price please domesticate me

HI EVERYONE!!! my name is rommy (sounds like rawme lol) and I use he/him and it/its pronouns pls. Im an aroace trans guy in practice, but in fiction i do love my men <3 :] im chronically obsessed with the 141, and my main content is hybrid posts, smut, and deaddove! I really try my best to answer asks, but it can be difficult, so please have some grace!

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"Yes, really! It looks so hot when I see others do it," you smile, taking your phone back to nudge gaz with your shoulder.

Gaz, who knows damn well you don't really branch out into adventurous positions. His cock twitches with interest at the thought of you whining at the stretch, at feeling him so deep. Kyle kisses you on the corner of the mouth, smiling "yeah, okay. We can do that."

Which is how you end up in kyles bed because he has the better mattress, exchanging sloppy kisses. Only sometimes do you two actually fuck. Most of the time your little make-outs end in grinding, maybe sharing a hand with eachother. Not quite partners, but not nothing either.

"Hey, you with me?" Kyle's beard scratches your cheek, breath hot over the shell of your ear. You nod, adjusting your hips when he slips a third finger in, holding your breath for just a second too long to feel the thrill of the exhale. His cock drips onto your stomach, ignored for now.

"Okay, here, legs up," kyle has no issues manhandling you, grabbing one of your legs and hoisting it up, hand behind your knee. He laughs at your full-body shudder, lining up, grabbing your other knee "try not to wake the neighbors, babe."

"Aweful confident huh, ky– fuck!" Your head tosses back, mind blue-screening as gaz thrusts in all at once. The bastard just chuckles over you, knowing you love when he does that. Slowly rocking into you, adjusting his grip on your legs.

You wouldn't call it a mating press, not yet, but fuck does it feel good.

Gaz pants over you, switching to longer strokes. Pulling out as far as he can before rolling in deep. He shifts his knees foreward, "okay, biiig stretch–"

Oh fuck.

Your body bend in half, legs pressed down while kyle uses you for leverage. Fuck, it feels good. He's hitting deep, every thrust has him rubbing over that perfect spot–

"Ow! Ow, ow, ow! Fuck–" you yelp, hiss, screw your eyes shut. Fist hitting the sheets in pain "fuck! My leg, kyle, ouch, it hurts–"

"Christ, new this would happen," gaz huffs over you, brow pinched. He leans up, grinding deep. His hand drags up to straighten out your cramped leg, and the other kneads into the muscle of your calf.

Deep, methodical. Never once pausing his delicious grind while he fixes the cramp.

The pain subsides, and you're back to whining st him. "Learn that trick from ghost? When he would bend you– ah!"

"I liked you better brainless," gaz bends you properly, that delicious mating press. This time his whole chest weighing you down while he kisses you.

Your orgasm hits you suddenly, unexpected. Has your whole body tensing up, clenching around gaz, riding it out.

He fucks you through it, until you're half-heartedly pushing at his chest in overstimulation. Jerks off on your stomach, then gasps when you make no efforts to keep it off his sheets, rolling onto your side. "You decided not to wear a rubber, what did you expect?"

"I don't know, maybe a thank you for the assist?" Gaz snarks, tucks himself against your back, knowing he'll want a shower in less than ten minutes.

"You're right. I'll thank ghost for teaching you how to bottom in all these positions." You nod sagely.

Ghost, who's been working with mers longer than some of these new employees have been alive. His skin is evidence of that fact, covered in scars, a reminder to everyone exactly what a mer can do. Cuts, scrapes, gashes.

His worst injury the one that put him out of the job for nearly two years, his missing left arm.

He doesn't blame the mer who did it, scared as they were. He spent most of his recovery fighting over the phone to keep the mer alive, while at the same time struggling through PT and nightmares of the bite.

Now he's back, though price frowns at him. Following ghost out of the lockers and eyeing the wetsuit "you sure you can handle this, simon?"

