Stalking Soap

“Those pants of yours make that ass pop.”

“Bloody hips on ya, fucking sinful.”

“You look bloody breedable right now love.”

You hate it. Obviously. Who wouldn’t? Despite the way your cheeks flush and body betrays your mind. You would’ve filed a complaint by now if it really bothered you.

You’re ovulating.. and avoiding him tonight due to the way those stupid comments of his make your cunt weep. Tucked away safely in your quarters as you finish paperwork late at night. Finally finishing the last file and planning to leave it on Prices desk.

Though, when you knock and are allowed entry into the old shits office, you’re met with a sight that is permanently burned into your brain.

Price, sat at his desk, an old playboy spread out in front of him as he fists his cock lazily. Cocky smirk on his face as he takes in your wide eyes.

“You gonna finally put that mouth of yours to work or just stare all night?”

“Playboy? Seriously? You know the internet exists, right? Christ, you are old.”

“f’course I do, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy print.”

He looks over your whole body in a way that makes you squirm and heat pool between your legs. You toss the files on his desk and leave before you do something you’d regret in the morning.

You avoid him the next morning until he corners you in the mess hall at the coffee pot.

“Somethin botherin you, love?”

“No? Why would you say that?”

“You’ve been looking anywhere but me all morning. When all you should look at is me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm. Daft brain of yours too occupied on what you saw last night?”

“What? No—“

“You’ve gone red, love.”

“Shut up. You- are impossible.”

“Because I’ve got a stack of skin mags older than you? Thought you youngsters were hard to embarrass.”

“I wasn’t embarrassed.. just, surprised.”

“By what, exactly?”

“That you use them.”

“Nothing wrong with appreciating a woman’s beauty. Like yours for example.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I prefer the term old fashioned.”

“Right. Thats one word for it.”

“And yet, you havent walked away.”

Which is how you’ve ended up here.

Folded in half until your knees hit your chest and your ankles rest on his shoulders, being split in half by his cock. Poor cunt weeping at the harsh pace he’s set.

Embarrassed by the way you clench over the cocky things he growls in your ear as he ruins your cunt for anyone else.

“Bloody perfect cunt.. made to be filled.”

“That’s it.. whine for me.. goood girll.”

“Gonna breed this cunt proper.. you’ll look best swollen with my kids.”

You’re fucked dumb already, mind too hazy to deny his words because they make your orgasm tip over the edge and crash over you like a tidal wave. Cunt clenching around his cock as his pace stutters and he buried himself deep, pumping load after load into you.

Cocky bastard pulls out but keeps your legs up to keep his cum inside.

“Making sure it takes, love.”

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 guy inhales like he's about to start something, and then Simon's other hand comes around your waist and yanks you back against his body, possessive, and the fuckhead scoffs and mumbles and abandons his seat, rushing out of sight.

"Thank you," you tell Simon, and try to turn around; he keeps his hands in place. "I'm sorry I bothered you to come down, he just wouldn't take no for an answer and the security here is shit as it turns out- Simon?"

He grunts and pulls you with him, leaving a roll of cash on the bartop and shoving your phone and wallet into his jeans. "Simon!" You protest, as he all but drags you out of the bar. He gets you past the building and then you yelp when he swings you into the alley, his hand coming up to catch the back of your head before it can smack the wall- but it still smarts, a sting in your elbow where you've scraped it. "Simon, what the fuck-"

"-was that?" He cuts off, and shakes your head a little with his grip. "You being stupid now? Just wandering into shit bars without checking with me first?"

Your cheeks burn. "I'm not a child, Simon, I just needed a hand- I was doing fine!"

He scoffs. "Fine, like you didn't see that fuckers hand on your drink? Or his friend eyeing you? Huh?" You pause, stricken. His other hand cups your jaw, thumb pushing at your mouth. "Did you drink anything after he showed up?" He pushes in, thumbing down your tongue, and you gasp as he digs his fingers into your cheek.

"No," you mumble, and squirm to get out of his grip. It doesn't work, even when you pull on his arm. "Ugh, Simon! You're not actually my brother, leave it alone!"

