white feather hawk tail deer hunter,,,

naya is the first casualty.

you're helping her restock the first aid cabine; you're not sure why, it just seemed like the right thing to do. and you're telling her about the weekend because she asked, which you will remind her of later.

"he had me out there for hours," you say, handing her a roll of bandage. "like genuinely, naya, hours. my legs were shaking."

naya's hand pauses.

"he just kept going," you continue. "i kept thinking okay, surely, surely we're done. and then he'd look at me and just—" you shake your head. "back at it."

"back at it," naya says.

"at some point i said shane i need a break and he handed me a granola bar and waited like four minutes and then looked at me like well?" you laugh. "four minutes. that's not a break, that's a taunt."

naya is holding the bandage roll very tightly.

"and the thing is i never actually want to stop," you say. "like while it's happening i'm fully present, i'm so into it. it's only the next morning that i think maybe i should have some limits."

"some limits," naya says.

"he thinks that's hilarious by the way. my limits. he finds them very funny."

naya puts the bandage roll down on the shelf and stares at it.

"the trail," she says. "you're talking about the trail."

you frown. "obviously? you're so weird," you tell her, and hand her the gauze.

you tell shane that evening and he laughs so hard he has to put his coffee down.

not a short laugh either. a real one, the kind that takes over his whole face, which you don't see often enough that you've stopped finding it startling.

"it's not funny," you say.

"sweetheart," he says.

"she genuinely thought—"

"i know what she thought."

"about us—"

"yeah."

"while i was talking about the trail—"

"the trail," shane says, still grinning, and picks his coffee back up.

you point at him. "you think this is funny."

"i think it's very funny."

"it's not."

"it really is." he looks at you over the rim of his mug, warm and entertained in a way that he mostly saves for you, when no one else is watching. "you gonna do it again?"

"obviously not."

you do it again the next day, to kyle, completely by accident.

in your defense, kyle asks.

he says how was your weekend in the tone of a man who does not actually want an answer but has been raised to ask, and you say good, really good, exhausting and then unfortunately you keep talking.

"shane's relentless," you say. "like i have never met anyone with that kind of endurance. it should be illegal, honestly, the things he can do with—"

"i'm good," kyle says.

"—his sense of direction. i had no idea where we were half the time. i was completely turned around."

kyle is staring at a fixed point on the horizon.

"and he just knew. every time. exactly where to go, exactly what to do." you nod. "it's the ranger thing, i think. or the army thing. either way."

"the army thing," kyle says.

"he's so precise," you say earnestly. "like nothing is by accident with him. every decision is completely intentional."

kyle closes his eyes for a very brief moment.

"he told me that's how he's always been," you continue. "that he doesn't like to do anything halfway." you pause. "actually his exact words were i don't quit until the job's done."

kyle makes a sound that is not a word.

"which honestly explains a lot," you say.

"does it."

"about why i'm always so tired."

kyle turns and walks away at a normal pace that somehow reads as fleeing.

you watch him go.

so weird, you think.

you tell shane about kyle over dinner and shane has to get up from the table.

he stands at the kitchen counter for a moment with his shoulders shaking and you say shane and he holds up one finger, asking for a moment, which you give him because you're generous.

"he just walked away," you say.

"yeah," shane manages.

"mid-conversation."

"i'm aware."

"i was being nice."

"you were sweetheart," he agrees, turning back around, and he's got the grin fully under control now but his eyes are doing the thing they do, bright and a little helpless, that you have decided is your favourite thing on his face. "you were being very nice."

"what is wrong with everyone here."

"nothing," he says. "they're perfectly normal."

"they're all so strange."

"sweetheart," he says, coming back to sit down, and the way he says it has something in it that makes you narrow your eyes.

"what."

"nothing."

"shane."

"eat your dinner."

it's carol at the general store who finally breaks you.

you go in for coffee and she asks how things are going and you say great, really great, shane took me out all weekend and she gets a look on her face that has become, you're realizing, a specific look. one you've seen before. on naya. on kyle. on the two rangers who were with kyle last thursday when you mentioned that shane always makes sure you finish before he—

before he packs up, you'd said, and they'd both suddenly needed to check on something.

you stand in carol's general store and you look at her face and something, slowly, begins to dawn.

"carol," you say.

"yes honey."

"do people think that i'm — that when i talk about shane, that i mean—"

carol says nothing. she is a wise woman.

you think about naya and the bandage roll. you think about kyle walking away. you think about what you said to the two rangers about packing up.

"oh my god," you say.

"there she is," carol says.

you drive back to the cabin with your jaw tight and your face hot and when you walk in shane is at the table cleaning a rifle with the particular focused quiet that usually you find very attractive and right now you find extremely irritating.

"did you know!" your voice is a high, flustered screech. you think you hear a bird fly away at the noise.

he looks up.

"everyone thinks—" you gesture broadly "—when i talk about the trails—"

the corner of his mouth moves.

"shane."

"sweetheart—"

"did you know this whole time."

he sets the rifle down. he gives this the consideration it deserves, which takes about two seconds. "yeah," he says. "pretty much from the start."

"and you didn't tell me."

"you were having such a good time."

you stare at him. "i was mortifying myself."

"you were adorable."

"i told kyle you don't quit until the job's done."

shane bites the inside of his cheek very hard. "i know. he texted me."

"he texted you?!"

"to say thank you, i think. or to warn me. hard to tell with kyle." he stands up, still doing the cheek thing, still fighting it, and crosses to where you're standing with your arms crossed and your face doing something complicated. he puts his hands on your waist. "hey."

"don't hey me."

"you're so cute when you're embarrassed."

"i'm not embarrassed, i'm furious, there's a difference."

"there really isn't," he says, and ducks down to press his mouth against your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw, slow and easy and deeply unfair, and you feel the laugh he's been holding in finally escape against your skin, quiet and warm, and he says into your hair: "for what it's worth, they're not wrong."

you go very still.

"about me," he adds, unhelpfully, "not quitting until the job's done."

"shane maguire."

"yeah?"

your face is extremely hot.

"you're the worst."

"mm." he presses a kiss to your cheek. still smiling, you can feel it. "how are your knees, by the way. from the trail."

"i hate you."

Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.

You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.

You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.

You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.

Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.

Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.

"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."

Bioweapon.

Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.

"Nothing concrete yet?" Price snaps incredulously. "Goddammit, Kate!"

"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.

"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."

Apparently?!

You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.

"That is correct, sir. She won't die."

Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.

"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."

A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.

"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.

"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.

When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.

It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.

And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.

What the hell is happening?

Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.

Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.

"What kind of bloody toxin?"

"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."

The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.

"The reports say it turns men—"

Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Turns them what, doc?"

It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."

The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.

"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."

Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.

Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.

"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.

"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"

Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.

Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.

"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"

A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.

"I feel weird."

You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.

Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.

Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.

"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.

Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.

The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.

You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.

And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.

Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.

"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.

In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.

Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.

"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.

Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.

"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.

"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."

Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.

It's his.

"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.

"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.

Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.

"Cap'n! What do we do?!"

You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.

Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.

Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.

All that matters is someone touching you.

Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.

"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."

"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.

"I'll call the senior consultant."

Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.

Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.

Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.

"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.

Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.

"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"

Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."

Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.

"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"

Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.

Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.

"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.

"She can't consent!"

It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.

"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"

John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.

"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."

His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.

"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.

He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.

"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."

Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."

"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.

"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.

"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."

The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.

Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.

"But sir—"

Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.

"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."

Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.

The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.

Not asked, ordered to.

He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.

He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.

This doesn't feel like any of those things.

He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.

"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.

"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.

Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.

This is not how he'd imagined it.

He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.

He hadn't planned any of that.

Fucking liar.

You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.

"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"

"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."

He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.

You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.

He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.

Upper receiver. Charging handle. Bolt carrier group.

You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.

Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.

"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.

Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.

You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.

Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—

"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.

"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.

Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.

He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.

His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.

You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—

No. He's not going there.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."

He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.

His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.

You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.

"M-more, Kyle, please!"

Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.

Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.

He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.

"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."

He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.

Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.

"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."

You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.

Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.

He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.

When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.

"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"

He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.

"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."

"Please—"

"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."

He drops to his knees instead.

The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.

He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.

The sound you make is devastating.

Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.

Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.

He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.

But he doesn't stop.

Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.

"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."

Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.

But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.

He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.

"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."

You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—

And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.

"Soap!"

The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.

Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.

"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"

Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."

"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.

"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.

"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.

Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.

"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."

Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.

Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.

He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.

Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.

There is no need to.

Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.

He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.

By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.

It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.

"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."

And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.

That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.

Christ, you're beautiful.

He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.

He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.

He's thought about it a lot.

But not like this.

"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.

Close enough.

"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."

He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.

He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.

"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."

He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.

Let them hear.

His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.

"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."

He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.

He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.

His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.

But he doesn't stop.

He is physically incapable.

You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.

"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"

He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.

The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.

"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"

"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"

He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.

Inside his combat pants.

His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.

He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.

"MacTavish."

Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.

Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."

"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.

"Get yourself sorted. Now."

Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.

Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.

"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.

"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.

You don't notice the shift at first.

One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.

You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.

A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.

"Don't."

One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.

Ghost.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.

Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.

You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.

He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.

Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.

"Simon…"

His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.

"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.

"Don't want—"

"Wasn't bloody askin’."

He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.

Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.

Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.

Trust.

You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.

Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.

"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.

You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.

"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.

You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.

You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.

"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."

"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.

He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.

You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.

Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.

Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.

But.

His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.

Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.

You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.

"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.

"Yeah."

"It hurts."

He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.

He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.

Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.

Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.

Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.

It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.

So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.

You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.

He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.

Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.

Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.

In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.

"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."

Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.

"It's not enough, is it."

It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.

"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."

The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.

"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.

"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.

"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."

He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.

"And we tell Ghost."

Ghost doesn't agree.

He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.

And then: "No."

Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"

"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."

Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.

Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.

"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."

No one dares to argue.

Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.

The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.

You look small.

That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.

You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.

But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.

He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.

"Sergeant."

You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.

"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"

"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."

He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.

You'll keep hurting. Under his command.

He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.

"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."

His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.

This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.

He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.

This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.

He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.

"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."

He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.

Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.

You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.

It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.

Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.

He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.

Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.

He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.

"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.

"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."

You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.

He lowers you onto him slowly.

The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.

You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.

"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.

You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.

Almost.

He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.

And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.

He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.

Hates that he doesn't want to stop.

Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"

His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.

You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.

For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.

Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.

He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity

He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."

You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.

Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

"Garrick. You're up."

Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.

Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.

The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.

Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.

He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.

"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."

He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.

He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.

"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"

The condoms run out after Soap's first round.

Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.

"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."

Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.

"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."

It should be simple, and it’s anything but.

Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.

"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"

He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.

Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.

"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."

"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."

And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.

Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.

The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.

The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.

You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.

Ghost enters the room without being asked.

He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.

He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.

He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.

You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.

Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.

"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.

You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.

"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."

Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.

In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.

Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.

How is she?

He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.

Handled. Debrief in the morning.

He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.

Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.

The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.

The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.

The third thing is the balaclava.

You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.

Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.

You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.

The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.

And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.

Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.

The shower. The water. Voices.

John.

Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.

You lie very still.

The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.

You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.

Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.

Neither of you says a word.

His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.

Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.

"How do you feel?"

You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.

"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."

His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.

Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.

You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.

The charming independently owned bookshop a few blocks from your apartment is one of the best parts of your week. Every Friday for the past three years since you started renting your little one bedroom, you’d browse the stacks and shelves for your new book of the week. It wasn’t a large space, and you liked how they carried both new and used books. Twice yearly you’d clear out your bookshelves and the owner, a very tiny and very old Italian man, would trade you for whatever you brought. A quiet trip to the bookstore would cure any anxiety that your workweek had brought you.

A copy of Odyssey caught your eye with its worn, creased, cover and annotations scrawled in the margins. There was always something a little romantic about buying a used book. Dog-eared pages and frayed edges were like little signs of life, someone was there before you and someone else will be there for this book after you.

Ben trailed silently behind you but was comfortable in the quiet. When he greeted you outside the bookstore, just like every Friday night, he placed a soft kiss on your cheek and gave you a tight hug where you felt him breathe in the smell of your hair. “I missed you so much.” He murmured, kissing your temple twice before letting you go. Teakwood and mint lingered in the air even after he pulled away and the two of you held hands the entire time you walked through the shop.

After checking out the new releases the two of you made your way to the little check out counter near the door where the shop owner made idle chit-chat with you. The two of you discussed weekend plans, his granddaughter was getting married so the store would be closed on Saturday.

“We are having a picnic tomorrow afternoon.” You said softly, gesturing to Ben who was digging out his wallet even though you were racing to pull out your own card first. The old man smiled, remarked on how cute the two of you were, and as you held out your debit card for him to take Ben pulled his out at the same time.

“You don’t need to buy it this time.” You said with a smile, Ben had bought you a book four weeks in a row and you were beginning to feel guilty. Sure, it was nice that Ben would want to buy you things like dinner or a movie rental, but you never wanted him to feel obligated.

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” The shop owner selected Ben’s card and shot him a wink when he ran it through the machine, “I’ve got it.”

The two of you walked out of the bookstore with a used copy of the Odyssey wrapped in brown paper tied with twine tucked under Ben’s arm and plans to pick up pad thai for dinner. Later, after you showered and watched Ben flick through your dvd’s you kissed his neck until he flushed all the way to the tips of his ears.

+++

A cold is manageable, the flu is inconvenient and draining, but nothing is worse than a stomach bug.

You’re unsure how you caught it, maybe someone at work or even the grocery store, but one Wednesday evening you went to bed feeling fine and next thing you know it’s 2:30 in the morning and you’re kneeling over your toilet seat. Throwing up is the worst, you feel like you’re choking and the smell is always unbearable and clings to your skin. What makes matters worse is that you made homemade pesto for dinner and your vomit is a terrifying bright green. While resting your head on the edge of the toilet seat you remember how much you like pesto, now it’ll probably be a few months until you have it again.

