#blueywrites

You push the gym door open with your shoulder and get hit with a heavy waft of warm, stale air, carrying the tang of rubber mats layered over sour, baked-in sweat, the kind that never dissipates even with the windows cracked. Inside, the training room is hotter than you'd expected with how the weather's been lately, and your leggings and long-sleeved compression shirt would be making you uncomfortable already if it weren't for the metal water bottle sweating cold where it's tucked under your arm. The room is quiet, filled only with the low humming of old fluorescents, full of a peacefulness abruptly broken when your bottle clatters loudly as you set it down onto a bench. The sound is jarring enough to make your ears twitch, a flick of silky, sable fur mirrored by a second flick across the room— a pair darker and bristlier than your own, run between by an overgrown strip of deep brown hair.

Soap.

He materializes into your awareness ears-first, sitting on a bench further into the room with his legs spread wide and a damp towel slung around his neck. You blink, caught off guard, having been hoping for Gaz today— since you'd first joined the 141, the other sergeant has always been your sparring partner, swapping out with Ghost occasionally at the lieutenant's fancy.

Secretly, you've always preferred it when the masked wolf hybrid is otherwise occupied; his training is relentless, the kind that has you scrambling to keep your footing from the moment he directs you to the mat. Plus, he's eerily silent the whole time you're sparring with him, aside from throwing out a curt performance review only once you've collapsed, jelly-limbed and with your ego fully deflated, onto a bench at the end of everything. Gaz, though— he gives you strategy between the blows, tracks you with those calm, dark eyes, lets you breathe when fatigue begins to edge into your posture without making you feel like you have to ask for a break. Your tail always gives a little wag when you catch sight of Kyle's tall but far-less-hulking silhouette through the narrow window in the gym door.

Johnny is no Gaz, and he's no Ghost, either; he's a secret third thing you hadn't thought you'd find here today. And he must catch that flicker across your face, the ghost of a falter you're too slow to hide, because even though he grins— wide and crinkly-eyed like he does when greeting you at mess or back in the den— one of his tall ears tips back flat as he teases, “Price needed Garrick for a comms check or summat, so… guess yer stuck wi’ me instead.”

Heat creeps up your neck at having offended him, baring itself in a doleful blink and a quick, wilted jerk of your fluffy white-tipped tail. You desperately don’t want to sour this— don’t want to give the impression that you're unhappy Soap will be training with you today, not when the 141 have been better to you than you'd ever hoped, considering the previous assignments you've had throughout your career. Those you worked with the had always made you feel small, not just in stature, but in status. Too jumpy, too eager, too feral for the humans and yet not feral enough for the kind of hybrids who join the military. Yet, despite your apprehension when you saw what Laswell had gotten you onto— a task force comprised of four of the toughest canine operators you'd ever encountered, and all wolves, no less— these men had taken you in without a moment of fuss. They made sure you ate, made sure bigger hybrids didn’t muscle you around, made sure you stayed fit and up to speed and had a place to sleep in their den at the end of every grueling day.

And it had been that way since you first arrived at Hereford several months ago. Defying all of your previous experiences in the armed forces, those four wolves had welcomed a little Shetland sheepdog as pack, and you're grateful for that every day.

You aren't gonna fuck that up now.

Flustered, contrite, your bark comes quick and too sharp. “No!”

Soap's expression twitches, and even your ears flatten at the abruptness in your own voice. Sheepishly, you elaborate, “Just wasn’t expecting you, is all.”

The dog in you still calls for you to lick your lips, to salivate in apology. Instead, you push a teasing tone to try to match his, softening it with what's probably an overly earnest smile. “This is better— you’re closer to my size, anyway.”

You hope it isn't a gamble to rib on him being the shortest wolf on the team— even if he is closest to your size, he still has at least a few inches on you in every direction— so it's with relief that you see his ears flick forward again, back into a relaxed posture. “Aye." He cocks his head, crosses his arms as he regards you; a grin splits, teeth bright, framed by tanned skin and dark scruff. "Dun’t mean I'll be takin' it easy on ye, though, wee Nip.”

He lobs your callsign at you and it lands as intended, fizzing in your blood just like the first time you were given it— about two weeks after your introduction to the team, when you got too a little too wound-up during a drill and ended up snagging Price's jacket with your teeth, pulling at his shoulder when he wouldn't move for cover fast enough for you. You'd been mortified about it, but the captain merely eyed you wryly, saying, 'The only time I'll allow you t'nip me like that again is if I'm about t'walk over a bloody landmine, medic.' And from there, it stuck— a barb in your fur you never want to pluck out, because it throbs to the rhythm of 'pack' and 'belonging'.