He lets go of your mouth, and glares. With only the yellow streetlamp he's mostly shadow. "Well someone has to be, if you're going to be stupid about shit. Act like a child, get treated like one," and he pushes you over until his hand cradles your face instead of the back of your head, pressing you against the wall, and his hand smacks down on your ass with an echoing crack.

You shriek, muffled against his fingers, and jerk against him, but Simon only smothers you further between the wall and his bulk, breathing harshly into your ear, before he spanks you again, hard and cruel even through your jeans.

"You text me about how much you need me, you need help, I come rushing down and see you on the edge of getting fucked raw by some fuckface with his hand on your- fucking- drink-" You whine when he hits your three more times, fast, popping the bottom of your ass, "-and you don't even realize it, just going around with your head in a fucking bubble. Start paying attention," and he licks up your throat and across your ear as he smacks you so hard you lift onto your toes.

His palm is damp with your breath, your open-mouthed panting, your hands scratching at the wall. Your ass burns from the spanking, a contrast to your skin cold against the wall, the warmth of the tears catching in your lashes.

And then Simon pops open the button of your jeans and slips a hand down your belly, forcing the zipper open, and moans with you when he finds the little scrap of silky fabric, hot and damp on his fingertips as he strokes it. "Yeah, I know- you just wanted a nice fuck," and the way his voice curls around the word makes you shudder. "Got all dressed up, put on the fancy shit. But you don't need someone else for that." He hooks his fingers lower, catching your ass against his groin as your back arches. His lips nudge at your cheek. "Just give your big brother a call, yeah? Keep you safe. Give you what you need."

His hand drops from your mouth to your throat, cradling the weight of your head as you gasp, as Simon starts rubbing your clit through your panties. You're twisted up and squirming, belly tight, your ass burning hot and your pussy so soaking wet, all from Simon with his voice and hands and the way he pants into your hair, grinding the hard thick line of his cock against you.

You whine a little, hips rolling, but he soothes you with a kiss. "Easy, love. Don't fight it, let me show you," and you melt down into his hands, moaning. Simon your friend, your protector, your- big brother, keeping you safe and making you feel good. "Yeah, I know, I feel it. I know what you need. No one like your brother huh? Gonna come for me like this?

You gasp and feel the orgasm coming on suddenly, your pussy clenching, clit throbbing, and Simon digs his thumb up under your jaw.

"Say it," he pants, and you whine, confused. "Ask big brother to make you come," and oh shit, there it is, the slick drooling of your pussy soaking into your panties, the little nothing fabric that Simon is bunching up with his fingers, rolling over your clit, jeans hanging off your hips and your ass rubbing against his jeans, the sore skin stinging as its scraped across his belt. "Say it or I leave you like this."

You gasp, shuddering, and choke out around the pressure of his hand, "Simon, please, make me come, brother, big brother make my pussy come-!" And there it is, the tipping point as he growls and catches the shell of your ear in his teeth, your moans spilling out like the hot gush of cum in your pussy as Simon bullies your clit over and over, dragging it out as your legs tremble.

You whimper when it's too much, pushing at his wrist, but he doesn't let you go- he digs his fingers in, makes your belly twist and clench, and then abruptly you're standing free, panting, pants sagging down and your breath hot and steaming against your own cheeks where you're planted against the wall.

Your jeans are yanked down, your ass pulled back, and Simon drags your panties aside and cups the curve of your ass cheek in his palm. "Think that fuck would have done that?" He asks, and you mumble, forgetting about the man from before entirely. "Hm? Don't need anyone else but me," and he spanks you again, the slap harder and sharper without anything between his hand and your skin, and you squirm and moan as it goes right to your pussy. "Won't let anyone else fumble around in that hot little cunt, either." You hear his belt open, his zipper, and you spread your thighs under his hands.

"Yes," you gasp, arching your back more, trying to push your pussy against him, and moan when the hard, hot head of his cock finally nudges into you. "Fuck, Simon, you feel so good," you moan, and he spanks you again.

He's not gentle about it, fucks you hard and fast, your orgasm on his fingers making your pussy wetter, swollen, more sensitive. Simon has to shove his hand across your mouth again to muffle the sounds you're making, the moans and gasps and little cries as you're split on his cock.