It’s 5:30 in the morning by the time you’ve emptied the contents of your stomach and stopped dry heaving but you’re too tired to do anything besides sit slumped against the wall of your bathroom. It doesn’t help that your knees ache from being crouched on tile all night and you’re severely dehydrated as well as too anxious to stand in fear that you’ll throw up again. You regret not bringing your phone into the bathroom with you, Dex will be over soon to say good morning before he goes on his run and you want to warn him that you’re sick so he doesn’t catch whatever you have.

Just as you’re about to drift off to sleep in the confines of your bathroom your body is being harshly shaken by firm, callused hands. Your vision is still so bleary, and after rubbing the sleep out of them you see a very distraught looking Ben kneeling in front of you. The sudden movement makes your head get dizzy again and without thinking you shove your boyfriend aside so you can lean over the toilet again. It’s only air that you heave out, dry heaving always makes your chest feel weak and your head pound, and as you choke out spit you realize how much you hate the fact that Ben is seeing you like this.

It’s long enough into your relationship that the idea of him seeing you messy and gross shouldn’t be that big of a deal but unfortunately it is. Ben doesn’t like messy, even when he’s crying he looks put together, so having him look at you in a vomit stained tank top while you sit in a crumpled, sweaty, heap makes your skin crawl. How would he be able to see you as someone pretty if this was your current state?

Long fingers card through your hair so it stays out of the toilet bowl and another hand rubs soothing circles into your back. Ben’s hands are always so warm, and his touch makes you shiver uncontrollably as you finally stop heaving.

“What happened? How long have you been like this?” He asks in a rushed voice as you settle against the rim of the toilet again. You watch as his throat bobs, his hazel eyes darting all over your face and body taking in your current state.

“A few hours.” You say weakly, Ben’s face crumples and you wish you could reach out and touch his cheek but your arms feel like lead. “I meant to text you but I left my phone on my nightstand. You shouldn’t be here, you could get sick too.”

Ben scoffs and shakes his head. “If I wasn’t here you’d be curled up on the floor.” He moves to stand and darts into the bedroom so he can grab your phone quickly, unlocking it because you gave him the password to it months ago. “I’m emailing your work, you can’t go in like this.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” You mumble, trying to get your head to stop swimming by keeping your eyes closed. Your shirt is clinging to your skin uncomfortably and you have a really bad wedgie that you hope Ben has not noticed yet. “I don’t want you to see me like this. You could get sick.” The smell of Ben’s deodorant cuts through the smell of bile and normally the scent would soothe you but instead the intensity of it only makes you feel more ill.

“I won’t get sick.” Ben snaps back, you feel his hand smooth back the hair plastered to your sweaty face and you want to cringe at the state of yourself. “Lets get you cleaned up baby.”

Strong hands haul you up off the ground and despite your current state of half-conscious despair you can’t help but feel a little flutter of arousal at the way Ben so easily manhandles you. You’re practically boneless in his hold, too tired and weak to make any effort to help him but he doesn’t seem to mind. He strips you out of your sweaty clothes and eases you onto the floor of your shower where you sit under the lukewarm stream of water.

The water soothes the throbbing headache that started forming two hours ago and it feels nice to finally clean your face. After a few minutes you feel Ben’s warm hands on your back, helping you stand and leaning you against the wall as he washes your body and hair for you. Afterwards he dries you off with a fresh towel then helps you brush your teeth and leads you to your bedroom where he puts a glass of water in your hand and lets you drink as he picks out clean pj’s for you.

Penny curls into your side after you’re tucked under the covers in your bed and three water bottles are placed on your nightstand along with a banana and a sleeve of crackers that Ben insists you try eating. He explains that he can’t take the whole day off work even though he wants to and assure him that you didn’t expect him to.

“I know sweetheart,” each word sounds measured but a little shaky, “but I want to take care of you. I can probably take half a day. I’ll try to come home around lunchtime. He leaves you with a kiss on your forehead and Planet Earth queued up on the television in your bedroom. Five minutes after his departure you fall asleep.

It’s 1:30 in the afternoon when you wake up with a dry mouth and a raging headache. Penny is still lying next to you and watches as you gulp down an entire bottle of water that leaves you panting afterwards. Sunlight streams through the curtains on your window and the soft sounds of the courtyard fill your bedroom. The nausea is gone, vomited out with whatever poison that was in your stomach the night before, and you know your hair dried crazy and is still a little damp but you don’t care because the worst has already passed.

As your headache subsides you pass the time by stroking the soft, short hair on the top of Penny’s head and sipping on another bottle of water to try and make up for all of the liquid that had left your body. At 1:45 you hear the click of your front door being unlocked and the familiar sounds of Ben’s footsteps. Penny immediately jumps off the bed and you hear the soft sounds of Ben’s voice as he greets her and then he’s standing in the doorway to your bedroom, suit jacket in hand and messy hair. He must’ve run home from the subway station.

He makes rice and lays with you in bed while rubbing out the tension in your shoulders while you take tentative bites of food, still not fully trusting your stomach. You keep it down, and Ben rewards you with ginger ale that he picked up on the way home. That evening he cooks you eggs and toast and reads pages of Down a Dark Hall until you fall asleep again.

+++

Occasionally, Ben will have to fill in on the SWAT team for special cases at work. It’s not often, but it happens enough times that it leaves you feeling frustrated and anxious to the point where you get nightmares and Ben has to soothe you with warm touches and soft kisses before he leaves for work. It’s not that you don’t trust Ben to take care of himself, he never misses it’s like his whole thing; but you don’t have much faith in the rest of the city. To your credit you live in the same world where Norse gods of myth were real and a city in Europe fell from the sky, anything could happen.

Still, Ben has very little choice in the matter. He asked to take a step back from fieldwork as much as possible for your sake but the bureau found him too useful to let him go completely and you know he would rather be behind the scope of a rifle rather than behind a computer monitor.

Ben wasn’t able to share much of the details but when he comes home with a black eye and a cut across his left brow you’re sent into a panic that can only be soothed by making him sit on your toilet seat and letting you assess the damage. Even though you know that he was already checked out by an actual medic, you still cradle his face in your hands as you scowl at the swelling surrounding his eye socket and trace the cut with the edge of your fingernail.

“Hostage situation, one of the guys elbowed me in the face while he was trying to get away.” Ben said with an expression that was difficult to read as you tilted his face in the light. There’s a hint of a smile on his face and his eyes are hooded but you think it’s just from the swelling. The bruise is yellow for the time being but you know in a day it’ll be an ugly shade of purple that will contrast with the tone of his skin.

“Did he get away?” You ask, pressing a soft kiss on the butterfly bandage that is already placed on his brow. You wonder if it will leave a scar. Ben’s lips curl into a smile.

“Absolutely not.”

It’s hard to decipher if ‘Absolutely not.’ means the criminal is dead or just severely injured. You figure it’s the former, you know Ben wouldn’t let someone off easy especially after they scraped up his face. The thought should make you shiver but it doesn’t, instead you can only muster up feelings of sympathy at the sight of your poor boyfriend being bruised.

“Did they check you for a concussion?” Ben moves his face so he can kiss the palm of his hand just before the two of you leave the bathroom so you can get him an ice pack out of your freezer.