The mention of your callsign— your pack name— has you practically springing onto the mat. Feet nimble, tail wagging, you watch with bright eyes as he drags the towel from his neck. Thick fingers treat it lazily, let it drop with a slap to the floor as the wolf hybrid unfolds, rises to his full height, stretches and pulls his head until his neck audibly cracks. And as you track the movement, something incorporeal shifts— in him, or within you, maybe, because now the tanlines that cut across his biceps look more stark, the skin down his arms a deeper bronze, the veins and tendons more proud where they taper at his thick wrists. The sweat that glues his tank to his torso glazes him rather than drenching him, matting the fur that peeks past the edges of low-cut arm holes, furling out dense and dark over his ribs and the barest curve of his pec that can be seen.

"Good," you reply finally, addressing his taunt about not going easy on you, centering your weight in preparation to spar. And your eyes pretend they're only darting over his stance to look for weak spots, opportunities you might exploit. But when his feet slide apart, bunching his shorts up higher on hairy thighs as firm as tree trunks, your gaze catches there in a way that's far more animal than tactical.

Before you can begin to examine that, he's on you.

The first clash comes quick— Soap's palm stinging your skin, your forearm jutting against his as you block, jarring bone on bone. His footwork thuds along rubber as you're herded backward, dancing away from him until your tail brushes the wall mats. You duck low, ears flicking tight against your head, and dart under his guard to tap his ribs. That first contact from you draws a laugh— sharp, delighted— and he answers with a shove that makes your heels skid against the rubber.

The match continues, and your chest thrums throughout each successive meeting and parting between you. This training feels different than it has with Ghost or Gaz, the closeness and contact strangely charged with Soap, and you find yourself matching him innately— snapping teeth in a grin, eyes alight, shoulders loose. He presses, you push back. He catches your wrist, you twist out, palm grazing the inside of his bicep; it’s warm, damp, the scrape of your hand stirring salt and metal into the air. You fight for the upper hand, and your face mashes briefly against the crook of his arm during the ensuing scramble. The scent rushes you— male, wolfish musk, Soap’s sweat— landing low in your throat, causing something inside you to stir like tinder catching.

You nip him then, and not like the way you nipped Price. This one is a cheeky snap, seeking directly for him beyond the cling of fabric, brief but not gentle. The firm give of his tricep between your teeth satisfies an urge that feels somehow similar to and yet distinctly different from the pull to herd someone. You don't know why you do it— only that the impulse strikes you, and you follow it without thinking twice.

For all his own teasing and bravado, Soap seems at a loss with what to do with you actually biting him. His jerks, eyes showing too much white, and muscles which were sure and ready to deliver a reflexive counterblow lock within that moment of uncertainty.

The instant you notice that hesitation, you resolve it quickly with a sneeze: dry but loud, canine communion that bridges the gap between intention and reception to tell him, 'I'm playing with you; play with me, too.'

It snaps the thread of tension instantly. A feral smile starts to break over Soap's face even before his weight comes forward, and your own lips stretch to match it, full of genuine enjoyment. You dart back when he moves at you, nimble and springy, both of your tails lashing behind you as you consider whether to pivot and run. But Soap reads you too well. He boxes you in too quick, forcing you to exchange another volley with him. It's fast and rough, the slap of your palms loud against his, your shoulders slamming together in a grapple that has you both laughing under your breath even as you strain. Sweat beads on your temples, trickles hot down your spine, and that musk of his you'd caught whiffs of earlier is inescapable now, thick and heady at the back of your throat where scent and taste meet. The smell is so potent it makes your fur stand on end, and each subsequent breath just pulls more of your attention towards him instead of the win.

In what may be your last hurrah of the match, you manage to twist free, then nearly get around him so that he has to lunge to catch you. He does, chest colliding with yours in a shove that drives you back toward the center of the mat. Your heart hammers, half from the exertion, half from the wild spark crackling in your belly as you duck low, ears flicking back. Tasting the end, Soap follows, tail stiff and upright; finally, he manages the turn that puts your balance wrong, and in the next beat you’re on your back, breathless at the thud of the mat meeting you, his body braced above.

It's a loss that feels nothing like one.

You pant under him, staring up into blue eyes gone even brighter during the fight. And from one instant to the next, something changes. Your breaths stutter as the distance between you shrinks to nothing, as Soap leans close, a solid wall of a man pressing over you. And like a whisper, his nose skims down the line of your throat.

You mean to shove, to wriggle, but your arms slacken when the heat of his breath floods your skin, when his tongue flashes once, quick and hot, over the salt-slick hollow at the base of your neck. You feel him do it again, slower this time, and the sound that comes out of him is something between a laugh and growl, a bastardized rumble that vibrates against your ribs.