"You want everyone to hear you?" He asks, and you nod against his hand, making him laugh. "Oh, little sister wants everyone to hear her come on my cock, huh? Tried to be a slut tonight but I know better. I know what- you- need-!" And he grinds in so deep it aches, his balls smacking your clit, hand digging into your hip. He's panting harshly, making you bounce when he bottoms out, your feet coming up to your toes again as you're bent further, thighs straining, and the pulled-tight elastic edge of your panties slips in the hot mess of slick and pre between your legs and snaps across your clit- oh, oh fuck, fuck yes coming, cumming on Simon's cock, as he moans and slaps his hand down flat between your thighs and fuuuck, fuck fuck fuck, you're coming in a tight hot squeeze on his cock and his teeth in your throat, grunting "baby sister" into your ear, and spilling his own cum into your pussy.

You pant, trembling, trusting Simon to keep you on your feet even though he's also staggering a little, keeping you close to his body instead of pulling out. You're sweating and feel electrified, ass and pussy hot and throbbing, Simon's cock still pulsing a little in you, like he has to spill every drop before he can let himself be done. You moan when he finally pulls out, tucking his cock away, and he bats your hands off when you go to straighten your panties and jeans, doing it himself with a drag of damp fingers between your thighs to make you shudder.

You finally get to turn around, smiling up at him as he cups your cheek in his palm. "Big brother?" You ask, a little loose and lightheaded, and he grins.

"Not your boyfriend or partner or husband. And someone has to keep you safe and take care of you." Abruptly he digs his thumb between your lips again, like before, and you moan as he shakes your head back and forth with his grip. "If you're going to be a bratty little sister, then I'm the big brother in charge. So you'll do as I say," he growls, looming over you again, "or I'll fucking ground you like a brat, too."

A sharp, ragged groan tore from his throat the second you palmed the thick length of him through the fabric. A wicked smirk caught the edge of your lips as you watched him completely crumble from the faintest touch.

“Aww, I think little Gazzy boy is enjoying this, hmm?” you teased in a low, mocking tone. The taller man’s face scrunched up with pure pleasure, his hips instinctively bucking a fraction of an inch into your palm.

The other three just stood there, completely entranced as they watched you handle their teammate through his tight cargos. Almost in unison, their hands instinctively dropped to their own fronts, desperately trying to relieve the uncomfortable, suffocating tightness in their pants.

Before Gaz could pull away, you smashed your lips into his. A soft moan escaped your throat as his tongue immediately fought yours for dominance, tasting of raw hunger and desperation.

The dingy room only offered an old, weathered mattress resting flat on the floor, but it was more than enough for what you had planned for your boys.

“Strip,” you commanded, pulling back from the kiss just enough to look Gaz in the eye.

Without a single second thought, he scrambled to tear off his heavy tactical layers. You turned your attention to the remaining three, who were already standing there with their dicks practically in their hands, and gave them a sharp, commanding gesture to do the exact same.

As the clothes began to fly, you caught Simon about to pull his balaclava over his head. You stepped in immediately, your hand arresting his movement.

“Ah, ah, big boy. I want you to keep that on. Can you do that for me?” you murmured. You pulled the dark fabric back down into place, locking your gaze onto his wide, dark eyes before leaning down to press a slow, deliberate line of kisses down his heavily scarred chest.

Ghost could only nod eagerly, his massive frame shivering as he stood there, wanting nothing more than to completely lose himself in your touch.

As you continued to trail sloppy, hot kisses down Ghost’s chest, a strong pair of hands suddenly locked onto your hips from behind.

“Are you sure about this, Sergeant?” Price’s deep, raspy voice rumbled directly into your ear. His hot breath tickled your skin as you tilted your head to the right, leaning into his touch. “Because once we start, there won’t be any backing out. Not after you let us in.”

“I think I know what I’m doing, Captain,” you cockily retorted, though the sudden friction of his thick cock rubbing right against your bare ass sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.

Price didn't hesitate. His heavy hands traveled up from your hips to the swell of your breasts, his thumbs ruthlessly pinching your hyper-sensitive nipples. Your back arched instantly from the pleasure of it, which only served to push your aching body closer into Simon’s space. Ghost took full advantage, his thick fingers slipping down between your thighs to tease your soaking folds, extracting a breathless string of moans from your lips.