“No concussion, just a battered face and a pleased boss.” He slaps the ice pack over his eye and you can’t help but run your fingers though the short hairs at the base of his skull. Ben runs his thumb over your bottom lip that is jutted out in a subtle pout. “I’ll be alright sweetheart, always am. Not the first time I’ve been roughed up and probably won’t be the last.”

“I know, I just,” you run the backs of your fingers up and down the length of his forearm and feel your cheeks begin to flush, “I just want to take care of you. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

Something about that sentiment makes Ben flinch before melting into a sharky smile and tugging your wrist so you’re pressed into his side, just the way he likes it. With one hand still on the ice pack he uses the other to tilt your chin upwards so he can place a firm kiss on your lips. The ice pack crinkles in his grip and you feel the cold press onto your cheek.

“You take care of me just by existing.” He whispers into your hairline. It makes you smile and you wrap your arms around his lean torso and bury your face in his pec.

+++

You know that Ben enjoys eating pussy.

He did it almost every time the two of you had sex. More often than not he was found in between your thighs when the two of you were intimate, sometimes he did it twice in a session. You were no stranger to the feeling of his tongue lapping at your sensitive clit while his fingers curled in that extra special spot inside of your cunt. He didn’t do it out of obligation, he did it out of want, but he had never let you return the favor.

It’s not like you minded never having to give him head, he never asked for it despite you bringing it up a few times and you weren’t going to complain about not having to put out. But every time your boyfriend bought you a bouquet at the farmers market, or dusted your apartment while you took a nap, or made your cum three times in a row just from his mouth, you wanted to return the favor.

So instead of letting him slip down your thighs you closed your legs making Ben let out a confused whine and you motioned for him to sit up at the head of the bed. Wordlessly, you straddled him, licking the roof of his mouth as you circled your hips over his cloth covered crotch, and felt his cock grow hard from the friction. Just as he began to moan in your mouth you slid off his lap and laid on the bed, resting your cheek against the firm muscle of his thigh.

“What are you doing?” Ben stammers, audibly gulping and running a veiny hand down his face as beads of sweat form at his hairline.

“Shhh,” you whisper, fingers slipping under the waistband of his briefs so you can tug them down his thighs, “I’ve got it.”

You start by pressing chaste kisses up the length of his cock which makes Ben let out a borderline pathetic whimper and has him gripping your linen sheets. Small, delicate licks on his tip make him groan, and finally when you swallow half his length he places a firm hand through the strands of your hair and guides you up and down his dick.

“Fuck, fuck!” Ben groans, biting his knuckles in an effort not to shout when you cup his balls with one of your hands and use the other to stroke the rest of his length that won’t fit into your mouth. He never presses on your head, never pushes you to take more than you are comfortable but the touch is comforting and helps keep you grounded and ignore the ache starting to form in your jaw.

“This is - fuck!” He whimpers, sniffling loud enough that you glance up at his face and you see how his cheeks are wet with tears that are falling in a steady stream down his face. “Fuck, shit, I’m gonna cum, I-I’m gonna come soon.”

Maybe someone else would be annoyed with the fact that he’s already on the brink so soon into the blowjob but you feel a little prideful at the fact that Ben is so turned on you have him cumming in a matter of minutes. After a few more strokes you feel his hand tighten in your hair making you moan and the vibration from your throat has him shooting into your mouth.

You swallow part of it and the rest your stroke out of him while placing heated kisses on his lips that he reciprocates while sobbing. He hisses when the stimulation is too much and he whimpers while he watches you lick the rest of his spend off your fingers.

“You’re so perfect.” He mumbles, speech slightly slurred from being so blissed out. Ben tucks your hair behind your ears and moves to get up and get a washcloth but you beat him to it.

“I told you,” You say with a shy smile, wiping spit off of your hand before cleaning off your boyfriend’s thighs, “I’ve got it.”

+++

+++

I’ve been in the process of moving recently so sorry I am not updating as frequently as a few weeks ago but I also don’t want to burn myself out. I hope everyone is enjoying their summer and if you have any requests do not hesitate to send them in! Thank you as always for taking the time to read.

“No hospitals,” he said.

And because you were a good person, you swallowed hard and said, “Okay.”

You knew first aid, you volunteered in enough community centers not to. 

“Do you have a name?” you asked.

His teeth chattered a little. “Dex.”

You swear you’re a good person when you let him inside your apartment.

You swear you’re a good person when you clean the blood from his body and nurture him back to health.

You swear you’re a good person when you let him sleep on your couch, even after you realize the suit is familiar.

Even after you realize he’s familiar.

Even after you realise he’s Bullseye. Even if he’s the kind of man good girls are supposed to run from.

But you look at him, Dex sits on your couch under  your blanket, bruised and battered, and says, “I’m one of the good guys now” with absolute conviction and a lopsided grin, as if he was imitating you. 

You swear you’re a good person when you believe him.

Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe you decide wanting to believe in him counts as mercy.

You swear you’re a good person when he’s eventually well enough to leave.

You swear you’re a good person when you spend two weeks pretending you’re glad he’s gone.

In truth, your apartment feels empty. You keep looking at the place where he bled on your tiles longingly.

Then, like a lost cat, he comes back through the window.

His hair was streaked with blood, he has blood on his knuckles. His eyes are tired and fixed on you.

“Task Force is crawling my streets,” he says. “Can I stay here?”

You swear you’re a good person when you say yes.

You swear you’re a good person when he kisses you that night.

It happens in the kitchen, under the flickering yellow light, with rain tapping against the glass. 

His mouth hits yours hard. You gasp, and he swallows it. His hand cups the back of your neck, thumb pressing under the soft flesh of your jaw, holding you still while he kisses you deeper. His body pins yours to the counter, and you know you should be scared.

You swear you’re a good person when you kiss him back.

You swear you’re a good person when you pull him closer by his belt loops.

You swear you’re a good person when he tells you he’s been watching you since he left.

He said he was sure you got home safe. He was making sure nobody followed you. He was sure the man from 4B stopped looking at you like a creep. He was sure you were safe, because he was a good man, right?

You should tell him to leave. Instead, you cup his cheeks and press his forehead to yours.

“Don’t lie to me about it again,” you whisper gently, which is not the same thing as telling him to stop.

You know that. Dex knows that, too.

You swear you’re a good person when you basically forgive him for stalking you. 

You swear you’re a good person when he starts staying over.

Suddenly, he has a toothbrush next to yours. His shirts end up in your closet. 

You swear you’re a good person when his hands go under your shirt, groping and gripping and touching  like he can’t believe you’re letting him. He kisses your neck until you’re whining. He bites your shoulder hard enough to make you arch. He grinds against you, still clothed, like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin and into yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants.

You don’t. Instead, you drag him down.

You swear you’re a good person when he fucks you. When he gets you naked with desperate, clumsy hands and pushes your thighs apart like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he goes any slower. Your thighs are shaking so hard you have to grab his hair and mewl into his shoulders.

He fucks you deep and messy and stupid, hips pounding into yours, one hand gripping your thigh, the other braced beside your head. The bed hits the wall and nails tear down his scarred back. His mouth drags over your nose, your cheek, your lips, all open-mouthed and frantic.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice wrecked.

You just let out a helpless “hmpph!”