"I asked for the work, sir." Ghost raises a brow at price, adjusting the sleeve on his left bicep. He altered the suit himself, irritated by the loose sleeve tied into a knot. Price nods, leaves him to it.

Price doesn't say anything, but ghost knows he'll be lingering close by while he meets you.

You, the mer rescued from some theme park. Price picked you out for ghost because you're desensitized to humans, unlikely to snap and extremely docile. Ghost checks over your chart, adjusts his grip on the bucket of fish. It's odd not using his dominant hand.

Your tank is a small one, chosen after you freaked out in a pool meant for your species, overwhelmed by the space. This new one is still five times the size of your previous. Ghost pases by the thick wall of glass, and isn't shocked to see you swim up without fear. Wild mers would take days to build that confidence.

"Hello. I'm bringing yer food today, hope tuna sounds nice." Ghost holds up the bucket, mostly to acclimate you to the sound of his voice while he observes you.

Small. That's the first thing that comes to mind.

Clearly malnourished for years, plus the small tank you were kept in. Still, you chirp and trill at him through the water, spinning to show off your black and white coloring. Orca adjacent.

Ghost takes the steps up to the small platform. It leads out to a shallow shelf where you would do your husbandry work. Ghost doesn't step into it. He's not scared. He's not.

"Hello!!" You pop out of the water, and ghost jumps back, eyes wide.

"Fuck! They didn't tell me you could talk!" He swears, sets the bucket down before he drops it.

Mers can talk...sort of. They understand language well, but seem totally disinterested in full sentences if any words at all. Most wild mers never speak. You, however, happily slide onto the shelf and chirp at ghost.

Right. Captive mer. You're used to this.

Kneeling, ghost grabs a chunk of tuna from the bucket. You roll onto your side, less interested in the food and more focused on ghost. Small, docile, curious. Nothing like the wild mers ghost used to work with. His arm aches.

You're stupid, fucking reckless on the best of days.

Always charging into battle, always begging to be first line of the breach. Cocky. Arrogant. You've managed to avoid getting your head blown off, but it makes ghosts hands tighten around his rifle.

Your recklessness could get one of his men killed.

It all comes to a head when you hop off the helo, bumping forearms against your squad mates with a laugh, too damn proud considering how close you came to failure. To getting captured.

Ghost is grabbing your arm and hauling you back before you can react, waiting until it's just the two of you to hiss "care to explain your thought process, sergeant?"

You frown, obviously having expected this after the stunt you pulled, "does it matter what I thought? We got the target, no one died. It's a win."

Ghost slams you back against the wall when you try to slip past. Anger and hurt and fear pushing him to growl "death? You think that's the worst that can happen to a man?"

He knows you've seen the scars on him, everyone has. Ghost leans into your space, until the light above casts shadow over the mask, eyes staring into yours "do you know what I've lived through, sergeant? You think I'm saying this for fun?"

Instead of backing down, of apologizing when you realize your place, you curl your lip at him. "You think you're the only one roba hurt?"

The name makes ghost flinch, makes him step back, startled.

"What? You think I don't recognize those scars?" It's your turn to step foreward, every one you take pushing him back further. "I couldn't forget the shape of them if I wanted, though my body has."

Your regeneration, your healing. You bear no scars. Not from lack of hurt, but from the physiology you cannot change.

You get up in ghosts face, all that brazen confidence from before traded in for the hardened expression of a soldier, "i am fluent in agony, ghost. My confidence comes from experience."

You leave ghost there, heart pounding in his chest. Less concerned with your credentials now and more terrified because you know.

You know exactly what happened to ghost. What happened to you.

Hehehehe >:3

Johnny "I grew up in a big family" mactavish who knows exactly what he's doing when handling his baby. He was often left in charge of his younger siblings, or his baby relatives at family gatherings. So he's not exactly shy when he tosses baby around, always careful to ensure a soft landing with head support. He's absolutely the father throwing his toddler in the air while it squeals with joy.