“Aye, don’t you two go having all the fun here,” a gruff Scottish accent cut through the dark room. Soap stood just a few feet away, his eyes wild as he stroked himself, completely transfixed by the sight of you already coming apart under your superiors' touch.

“Easy, MacTavish,” Simon growled darkly, his fingers still rhythmically playing with your slick, needy entrance. “Why don’t you and Gaz break her in for us?”

He looked down at you through the eyeholes of his mask, a dangerous glint in his stare. “She’s going to need all the preparation she can get.”

Ghost chuckled darkly, finally pulling his hand away and stepping back to let his two sergeants have their way with you. The pure gravity of his remark stirred an unsettling, intoxicating wave of excitement deep in your stomach. Before you could even process it, Price let out a low laugh and delivered a harsh, echoing smack to your bare ass, causing your entire body to jolt forward.

You didn't even have time to register the shifting movement in the room before Johnny’s hungry hands locked onto your waist, lifting you effortlessly and pinning you flat against the weathered mattress.

Soap flipped you onto your stomach with terrifying ease, his rough hands immediately kneading the soft flesh of your ass as he admired the stark red handprint left behind by the captain.

“What’s it gonna be, Gaz? Heads or tails?” Johnny joked darkly, his voice thick with a heavy, predatory amusement.

Gaz didn't bother answering with words. He walked over to the head of the mattress and dropped to his knees, lining his swollen tip up mere inches from your face. He reached down, tangling a fistful of his fingers into your hair while his rough thumb stroked your cheek.

Any trace of his previous nervousness was entirely gone, replaced by a dominant, sinister look that made your insides coil tightly, leaving you completely soaked.

“Nah, I think heads suits me just fine, Soapy boy,” Gaz murmured, a dark grin spreading across his face. Without a shred of warning, he shoved his length deep into your mouth, forcing you straight down to the base.

Your eyes widened at the sudden, suffocating fullness. A muffled gasp caught in your chest as you choked slightly, your throat struggling to adjust to the sheer size of him.

“Not so bratty now, are we, princess?” Gaz mocked in a tone of faux sympathy. Clamping both hands around your head with a crushing grip, he began guiding his cock down your throat at an unforgiving, relentless pace.

Behind you, Soap wasted absolutely no time. He lined himself up with your slick entrance, dragging his swollen tip along your wet folds until your entire body shivered with desperate need. With a heavy, deliberate shove, he buried himself inside you, completely stretching out your tight little walls.

The sudden, overwhelming blend of burning friction and fullness made your eyes roll back, an involuntary moan vibrating directly against Gaz’s cock. The tight constriction of your throat made Gaz grunt, his teeth biting into his lower lip from the sheer intensity of the feeling.

“That’s it, lass. Good little slut for us, aren’t you?” Soap grunted. He delivered a hard, encouraging pat to your thigh before gripping your hips in an iron hold, instantly picking up a brutal, rhythmically punishing pace.

You were quite the sight—stretched and thoroughly used at both ends by your fellow sergeants, completely caught in the middle of their raw, unbridled hunger. From the shadows of the room, Price and Ghost could only stand and watch. Their dark eyes were completely fixated on the chaotic spectacle, slowly stroking themselves in heavy anticipation for their own turn to completely ruin you.

Drool escaped the corner of your lips as you continued to take Kyle deep into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you looked up at him through tear-stained, lustful eyes. The visual alone was enough to push Gaz straight over the edge.

“S-shit, you’re fucking enjoying this, aren’t you? Such a fucking slut” he panted, his chest heaving.

You let out a muffled, wicked little giggle around his length in response, which only caused his thrusts to become entirely erratic. His head snapped back in pure pleasure, his face completely scrunched up as he released a hot, heavy load straight down your throat. He kept his hands locked in your hair, holding himself deep in your mouth to ride out his high and ensure you swallowed every single drop of his cum.

Behind you, Johnny was close behind. His brutal thrusts were becoming sluggish and heavy, his deep, guttural grunts echoing off the dingy walls as his climax neared.

The moment Kyle finally pulled out of your mouth, Soap gripped your hips and flipped you over onto your back, pulling his twitching cock out just in time to release all over your chest. You let out a shaky moan, watching the sticky, white substance coat your sensitive breasts. You dipped a finger into the mess, licking it off your skin as Johnny milked himself dry above you.