He laughs once against your mouth.

You swear you’re a good person when you let him fuck you silly in your own bed, even though you know what he is.

You swear you’re a good person when Task Force comes knocking three days later, when Dex is out.

The agent at your door is handsome, but not your type. 

“Ma’am,” he says. “We’re asking about a Bullseye sighting nearby.”

You blink up at him. “No, sir. I haven’t seen anything.”

You swear you’re a good person when you lie.

He doesn’t leave and steps closer instead, one boot over your threshold.

His gaze drops to your bare legs, and then to the oversized shirt you’re wearing. It was actually Dex’s shirt.

“You live alone?” he asks.

Your stomach turns upside down. “I think you should go.”

He shrugs, “I’m just asking questions.”

His hand catches the door before you can shut it. Then he is inside, too close, fingers brushing your wrist.

You freeze.

He looks at your mouth.

“You sure you don’t know anything?” he murmurs.

You swear you’re a good person when you lie again, this time through gritted teeth. “I said no.”

His hand slides to your waist and you shove him.

He laughs, but he tries to put his hands on you again. 

Eventually, you shut the door and get him out.

You wait for Dex.

You swear you’re a good person when you tell him everything, knowing exactly what Dex would do. 

“Name,” he says.

You tell him what you saw in the badges.

You swear you’re a good person when you don’t ask where he is going.

You swear you’re a good person when he comes back before dawn dragging the agent by the back of his collar. The man is crying.

His badge is gone, face is bruised, pushed to his knees  on your wooden floor.

Dex stands behind him with a gun in his hand.

“Apologise,” Dex says.

The agent sobs through it. He says sorry, says he didn’t mean it. Says he was just messing around.

Dex presses the gun to the side of his head and looks at you. “Can I?”

You swear you’re a good person.

You swear.

You swear.

You swear you think about mercy. You swear you think about laws. You swear you think about the literal human life Dex has put in your hands.

Still, you say, “Yes.”

Dex shoots him in the head. The agent drops, and blood spreads across your wooden floor.

He looks at you as if asking, are you proud of me yet?

You swear you’re a good person when you help him clean up the mess. You swear you’re a good person when you hold the bin bag open. You swear you’re a good person when you help him scrub blood from the floorboards. You swear you’re a good person when you help him bury the body.

What else were you supposed to do? Let him do it alone? After he defended you? After he did what you asked him to do?

You swear you’re a good person when you crawl into bed beside him that night.

You tuck yourself under his chin and whisper, “I love you.”

His arms close around you as he says, “I love you, too.”

You swear you’re still a good person.

Or maybe you’re just in love. Maybe you don’t know the difference anymore.

—

I just can’t stop thinking about DEX becoming absolutely obsessed with the pretty waitress that has just started working at his usual diner. 

He noticed you right from the start. Beautiful thing like you, with your pretty little skirt, taking an order just two tables away from him? How could he not? He is always alert, always vigilant, but even if he wasn’t, there was just no way he could have ever not noticed.

His foundations shifted and his stars were redrawn the first time you asked for his name. And he laid his claim, quiet and fervent, when he gave you it.

It seemed like a coincidence at first, at least to you, how he would always be seated somewhere along the section you were waiting for on any particular day. And along the way, it was easy to see just how he had become your favorite client just after weeks of starting at your new job.

He would always greet you with a smile, and he would always be kind, and he would always be respectful. He never tried to peek under your skirt, or talk to you like you were less than him only because you were re-filling his coffee cup, and he always left a good tip on his way out.

He was so unlike all other men that came into the diner, that it was just natural for your smile to always be a little brighter whenever you looked his way, and DEX reveled in your attention the same way an apex predator would on easy prey: never getting his fill, licking his whiskers, readying his beak, hunger rising from his stomach at the mere thought of having more. 

He did not want to scare you away.

He wanted your attention to remain on him because you wanted to keep it there, and did not mind waiting for that to translate to being the holder of your affection as well. he was patient. He did not believe in second chances, and he did not believe in salvation; he believed that good things took time, and you, with your sweet smiles and your pretty little laugh, would be the best of them all. 

And that was how, a couple months after your friendship started, he offered to help you carry in the produce boxes your boss was so adamant you hauled into the kitchen. 

Because, well, DEX was your friend by now. 

Somewhere along the way, he began staying for a little longer after eating so you could join him for a cup of coffee during your break. He started walking you home whenever he arrived to the diner later during the day and finished eating just at the same time you were finishing your shift. After all, it was just such a coincidence, but it was still the right thing to do. 

And DEX, because he was such a good friend, was not about to let you hurt yourself only because your boss was too much of a bum to get off his ass and haul the boxes inside himself. And if that had somehow translated into him finally being able to feel your lips against his skin as he pressed you back against the wall of the deserted alleyway at the back of the diner? 

Well, that was just a reward for his patience.

Because, God, it had been worth it.

Months of aligning his schedule to yours so he could come in just when you were free, and months of watching you from a distance to make sure you were still just his, and months of beating other patrons up in the very same alley whenever they smiled at you for a little too long.

Yeah, it had all been worth it. 

Because now he's on his knees, with his head buried under your pretty little work skirt, as he pulls your panties to the side and licks a stripe down the expanse of your sopping pussy. 

God, you're dripping for him.

Your tight hole is clenching around nothing as he sucks on your clit, moaning against your mound when he realizes you taste just as sweet as he had imagined.

He has his hands wrapped around your thighs, pulling you closer against his face, his fingers pressing deliciously against your soft, supple skin, and he wonders if they will leave a mark. He wonders if that will have you thinking of him when you're by yourself tonight. And he wonders if you will look at them when you’re touching yourself, thinking of him. 

He knows he will. 

So DEX lays his tongue flat against the bud, pressing against it, and then leans back just a little until he can spell his name with it on your clit. 

He does it once, twice, and your thighs are shaking around his head, and your slick is dripping down his chin. He's marking you as his, laying his claim, moving his hands up your legs until he's squeezing your ass under your panties, and spelling his name over and over until you're panting and writhing and moving your hips against his face, matching the rhythm of his tongue.

He realizes his dreams have never compared. 

"Oh, my sweet girl," he mumbles, words slurred and sloppy when he speaks them directly against your cunt. "You taste just as good as I had imagined. made me work so hard for it, mhm? Such a sweet, sweet prize for me.”

He presses his face further in-between your legs, moving down so he can use use tongue, oh so long, oh so warm, inside your pretty little hole. 

His nose brushes against your clit every time he moves his tongue against your walls, and moans, and pants, and has to restrain himself from beginning to hump your leg when they begin to flutter around him. He wants to fuck you. Oh, how he wants to take you back to his place and lay you back on his bed, spread your legs wide, and split your cunt open with his cock. He wants it so, so badly, and he merely figures he will have to work a little harder for it. 

“You like it when I eat you out like this?" he grunts, hot and wet, and a lick points out every word. “Mhm, can tell. Droolin’ so much for me, aren’t you? Drippin’ down my chin, sweet thing.”

He lands a slap against your ass, kneading at the skin after the contact, and returns his other hand back down to rest on your thigh. He spanks your ass again, harder, and his other hand caresses the skin of your thigh, softer. 