Vs

Kyle "soap what the FUCK–" garrick who grew up as an only child and never held a baby. He is so extremely cautious it's almost comical. Despite the classes he attended, kyle is convinced he'll accidentally sneeze and hurt baby. He much prefers to entertain his baby with blocks, toys, and "gossiping" together.

Yesssss >0<

Imo simon is always looking for validation, approval, love. Ghost may not need it, his emotions a shield to protect simon, but simon himself if always looking for reassurance.

If yall are willing to toss me the link to whatever you want continued, I'm 70% more likely to do so, namely bc its nigh impossible for me to find what im looking for on my blog😓

As a young boy, he would spend sermons counting along with the seconds on his wrist, only half-listening to god. A reminder that a future was promised to him. That every phase had it's end.

He found comfort in it, at first.

One hand clamped over his timer, swearing he could feel you through it while his parents screaming filtered through the walls. Soap spent hours imagining what you'd look like, how'd you meet. A boys fantasy of charming you off the bat, making you swoon.

His friend from catholic school died later that year. Her timer still had three months on it.

Since then, soaps lived in a different sort of waiting.

Waiting for things to end. A morbid obsession, mind circling around every good thing he has and wondering when it will no longer be his. Every friendship he made in basic was led with the expectation they would not last. Dead, sure, but slowly growing apart more likely.

How can he joke and laugh with his mates when he knows it wont always be this way? Staring at grief in the eyes, preemptive like bracing for the impact of a train has ever saved anyone.

Then soap meets you. He hardly registers his timer hitting zero, heart pounding out of his chest.

He knows it's you without needing to check your own wrist.

It's...different, after that.

Soap can't help but worry every night, knowing you'll be taken from him too. Or worse, he'll leave you without his say so. He wants nothing more than to cherish every moment, to hold you so close your atoms lattice together and you become some new, inseparable being. You hold him just the same. You know what it's like, preparing for the grief.

Not a month later captain price, soaps captain, is calling you to his office.

Traumatic brain injury. Multiple issues. Memory, motor functions, behavior.

The first time you see johnny after that, he asks you who you are. He asks you every time after that, too. Soap is stuck in the present, in the few hours he can hold onto each moment.

At first it was hardly noticeable, captain price is a bit of a tactile man from what you've observed. Nothing different from the way he'd pat gaz on the chest, or grab soap by the shoulder.

Subtle. The way he'd grab the shoulder strap of your vest instead of your shoulder. Almost like he's reaching for a collar, muttering in that low warning that commands obedience without ever demanding it, "sergeant."

Less subtle when you found your run ragged after back-to-back missions. All of them small, one after the other with nothing to really sinn your teeth in. The whole team was feeling short, and you just so happens to express that by growling, ears pinned.

The first time you growled at price, he grabbed you by the back if the neck, scruffed you like a damn pup. Had no qualms forcing you still and glaring at you until you stood down, head tilted in submission to earn his quiet "good choice, sergeant. Don't make me buy a muzzle."

That shouldn't make you feel as warm and safe as it does.

Somewhere along the lines, the wires must have crossed, because you hardly react to the blatant way price handles you different from the others. Grabbing your jaw, redirecting your attention. Leading you by the collar of your shirt like a leash. Your tail wagging the whole time.

He doesn't care what other people think, missionary is his favorite position. Cowgirl a close second. Something about the way he can see your expression switch with every move inside you.

"I missed you, lovie," ghost hums, low and absolutely transfixed on you. Hips less thrusting and more grinding into you, reluctant to fully pull out. The scars across ghosts face make kissing a bit awkward, but to you every bump and ridge feels like home.

"...fuckin' hell. Beautiful." Ghost huffs above you, thrusting particularly hard, But–

But Ghost...isn't looking at you.

His gaz is locked just to the left of your head, not that he stops moving, but you know that exact face perfectly well and feel your stomach sink.

No. Absolutely not.