Your ears twitch wildly, unsure whether to pin flat or perk high, caught between two sharp and competing instincts. They keep you moving under him, hips shifting, tail brushing the mat in restless arcs that he pays no mind to as he noses lower— across your sternum, down your belly, snuffling like he’s mapping you by scent alone. Each huff of air is hot through your shirt, his teeth grazing lightly as he drags his mouth across you in little testing licks that scrape against fabric, leaving your skin beneath achingly bereft. He’s thorough about it, torturously thorough, and your chest begins to rise unevenly as you realize exactly where he’s heading.

By the time his nose presses just above your waistband, your whole body is rushing with hormones. Adrenaline, nerves, and heated excitement mix in a potent rush that leaves your skin tingling and fever-hot. Your thighs flex, jerking inward at the contact even though you expected it, and you feel his furred ears flick against them when they stop just short of closing on him. Soap pauses— for a heartbeat, maybe two— only to huff again, not balking. You twitch in turn, muscles tightening within the tumult, still caught between recoiling and relenting.

Your body answers before your mind does.

Arms curl toward your chest, not in defense but in a loose huddle; thighs ease apart in a spill that lays you open beneath him. Your tail betrays you outright, as it often does— perks once, wagging fitful against the mat, begging where your voice won't. And instead of embarrassment, a different kind of heat crawls up your navel at the noise Soap makes in reply: a rumble, low and guttural, rattling up from his chest when he dips, digging his forehead firmly against your pubic bone. There, he buries his face and drags a deep breath between your legs.

He inhales like the scent of your sex is a meal— thick, long, thorough enough to scandalize. At the height of the breath, a shudder runs through him; his ears flick back, pinning low. And when he finally exhales, noisy like a sigh and a groan combined, his tail strikes the mat in a blunt, hungry thud.

That first scenting seems to unlock something as Soap presses his face even harder to your crotch, bold and shameless, the stretch of your leggings no barrier at all when he buries his nose into the seam and snuffles. You feel every huff of it— hot gusts sinking into you, warming your bones— and your breath snags into a helpless stutter. His teeth scrape lightly at the fabric, a testing nip at the seam, and when his eyes flick up to look at you, the blue is nearly gone, swallowed by molten dilation.

That look sears straight into your belly, speaks directly to the incorporeal inside you— the community of pack slanting sideways, changing forms. A new kind of intimacy, as yet unexplored, unfurling its potential in the form of your legs spreading open to welcome his mouth.

A sound slips from you before you can think to catch it— thin, high, plaintive. Truly pup-like, disparate from all the times they've jokingly called you that, more embarrassing for that fact. Your ears twitch wildly, pinning back, perking forward, then back again, swinging still between desire and mortification. Your thighs jerk tighter once more, brushing against the velvet edges of his ears, but as before, they don’t shut. They just tremble open again, slack and deliberate, until your knees slide even wider over his shoulders.

Soap sees it— sees you. His grin cracks straight wolfish, his predator eyes gleaming at you over the stretch of your leggings, stare never wavering. “Tha’s it,” he rasps, accent roughened low. “Let me smell ye proper, pup.”

He noses in again, harder, breathing so deeply it sounds like he might suffocate on you. The sound wrenches a twitch from your cunt, your whole body jolting with it, and he groans into the fabric as if the motion pained him. His claws snag clumsily at your waistband, a frustrated snarl catching in his throat when the stretch resists. There is no finesse. He just yanks, urgent, dragging fabric until it snaps free of your hips in one harsh pull.

The cool air wafts over the fine fur on your legs as the layer peels away. His blazing breath hits you raw a second later, nothing to separate him from the soft give of you, and the immediacy of it makes your belly flutter up against your ribs. He gives you barely a moment to adjust before pressing his nose straight to the swell of your mound, the sable tuft crowning you catching damp under his snuffle. He drags hard down the seam, inhaling one more time, thick enough that his shoulders shake with it.

And then his tongue is on you— broad, rough, sudden. One claiming sweep through your slit that pulls a strangled hiccup from your chest.

He drags you open with it, flat and wet and hungry, lapping again and again until you begin to melt into a slick mess under his mouth. Your voice cracks on little moans, every nerve in you tuned to the rasp of his tongue as it presses and drags, slicking you up in heavy, deliberate strokes. His palms lock to your hips and hold, claws pricking shallow as he pins you wide. You twitch, squirm, but he doesn’t let up, and when your tail jerks frantically against the mat, he only rumbles harder into your curls—the animal in him delighted by the response you weep into his mouth.