God, you're so perfect. You're so, so perfect, and you're his, you're just his.

"Dex, 'm gonna—"

“Gonna cum, mhm? Gonna soak me? Let me taste this perfect cunt properly?" he breathes out, and moves back up so he can spell his name against your clit again, just one more time. Please, just one more time before you cum, just—

Your eyes are squeezed shut as your orgasm has your cunt gushing into his mouth, and he takes it all because this, after all, is his prize. A broken, breathless moan breaks past your lips, and you move your hips harder, faster against his face, and he lets you take, and take, and take as much as you need.

It’s his honor. This moment—This earthly bliss is just his to revel in.

And so DEX smiles and uses his fingers, long and lithe and rough, to lower your panties down your beautiful, shaking legs until they pool around your ankles. He's grinning with all of his teeth, content, satisfied, when he straightens and smoothes your skirt back into place, pressing a kiss to your forehead and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

And then he pockets the lace while holding your gaze, and knows, just knows, that he will always be the only one you smile so, so beautifully for.

You sat on one of the tall, black leather bar stools, nursing a glass of white wine. Underneath, your black tights stretched over your legs as you crossed them, not bothering to fix your dress when it rode up your thighs.

The bar tender kept glancing at you, nearly mesmerized as your manicured finger traced the rim of your wine glass. A red lipstick imprint was left there and it smudged.

You hadn’t meant to get as tipsy as you did. Not fully drunk but pretty close.

Being back in L.A felt like every dream you had was now crushed.

I’ll be back for Christmas you had told everyone at the firm a couple years ago. They all laughed through their tears, hugging you like you were going away for good. But most of all, they were so happy for you.

Living in New York City had always been your dream. Rent a nice apartment, do your best work at your law firm, and hopefully find love.

Simple, really.

And you did it. Two years in the big city, defending citizens in federal court, and a boyfriend who treated you well.

But once one thing fell, so did another.

Now you were here, holding back tears over your third glass. Your painted red lips were set in a subtle frown that you hadn’t been able to wipe off since the airport.

No one knew you were back in California. Not your family. Not Lola. And certainly not Mark.

With your busy schedules, it was difficult to keep in touch. On the occasion he did text to check up on you, it always made your shoulders feel a little lighter. When you replied with a simple not great he’d say something understanding and encouraging.

Then he’d tag on a stupid selfie of himself, knowing it’d get a smile on your lips no matter the situation.

That’s how you ended up pulling out your phone and clicking on his contact despite the fact you’d reprimanded yourself several times that you wouldn’t tell anyone you were back.

However, that was difficult when you didn’t have a car or a place to stay.

Even though those were problems on their own, you also just really wanted a hug from your best friend whom you hadn’t seen in two years.

So you sent a few simple messages:

Mark.

I am not intoxicated.

But I am here.

And I need you.

After tacking on the address at the end, you set your phone down on the countertop and downed the rest of your wine.

You stared into your empty glass while you waited. Every decision you’d made ran through your mind, regret and humiliation slamming into you over and over and over again.

It got to the point where you had to cover your face with your hands once you felt your eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Not now you thought repeatedly.

But damn, if you wanted to.

You were so focused on trying not to let go of the faucet handle that you didn’t see him enter until you heard your name being called.

Turning around slowly, your eyes landed on the man you’d been missing for far too long.

“Mark,” you breathed out in relief, not sparing a second as you slid out of your seat and threw your arms around him.

He caught you instantly, one hand on the back of your head and the other on the small of your back. Confused as he was, he didn’t bombard you with questions.

Just held you like no time had passed.

Breathing in the scent of cologne and something uniquely him, it felt like coming home.

Back in law school, Mark had always been there for you and you were there for him. It was a silent understanding between the two of you. If he was having issues with his dad, you dropped everything to be by his side. If you were dealing with your crime-ridden family, he was already double checking to see if he could take the case in court.

It was easier back then. You two had a routine set in place, one that never changed unless there was a dire situation to tend to.

He knew how you took your coffee, catalogued every time you did that cute thing with your nose. Mark had always loved the way it scrunched up when you got frustrated and when he said something about it, you immediately denied it. When you did it again, he took a picture he still had in his phone till this day.

You knew how many ties he owned, always buying him new ones for Christmas or his birthday. One time he told you he had too many so you resorted to buying him socks.

Let’s just say he was terrible at hiding the betrayal he felt.

Mark knew you better than anyone. He saw your happy days and the days where you couldn’t stay composed anymore.

Before you left for New York, there was a brief period when you caught feelings.

You hated yourself for it but every time you looked into his eyes, you pretended he was yours. He had a girlfriend at the time—some model you couldn’t name—but you still let yourself imagine that he belonged with you instead.

And you always wondered if he ever shared the same thoughts.

Tonight, as he held you a little tighter, you weren’t thinking about any of that. Just that you were so grateful to be back in his arms.

After a minute, you pulled back to look up at him.

He seemed relatively the same except that he looked more tired than usual, a few new wrinkles creasing his face. What you noticed instantly was that he wasn’t wearing a suit. Just a white shirt and dark jeans with a thin gold chain around his neck.

“Mark,” you said again, holding onto his biceps like he’d vanish.

“Yeah.” He replied, fingers brushing against your elbows. “I missed you so much. I didn’t expect to see you for—”

“Another four months?” You finished for him. “I know. I just… I needed to come back and I wanted to see you and my friends and you and—”

“Hey, slow down,” Mark said calmly, eyes widening a little bit with concern. He glanced over your shoulder just in time to see the bartender clear your empty glass.

You watched as it dawned on him. “No. I’m not drunk.”

“No wonder you’re a defense attorney. You suck at lying,” he countered before looking down at your suitcase by his leg.

“I only had three glasses. But that’s not…” you took a deep breath. “That’s not the point.”

Mark’s eyes returned to yours. “Then what is the point? Why are you back so soon? I’m not complaining, you’re just worrying me.”

Your chest heaved slightly as you recalled exactly why you were there. Suddenly, you felt terrified of telling him what happened even though you also questioned that. Mark had never gotten angry at you for something that wasn’t your fault.

Yet, deep down, a part of you did believe this was your fault.

You felt the hem of his shirt sleeve, trying to ground yourself to the reality of him standing in front of you.

“Mark, I think…” you trailed off, a chainlink wrapping tight around your throat. “I think I messed up.”

The air felt heavier with your admission. A look of concern immediately transformed his handsome features, already brainstorming questions like this was some sort of trial and you were the witness.

Just as quickly, it morphed into something like protection. He looked around before grabbing your suitcase handle and your hand.

“Let’s get you somewhere quiet and then we can talk. You’ve got me, princess, you know that.”

His apartment was clean since he was rarely ever home, the small space minimal but cozy with the dark accents and dim lights. Just how you remembered it.

Mark put your suitcase in his room before going to the kitchen to make you your favorite tea. He still kept a few bags even when you weren’t there.

“This space has always been yours as much as it is mine. You don’t have to just stand there,” Mark said, watching as you stood by the counter.

You weren’t listening though.