"Never seen one this big," ghost whispers under his breath, reaching up while you curl to the side. His hand comes back cupping something in his palm you can't see from the low angle, but he adds "beautiful shimmer."

Helpfully, ghost carefully pinches it between two fingers to hold up the biggest fucking silver fish you've ever seen.

You have never been up and across the room faster.

Plastered to the wall and panicked while ghost, cock still glistening in the low light from you, inspects the bug with upmost reverence.

I'll do you one better, here's tiny gaz baby AND giant ghost baby!!! They are best friends and just a lil stupy....

Oh nonny have I?! >:3 you should check out the "cw scent kink" tag hehehehe

You, his favorite civilian who's never known a day of service, wearing his gear. Something about see his tac vest, his holsters and harnesses. He knows the weight of them well, can see how your movements are altered by them. Sometimes, he gets you into his fatigues if he's really feeling it.

You've always been a bit insecure about your weight. It's impossible not to be when people are all too happy to talk about you like you can't hear them. Even with your husband, who makes his love of your body thoroughly known, you get nervous meeting new people, thinking "what if they don't like me, john? Or don't want to even try?"

Especially his team, people you want to impress.

It doesn't help at all that they're dead silent when they meet you. Eyes wide, clearly taking in your appearance. The rolls of fat on your body, the roundness of your face, the belly you'll never really be able to hide. You force a smile, tuck against johns side for comfort, "it's nice to finally put faces to trouble makers john always talks about."

Dinner is good. It's always good when john cooks with you, he's got a way of making food taste incredible.

But...you can't help but notice the staring. The lingering glances, the shared looks between themselves. As if gossiping about you in some secret way only they know.

It hurts. Nothing you've not heard before, but...you really wanted them to like you. When dinners done, you mumble "I'm feeling a bit tired, john. Maybe I'll go to bed early, let you and your boys catch up, okay?"

John, because he is your husband and nothing slips past him, frowns. He makes some sort of expression at his men that has the silently clearing the table and cleaning up, but you're already halfway up the stairs.

"C'mon, love, stay for a while. It's you they're here for." John catches you at the top step, hooking his chin over your shoulder to whisper in that voice you love.

"John...you saw how they looked at me." You sigh.

"Hm. Alright, c'mon," and john is dragging you back down the stairs, but he doesn't bring you out to the kitchen. Instead, he stops short, hovering halfway and holds a finger up to his mouth all smug "listen."

You do, listen that is.

Voices drift up from the kitchen, the boys talking amongst themselves. Obviously trying to be quiet, but they don't know how well this house carries sound.

"Chist, did you see her?" Johnny, you recognize.

"please, we all did." Kyle, this time, "hard not to see, isn't it?"

You frown, tears welling, but you know john wouldn't hurt you like that. You stay.

"Fuckin' difficult not to sport a hard on in front of her." Ghost, "cap better keep a close eye."

"Pfft, so much for respecting his missus, sir." A snort from both of the sergeants, "Seriously, though, think I could sneak a quick wank in the toilets or is that too obvious?"

Oh.

Oh. Wow.

"John." You whisper, face burning. "Did you know they would. That they're- uhm–"

Of course, john is currently looking smug as hell where he stands. The fact he's practically grinding against his hand just proves the point. Loves showing off, loves you more, a perfect storm.

You don't argue when john pulls you upstairs. The boys deserve a reward for such good behavior.

Vs.

You, the uber driver with the shittiest luck known to man. You swear, the passenger you get is this strange asshole who's left more blood stains in your car than you can clean. The first time you met him, it was the fifty he slipped into your hand that kept you from ditching. He wasn't a talker initially, but after so many rides and a few bad jokes on your end, you learn he's quite funny.

Now, whenever you spot ghost, you open with "are you buying me food?" In lieu of how much blood is about to stain my car? Funnily enough, you've both gotten drive-through fries more often than not. You never ask about his life, he never asks about yours.