“That’s it, lass. Rub it all over that pretty body,” Soap growled, his voice thick and raw. He reached up, his firm hand wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you into a deep, bruising kiss, forcing you to taste his juices on your own tongue as you submissively allowed him to invade your mouth one last time.

You lay there flat on the weathered mattress, completely fucked out and floating in a haze of pure bliss—entirely unaware that you weren’t even close to being done.

From the shadows, the two older men stepped forward, stalking over to the edge of the bed like apex predators finally cornering their prey.

“Why don’t you lads go get cleaned up,” Price instructed. His voice was entirely calm, but it carried the unyielding weight of an order rather than a suggestion. Before either sergeant could even think to protest, they gathered their gear and slipped out of the room, quiet, satisfied smirks plastered across their faces.

Then, the door clicked shut, leaving you entirely at the mercy of your Captain and Lieutenant.

You could only let out a weak, breathy whimper as you looked up at the two men standing over you, their expressions dark with a terrifying, unyielding intensity. Your naked body was utterly dwarfed by their massive, towering builds, and the stark contrast only added to the frantic nervousness fluttering in your chest.

You knew right then and there that they had absolutely no intention of being gentle with you.

Dropping to your knees between them, you were completely caged by their sheer size. Their heavy, scarred hands began to roam freely over your already exhausted body—tugging at your waist, squeezing your hips, and delivering sharp, possessive slaps to your breasts that wrung helpless mewls of pleasure from your lips.

“Captain, I—”

You were cut off instantly by a sharp, stinging slap to your cheek. It wasn't enough to truly hurt, but the force of it was more than enough to put you directly in your place and let you know exactly who owned the room now.

“It’s Daddy to you, little miss,” Price commanded sternly.

His thick fingers clamped around your jaw, his thumb roughly forcing its way past your lips. Driven by the sudden, intoxicating shift in the dynamic, you immediately began to suck on his thumb, your wide, needy eyes locking onto his.

With his free hand, he reached down and pinched your nipple, calloused fingers rolling the hyper-sensitive bud so ruthlessly that a muffled yelp escaped around his thumb.

“Use your words, little miss,” his voice dropped to a deep, gravelly rasp.

“Y-yes, Daddy,” you managed to choke out, your chest heaving as you looked up at him through long lashes.

A low, gruff voice from directly behind you pulled you right out of your dazed thoughts. “Here’s how it works, dove,” Simon murmured, his tone cold, commanding, and absolutely unyielding. 

“Since you were brave enough earlier to pull that stunt, we're going to see just how much you really mean it. You won’t disappoint us, right, little one?”

It was terrifying how easily you crumbled into a desperate, eager-to-please mess the second Ghost gave you an instruction. But before you could even nod, a massive, gloved hand slid between your thighs, finding your over-stimulated nub and pinching it firmly.

“What did we say about using your words, princess?” Simon warned, his voice vibrating against your back.

“Y-yes, s-sir… I’ll b-be so good,” you breathlessly choked out, completely undone by the agonizingly beautiful pressure building all over again.

"Good girl", Simon praised from behind.

Price lay back on the mattress, his dark eyes fixed on your trembling form as Simon lifted you with effortless, terrifying strength, guiding you directly over the captain’s waiting cock.

If you had thought Gaz and Soap were big, you were in for a brutal, rude awakening.

Price’s large hands clamped securely onto your hips, providing the leverage to slowly and unyieldingly ease you down onto his massive, twitching size. He stretched your tight walls like nothing you had ever experienced before.

Panicking from the sheer fullness of him, you instinctively tried to pull away and escape, but the iron grip on your hips held you completely paralyzed in mid-air, forcing you to take him.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Nearly there,” Price cooed, his breath hitching as he felt your tight, aching muscles convulsively swallow him down, forcing you to sink all the way onto his terrifying length.

Your aching core finally bottomed out against him, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. But just as you thought the worst of the stretching was over, Simon’s massive hands slid around your waist, adjusting your posture and tilting your hips forward. 

His heavy palm pressed flat against your spine, pinning you in place as he lined himself up directly at your tight backdoor entrance. His tip was already leaking pre-cum with anticipation, rubbing in small, maddening circles against the hyper-sensitive skin of your second hole. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable impact.