The events of the past week came back to you. Not in flashes but in vivid detail, like you were reliving it.

Your boyfriend. The court room. How the judge looked down on you. The juries stares. Their whispers.

“Hey.”

You snapped your gaze towards Mark who was now right by you, mug in hand. Neither of you cared about the tea right now.

He set it down on the counter with a small clink. “What’s got my favorite girl so upset that she had to fly all the way here, huh?”

You tugged at your dress before looking up towards the ceilings, blinking back the salt in your eyes.

Mark immediately noticed, watching as your bottom lip trembled slightly and the way your eyes glossed over.

“My… my boyfriend,” you began quietly, blowing out a breath while turning your focus to the counter. “Well, ex-boyfriend now. He uh…”

Your heart started to race and your hands began to shake. You hadn’t told anyone since that whole entire court room had already witnessed it.

Mark placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder and gently led you over to the sofa.

You sat down, bringing your legs up even though your heels were still on. Any other time he would’ve corrected you but he could read a room and now was not the time.

He sat close beside you, knee nearly touching yours but still giving you space. “Just breathe. I’m right here.”

You bit your bottom lip as a stray tear fell. “He humiliated me in front of everyone. It was like he purposefully made me lose it but I… I know I’m better than that. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if I can show my face there again, Mark.”

Staying quiet, he soaked in every word even as the anger began to settle into his chest.

Mark had met your ex-boyfriend over the phone only a few times before suddenly you stopped calling all together. He never asked you why, figuring you were just busy or preferred texting. But somewhere in his mind he knew that guy had something to do with it.

Did it sometimes sting to see you with another man? Yeah, it did.

He knew it was so wrong. He’d had a girlfriend that you were practically friends with but every time he saw Ryan’s name mentioned, some unfamiliar feeling came from somewhere he couldn’t place.

Your words were just furthering his point that his intuition was right.

You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand. “The client was fine. But Ryan just kept pushing and pushing and I snapped. I threw things and gosh, it was horrible. Like I wasn’t even in control of myself.”

Mark ran a hand over his stubbled jaw before putting it on the back of your neck. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, you turned your head to face him.

“I know that feeling. Of just wanting to wreck the court room, especially when things get heated. And honestly? I think it’s pretty cool that you actually did it.” He smirked slightly.

You let out a laugh that bordered on a scoff. “Don’t say that. It’s… embarrassing.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “You know what’s embarrassing? Your ex. Clearly he wasn’t being very professional either.”

“I guess,” you mumbled, picking at your nails.

He noticed instantly. His hand came to rest over yours. “They’re too pretty to ruin,” he said, his smirk turning into something softer.

You didn’t know why but your heart did a little flip.

No. He’s your best friend. He’s just comforting you since you’re the one who showed up out of nowhere.

You sniffed, feeling better now that someone else knew and didn’t hate you. Mark always knew how to handle these sort of situations.

“So you don’t think I’m a maniac?” You asked, tucking some hair behind your ear.

“Absolutely not,” Mark replied matter of factly.

Even though your reputation was in shambles, he didn’t care. He let you into his home without a second thought and was sitting next to you like he wasn’t going anywhere until you told him to.

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a moment before you glanced around. “I’m assuming your girlfriend isn’t here.”

Mark sighed, leaning back against the couch and staring at the wall. “She isn’t coming back here anymore.”

Your eyes instantly widened. “You two broke up?”

He pretended to fix his watch but it was only to give his hands something to do. “Yeah. I meant to tell you sooner. We’ve just been busy and—”

“I know,” you said softly, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Mark reached over and threaded his fingers through yours. It was an action so small but it made your heart seem to grow in size. “It’s late. You’ve had a long day. And I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Right.” You closed your eyes for a second, listening to his breathing that sounded slightly more shallow than usual.

After another quiet moment, he released a deep exhale and gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

“I’ll go get the bed ready for you.” He stood up, fixing his shirt and went into his bedroom.

You wanted to argue that you could’ve slept on the couch but you had a long flight, you were exhausted, and a real bed sounded amazing.

As you sat there, it hit you just how much you had missed him. Two years without being able to just walk a few blocks to his apartment when you couldn’t sleep. On those nights, the two of you would sit around the coffee table and chat or play a board game to quiet your mind.

You weren’t sure when you were going to go back to New York but right now, all you wanted was his bed and the smell of him on the sheets.

Eventually, you followed after him. You leaned against the doorframe, watching as he fluffed a pillow.

A tired laugh escaped your lips, causing him to whirl around.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” you answered though the smile didn’t leave your lips.

Mark pointed at you. “Again, terrible liar.”

Your smile widened and you stepped further into the room. “I forgot how neat you were.”

He gave a pat to the pillow. “Only the best for the princess. Unless you prefer flat pillows then by all means go ahead.”

You playfully rolled your eyes at him before slipping off your heels at the end of the bed. You sat down, placing your hands in your lap.

Mark watched you for a beat before coming around to stand in front of you. He looked down at you and something flared in his chest. Something he remembered burying a while ago but stood no chance against how you managed to always make it surface.

Clearing his throat, he lowered his voice. “I really missed you. Just… I just wanted you to know.”

The sincerity in his voice was evident. You only heard it when he really, truly meant something.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, memorizing the exact color of hazel in his eyes. “More than I thought.”

That hit Mark square in the chest but he had no idea how to express what he was feeling. He gave a firm nod. “I’m glad you called me. Now, get some sleep. You deserve it.”

“I will.” You gave a tentative smile. “Goodnight, Mark.”

“Goodnight, princess.”

That night, once your head hit the pillow, you were out like a light. As you inhaled the scent of him on his pillow, his face appeared in your dreams. Smiling, looking at you like you were worth more than your reputation ever was.

And you never wanted to wake up.

The apartment was quiet in the morning. Sun rays stretched across the floor, inching towards the bed where you started to stir awake. You blinked your bleary eyes before shifting onto your back. Feeling the soft, dark sheets beneath you reminded you of where you were—your best friend’s bed.

You dragged a hand over your face before swinging your legs over the edge. A yawn stretched your mouth wide as sleep escaped your body.

As you padded into the kitchen, you found a pot of tea with a sticky note next to it.

Made you tea. I’ll be home late but feel free to use what you need and leave the apartment ~ Mark

Against your will a smile lifted your lips. He always thought of you, made sure you were comfortable and had everything you needed.

It only made your suppressed feelings for him worse.

As the day wore on, you did what he suggested.

You took an ‘everything shower’ to cheer yourself up and show yourself some love before putting on a black leather skirt and a cream colored halter top, pairing it with your heels. You put on some makeup and headed out.

Los Angeles was exactly what you remembered it being. It wasn’t nearly as overwhelming as New York and it felt like a breath of fresh air.

By the time you got back to Mark’s place, you had several bags of groceries. He had never been good at stocking up considering he lived alone most of the time so you figured you’d do him a favor.

Surprisingly, you managed to have a nice day. It felt like your reputation was now burning up miles away in a city you got to pick when you’d return to.

As the sun began to set, you changed into a silky, navy blue colored nightgown. It was your normal nightwear but for some reason, you wanted to have a certain someone do a double take.

