment, you lean your head back against Alejandro’s shoulder, body slumping as you feel the familiar drag of fatigue wind around you, pulling you downwards. There’s nothing left. You don’t think you could walk even if you wanted to, limbs heavy and immobile. There’s fuzz between your ears, like cotton balls soft to the touch, obscuring sound and sight as the heavy weight of drowsiness washes over you.
“A few more bites, carino.” Rudy encourages, and you whine at him, too far gone to summon a real protest. The sound is enough to make Alejandro brace his head into your shoulder and groan at the little pleading whimper in your voice, too full and tired to bother with much else.
“Chica bonita.” Rudy purrs at you. “Are you tired? Need to sleep?”
You nod up at him, feeling a small flush of self-awareness at how you must look right now, bedraggled and tired and damp, draped in clothes far too big for you, eyes lidded and heavy with the promise of sleep. Yet Rudy’s eyes are affectionate when they catch yours, and you can taste the melted chocolate that oozes from them, dark and sweet.
“Let’s get you tucked in then.” He murmurs, looking over your shoulder at Alejandro. They exchange in Spanish you don’t understand, and it gives you the opportunity you need to let your head drop, eyes fluttering shut even as you’re lifted, moved. The world tilts around you, yet this time it feels less like the daring free fall of a skydive and more like the gentle, reminiscent swing of a hammock on a sunny afternoon, dappled sunlight streaming through a forest canopy. The world is warm, cloaked in color and birdsong, the air around you like a salted ocean breeze that licks at the folds on your clothes and tangles in your hair.
“Shh, shh, gently now.” Soap murmurs, and you can smell him as he helps you down into the bed he’s helped make, military corners tucked in with precision. You sink into it, knowing it’s nothing more than a cot but thankful to the gods to at last be horizontal, laying on your side as a hand lifts your skull to slide a pillow there. You curl in on yourself even as a blanket falls across your form, shivering.
Yet when Soap tries to leave you catch him, fingers tugging on his pants even as he tries to step away.
“It’s cold.” You manage, voice small despite your bold, unspoken request. Little do you know that when you ask like that, when you blink your pretty lashes up at him, nose hidden under the sheets and fingers hooked on his pants leg, that there’s no way he can refuse.
“Steamin’ fuckin’ Jesus.” He breathes, voice thick with wonder. Yet then he’s moving, tugging off his boots with a curse. The cot shakes as he braces on it, shudders when he manages to slip into the sheets next to you. A thick, brawny hand comes up to cup your skull, dragging you into his chest and pressing you there, and when you breathe in it’s him, cedarwood and ashes of the fire, thick and musky across your senses.
When you think it’s finally, blissfully over, however, there’s a hand petting your hair, and a younger, British voice on your other side.
“Room for three?” Gaz asks, and you manage to free a hand enough to wordlessly reach for him, wanting, needing him at your back. It’s not long before he’s settled in as well, spooning you from behind on the bed that is almost definitely too small for three people, two of them being built, sinewy soldiers.
You don’t care. You’re warm on all sides, warm from pleasure and affection and treatment from all of them. It feels like you’re suspended, floating on something beyond yourself, spirit lifting from your corporeal form and into the darkening sky above yet anchored by the touches of the men beside you. You’re too far gone to notice Rudy come, place a kiss atop your hair; to notice Alejandro drape another blanket over you, of Price and Ghost discussing in low tones by the doorway. The others stay, linger, on chairs or nearby. You think you see Rudy and Alejandro on the cot beside yours when your eyes flutter open.
Your vision shifts, gazing over the slope of Soap’s neck to the lit doorway. Ghost mutters something, a goodbye perhaps, and turns.
It’s to be expected. The man is a lone wolf, he works alone. For him to even be here is a miracle, and to have even participated at all a divine sign from the gods themselves. Now, however, he retreats to where he belongs, to the shadows that engulf the breadth of him, the kingdom where he was born and where he shall remain.
“Simon.”
The name escapes before you can stop it, and Ghost freezes, his head jerking upwards as he hesitates, turning to you, hidden within the embraces of his comrades.
You swallow, trying to conjure the spell to keep him here, within arm’s reach, forever now and always.
“Don’t get lost.” You mutter at last, and you think maybe your vision wavers when his shoulders droop, when his eyes blink at you, reflecting light.
His shadow falls across you on his approach, the width of him bulked by the tac gear he still hasn’t entirely gotten rid of. Ghost- Simon- blots light from the doorway like the shadow he is, absorbing brightness and drowning it in the essence of him. A hand reaches, smoothes the hair from your face.
“Never.” He mutters enigmatically, and even so you feel the edges of him splinter, crack like obsidian.
Your eyes flutter shut under his touch, cloak the world in mystic darkness as you surrender to him, to these men, to at last the inexorable, inescapable comfort of them, of sleep.