“Be a good girl and breathe in for me, dove,” Simon murmured darkly.

Before you could even draw air into your lungs, a sharp, burning fullness invaded your lower half as he shoved himself straight inside you without an ounce of warning.

Your head flew back, your eyes rolling to the ceiling as a breathless, ragged scream died in your throat. The absolute pressure of having both of your superiors' cocks stretching both holes simultaneously was overwhelming. If it was even possible, Simon felt even larger and thicker than Price—which shouldn't have been surprising given the sheer, beastly size of the Lieutenant.

You were practically seeing stars. Your mind completely whited out as the two older men began a brutal, unyielding rhythm, bullishly pistoning in and out of your poor, tired holes with a relentless, synchronised force.

Your legs were shaking violently at this point, entirely spent and completely unable to keep you steady. But you didn't have to worry about collapsing; two sets of massive, heavily calloused hands held you in an iron vice, keeping you firmly locked in place as they thoroughly broke you in.

“Fuck…” Simon started

“That’s it. You’re so fucking good for us, little dove,” Simon growled, his deep voice vibrating right through your back. The raw praise only amped up your bliss, making your head spin. With what little strength you had left, you leaned back against his massive chest, hooking a tired arm around his neck to pull him even closer into you.

“Knew she would make us proud,” Price beamed, his eyes completely transfixed on your flushed, completely fucked-out face. He gripped your hips even tighter, brutally picking up the pace from below.

The room was filled with the lewd, echoes of wet friction and heavy skin slapping against skin, completely drowning out your strangled moans.

“F-fuck… i-it’s too m-much,” you practically begged, your voice cracking as you felt that familiar, tight knot in your stomach winding up all over again.

But your desperate pleas only encouraged your superiors to push you even harder, driving you right over the cliff.

Before you could even process the sensory overload, your climax tore through you yet again. Your entire body went completely limp against Simon, your muscles twitching helplessly. There was no physical way you could keep this up, but the two men had absolutely no intention of letting you off the hook just yet.

“What do you think, Cap? I think she’s got at least one more in her, don’t you agree?” Ghost asked. His breath was ragged and hot against your ear, and you felt his large, heavy hand slide up to wrap firmly around your neck, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to restrict your breath and force your head back against his shoulder.

The sudden restriction of oxygen made your vision blur with stars, your pulse hammering frantically against his palm as your tight, overstimulated cunt convulsed around them.

“Think you’re right, Lieutenant,” Price panted, his dark eyes darkening further as he watched your helpless, choked-up expression.

With that, their rhythm became even more brutal than before, their heavy bodies pistoning in a relentless, synchronized assault. 

All three of you were completely slick with sweat now. 

Simon kept his iron grip on your throat, using his other hand to reach around your torso, finding your hyper-sensitive, throbbing clit and rolling it at an evil, unforgiving pace that made you screech out a muffled cry.

At the same time, Price leaned up, capturing one of your sensitive nipples between his teeth and sucking hard enough to leave a deep, dark bruise.

You had never experienced this much overwhelming pleasure in your entire life. Somehow, your body found a second wind, and you crashed into another shattering orgasm—so intense you genuinely thought you were going to explode.

Both men were right behind you. With a final few deep, punishing thrusts, they both let out guttural roars, spilling their hot, heavy cum deep inside your holes, completely filling you to the brim.

As they finally pulled out, your legs gave way entirely. They gently lowered your trembling, spent body onto the weathered mattress before stepping back and standing up.

Lying flat on your back, you could only blink through the haze, admiring their toned, god-like statures. They stood panting in the dim light, their skin glistening with a mixture of sweat and your own slick juices as they proudly admired their handiwork.

“You did well, Sergeant,” Simon murmured, his voice returning to its usual quiet rumble. “Maybe that'll teach you to not be a brat in the future”, he teased, turning to leave the room to grab you a glass of water in a merciful attempt to bring you back down to reality.

“Think this should probably become a regular team-building exercise,” Price panted, chuckling to himself as he followed closely behind the Lieutenant.

You lay there frozen on the mattress, your muscles twitching as you tried to comprehend what the absolute fuck had just happened—while secretly hoping this was far from the last time they’d break you in.

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