You let your hair down around your shoulders and headed into the kitchen. You turned on some music, not too loud, beginning to work on dinner.

Eventually, as the noodles began to soften and the sauce began to pop, night had fallen. Mark still wasn’t home but you would just leave a bowl in the microwave for him.

You ate by yourself, avoiding your phone and instead watched a movie on the television.

Right as you finished your food, the door opened.

Mark walked in, suit still pristine but his styled hair a little more tousled now. He set his briefcase down and braced his hands on the counter, closing his eyes. His shoulders were tense as he exhaled and slid off his suit jacket, draping it over a bar stool.

You wiped your mouth with a napkin, setting the bowl down and going over to him. “Rough day?”

His head snapped towards you like he hadn’t remembered you were staying in his apartment. But at the sight of you, his whole body seemed to drain of tension.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice gruff.

“I’m sorry.” You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, feeling the weight of the day fade from his muscles. “I made you food. It’s in the microwave if you’re hungry. Eat and then we can talk about it, yeah?”

Hesitantly, he nodded before going to get his dinner.

Afterwards, he went to find you so he could talk to you about what happened but as he stepped into the bedroom, his train of thought derailed.

You were sitting in the middle of his bed, reading a book with your legs crossed.

It was a normal sight, just his best friend reading in bed. But it was his bed. The navy blue of your nightgown against his dark bedding made you look soft to the touch. A softness he wanted so badly to wrap himself up in and forget about court.

You looked up as his heavy footsteps got closer. Mark was already kicking off his shoes and discarding his tie.

His finger hit the light switch, drenching the room in darkness with only the city lights glittering through the window. Your phone lit up on the nightstand, guiding him over to you.

On his way, he removed the rest of his clothes, leaving him a pair of boxer briefs. He pulled on a pair of dark sweatpants, trading sophistication for comfort.

“Are you okay?” You asked into the dark, setting your book to the side when you felt the bed dip.

Before you could ask, his weight settled over you. His hands parted your thighs so he could fit between them before nestling down, his cheek pressing against your stomach.

Your breath caught instantly.

In the time you’d been best friends with Mark Callan, you two showed affection through gift giving and quality time. Of course you hugged from time to time but this?

This was what you had dreamed about.

Mark released a heavy sigh. “Choi benched me today.”

Your heart instantly sank for him. Law school had been the first to teach you how much Mark valued his work, how much time and effort he put into it. Some days you thought he loved his job more than anything else in the world.

To hear that his boss benched him almost made you feel like he did it to you.

“He did?”

“Mhm,” he hummed into your nightgown. Gosh, it was so soft he could’ve fallen asleep there. “Told me I take things into my own hands. That I don’t listen to him.”

You opened your mouth to defend him before closing it. As you gathered your words, your hands fell into his hair which made him relax further against you.

“Well, you do take things into your own hands.”

“For good reason!” Mark fired back before dropping his forehead against your belly. “Sorry, just… I don’t know why he can’t understand that.”

“I know, Mark,” you said gently. “It’s a delicate situation. One that I think you need to respect until he calls you back in.”

He pulled his head back enough to look up at you. For a moment, he wasn’t thinking about the conversation anymore.

You looked so beautiful, Mark thought. Your eyes glistened in the faint light, your lips red and plush from exfoliating them with a lip scrub earlier.

For so long he thought you were the prettiest girl ever. But he never had the confidence to tell you.

Instead, he got with other women, fell for them because he knew he could never have you. It cured the ache, the want inside of him. Quelled the yearning until it broke whenever he’d seen you in that bar only last night.

Mark was terrified of losing you. He was so scared he’d cross a line he couldn’t come back from.

But right now, with you under him in the darkened room, he so desperately wanted to toe the line and finally see if you felt the same way.

“Mark?” You asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Yeah,” he said, blinking. “Yeah, you’re right. I should respect his decision.”

You went to say something when you felt his fingers on your arm. At first, you didn’t think anything of it until they ghosted over your shoulder and up your neck. He tucked your hair behind your ear, a habit he knew you did all the time.

It sent a wave of flustered heat through you, those dormant butterflies beating around.

Then, before you knew it, the words came bursting out.

“I like you.” You blurted, cheeks going hot and your heart racing under your ribs.

You didn’t give him time to say anything. “I… I like you, Mark. Really like you. I have for so long and I never said anything because our friendship means so much to me—”

The words died on your lips when he took them for himself.

His lips crashed into your, his body surging up. His hands settled beside your head but once he felt you kissing back, one of them slipped down to your waist. You couldn’t think of anything but him as his fingers curled into the silk, pulling you closer.

Kissing Mark was unlike any previous kiss. He knew when to use his tongue, when to angle his mouth to kiss you deeper.

It was an out of body experience. You couldn’t move your hands so he grabbed them, pinning them by your head as his mouth continued to move over yours.

Mark had spent so many restless nights thinking of this exact moment. He’d always imagined what you’d taste like, how warm you’d feel, how you’d respond to him.

But he never thought you’d kiss him back and admit you liked him for longer than he could’ve expected.

When your lungs felt like they were burning, you forcefully pulled your mouth away from his.

Mark chased your lips for a second before his forehead dropped to yours, breathing equally as hard.

There were so many things he wanted to say. But none of them could express how much he wanted this.

Once he caught his breath, he whispered, “was it too soon?”

You smiled a little, lips still kiss swollen and wet. “No. Not all. It’s been a long time coming.”

Mark returned your smile and brushed a thumb beneath your eye. He took in your flushed appearance, having a difficult time reminding himself that this wasn’t just a figment of his imagination anymore.

But you had to address why you had waited so long to tell him, even if he already knew.

With a sigh, you whispered, “what does this mean for us? Because I don’t think I can handle losing you.”

Mark loosened his grip on your hand before carefully laying beside you. He didn’t move far, propping himself up on his elbow and spanning his fingers over your stomach.

“I can’t make any promises that this’ll last,” he admitted honestly.

Every relationship he’d ever been in ended faster than he could keep up with. But he wanted this more than anything. He wanted you, all of you, not just your friendly care and affection.

When he saw the frown threatening your lips, he quickly continued. “But I want it to. More than you even know, princess. I’ve wanted you for a long time. But like you… I was too afraid to ruin us.”

You sat up slightly, wanting to be close to him. Your fingers brushed against his bicep.

“Then we don’t,” you said simply. “We won’t let it ruin us. Even if it doesn’t work out, we stay friends.”

Mark gave a brief smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His hand went to your thigh, yanking you closer until you were draped over him now.

“That’s the problem. I don’t think I can just be friends with you anymore. Ever since law school, I always looked for you in the women I dated. But they weren’t you. They could never be you.”

His confession made your eyes soften, your heart feeling warm like he was holding it in the palms of his hands.

“Well then,” you said, shifting to rest your head on his chest. “I’m staying right here forever. I’m not sharing anymore.”

Mark chuckled, the sound vibrating through you. “Neither am I. I’m not letting you go ever again. No matter how many court room tantrums you throw.”

With a smile, you buried your face in his neck. “You must like me for me then.”

He pressed a kiss to your head with a soft hum. “Always.”