You’re panting hard now, chest heaving, damp shirt clinging to nipples that rub maddeningly under the tight fabric with every restless shift. Perhaps because because he's tired of your squirming, Soap drags one hand higher, thick fingers spreading heavy over your belly and ribs. His claws sink right through your compression shirt, digging in and dragging little pinpricks over your soft skin, and when you glance down and catch sight of your body under his span— his stretched fingertips grazing the curve of your breasts, the heel of his hand pressing just above your hipbones— you're hit with just how dwarved you are by this man, how small you feel by comparison. It makes your body shudder eagerly with desire and submission. Heat floods straight into your sex, making your hips buck against his sucking mouth; their writhing becomes more pointed, no longer aimless and reactive, now intent on following what instinct dictates:

Crawl onto your belly. Lift your ass. Show off your pussy to him.

Soap is still holding you down, keeping you pinned as he whets his hunger on your hole. But the second he wavers— as soon as the tension in his spread fingers flags just slightly— your body insists on its way.

You roll. Belly to the mat, cheek pressed down, arms curling under you, fluffy sable tail flipping high with a sharp arc. You walk your knees wide, the motion pulling sticky thighs apart to reveal your plump pussy— wet and glistening, slick with his saliva and your own need, bared back to him in the most primal gesture there is. Your whine slips out broken, his name caught thin inside it.

“Johnn—”

The word gets caught between your teeth; they clack when his weight collapses over your back the moment you present, warm and crushing. Only the fact that you're a soldier keeps your knees from giving out as he falls upon you— thighs bracketing yours, chest heaving against your spine, heat puffing in time against the back of your head. He breathes ragged there, a rough, hungry rasp that trembles when he says your name low. You feel his abdomen bunch in the beginnings of a shallow rut, and the motion rubs velvet steel along the swell of your ass, pressing hard and trailing a warm smear in its path.

“Christ almighty, pup,” he husks in a voice like brass grinding on stone, so far from his normal teasing brogue that the guttural sound is jarring. "Fuckin'— beggin' me t'mount ye.”

You do your best to shift from knee to knee, though the motion is slight, trying to jockey the cradle of his hips to do exactly that. His weight along your back heavies even further as he angles down without hesitation, and it's followed by a blunt pressure nudging at your opening. It intensifies— slips— then finally catches, driving forward in an eager surge that forces the breath right out of your lungs.

Your hips jerk at the way he burns, slips quick despite the thickness of his cock, brutally pressing you apart; your breath fractures into a long, needy whine as your sex flutters, tightening reflexively and releasing just as quick as he humps his way inside. With your wetness and his single-minded focus, it takes only a few pulses of his hips before Johnny bottoms out with a grunt, air wafting over you as his tail disturbs it, lashing behind him.

For a stunned second you can only feel the heavy, intimate fullness of him lodged inside you—how immense he feels against your soft center, how every tiny muscle folds and clenches around the intrusion. Your claws scrape at the mat; small, helpless sounds spool out of you, half-plea, half-thrill.

And then he starts to properly fuck you.

Soap’s not gentle about it; he's never pretended to be a gentle sort of wolf or man. He ruts into you with short, brutal strokes, snapping his hips to pound against the curve of your smaller body. The noise of it— skin on skin, the wet slap of cotton yielding as your sweaty shirts collide, your own voice yipping and cracking— fills the little room until it’s thick with the two of you and the cadence of his thrusts. You find yourself losing thread of thought under the drum of it. No part of you thinks here; only senses. There is only sex-musk and the tang of sweat, sweet slick and the wet press of his palms at your hips, the steady battering of pleasure into your cunt, curling up steadily tighter in your abdomen.

He hits the same shallow, relentless rhythm over and over, and you feel every inch, each hard slam folding you toward the mat. Each jolt of his tip against the end of you flares bright, makes your body grasp for more; your pussy milks him, slick and greedy, every tight roll around him a provocation. And he growls and rides that friction like an animal released from all restraint. His hands dimple your flesh, claws digging into the meat of your flanks now, rougher to keep you from straying far as he fucks in forcefully. The pricks are stinging, drawing blood maybe, but you barely feel the pain as your hips strain high, feet scrabbling on the floor to keep your cunt up so he can drive you down.

And Soap must feel the way you're working for it, too, because theres a rumble along your sweat-soaked back. He slants his jaw, soft wet lips and the smooth bone of teeth grazing the skin at your temple, bumping you in time with his fucking.

“Take't…tha's it…”

It's a slur against the side of your face, barely recognizable as speech, stuttering around the jarring of his thrusts into you. A growl that melts into a rumbling bark follows.

"Nnnnip."

You arch into him with a high keen, tail flicking frantic, breasts heaving against gravity as you strain for more— more of him, all of him, wanting the pleasure and the pain and the spill and the plug. And Soap's rhythm begins to falter as your neediness increases. His hips grind in more erratically, cock beginning to swell inside you; the panting and rumbling that breaks loose from his throat is constant now, every muscle in his frame tightening over you. You feel the shift in him before it happens, the tremor that rolls through his shoulders, the increasingly desperate snap of his thrusts as your body drives his toward climax.

Then he’s coming.

With a quick jerk, heat splashes, then begins to flood you in heavy surges. Pulse after pulse, his cock jerks hard as he buries himself as deep as he can. And even though his knot presses up against your slick lips, too late, too big to bully inside now, each hot gush of his release makes your cunt clench reflexively around him, milking each drop happily nonetheless.

With your instincts now sated, you turn your head, wanting to look back at him. But Soap's teeth catch quick at the slope of your shoulder— firm but not deep, a grip that commands you stay.

You whine in distress, not at the pain of the bite but at the correction in it. Still, you do as bidden, going limp and still. When your muscles slacken, the pressure of his teeth eases with them, the bite softening as his hips roll and grind forward. He rides the end of it out against you like that— cock buried deep, knot firm against your pussy lips, furry balls hitching against your inner thighs.

And as your distress ebbs, the sensation of being filled, held, marked rises like sweet cream to the top of your awareness. Against the mat, you snuffle and grunt your satisfaction, cheek smushed to the rubber, the base of your tail bobbing the best it can beneath the heavy press of his belly. Gradually, Soap's whole body sags as the tension breaks, chest collapsing against your back, relieving your overworked muscles as the weight finally presses you prone to the floor. He groans, the sound muffled into your skin, before expanding as his jaw releases and then collapsing into a pant as his head falls against the curve of your neck.

Pleasure quiets; the room hums with a fluorescent buzz and the faint slap of Soap's tail against the mat. Your own tail endeavors to wag harder against his furry belly, stubborn as always, and the motion makes him huff low in amusement. A broad palm slides up your side, dragging dewy warmth fondly from hip to rib; his tongue echoes the move along the curve of your shoulder, rasping over the throbbing divots where he'd bitten you. He doesn't say anything about it, just laps until any lingering ache has been smeared away beneath spit and heat. Then he noses upward, slow, pressing at your ear until it flicks against his tongue.

You turn your head again, and when he lets you this time, you cant your cheek toward him in a silent bid for contact. He meets you there with his nose bumping into the side of your jaw, a firm snuffle into your sweat-damp skin. Your eyes slip closed as he breathes you in, long and deep, then huffs hot against your cheek, the sound full of a bone-deep contentment you feel too.

You've been teammate and medic to the 141 from the beginning, first happy to be accepted, then thrilled to be welcomed as pack. Yet as this new layer of communion with Soap begins to settle over you, to knit itself into your social framework— animal and human both, unique in a way only hybrids experience— you only vaguely sense the enormity of how this will shift things. Like waking in a strange room completely devoid of light, you can try to stretch your hands out into the pitch black, but you will make little sense of what your fingertips brush against: the ways your life will now be pulled, pushed, twisted, reshaped.

How everything will change.

Eventually, even in the extra warmth trapped here in the gym, your bodies begin to cool. Moisture dries on fur and skin; gooseflesh prickles in the places his body heat doesn't cover. With a quick shake of his ears, Johnny shifts, his hips rocking back. The slow drag of his cock leaving you makes you grunt low, and in turn, he huffs when he slips free, one hand steadying at your hip as his spend seeps out thick between your thighs. The scent of it rises immediately— sharp, musky, undeniable— and you prop yourself on an elbow, twisting in interest to look back at where you leak.

Both pairs of ears, yours and his, flick forward, attentions snagged by the potent smell of his claim on you. It clings heavy, wet along your slit, against your inner thighs, matted in the sable tuft crowning your mound.

You know it’ll follow you out of this room no matter how much you scrub.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s here for the file.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In the folder.”

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

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

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

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

“What’s on the third floor?” he asks.

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

“And backup?”

“Two guards posted outside, unarmed but trained.”

Nikolai hums. “Where are you from?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

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

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

“Aha. I thought so.”

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

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

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

“She’s giving us the layout, mate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just me.”

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

You stay very, very still.

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

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

“Used to what?” you ask, too quickly.

“Being looked at.”

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

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

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

But now—

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

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

Your mouth drops open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine,” you say.

It's clear they aren't convinced.

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

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

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

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

You look up at him.

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

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

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

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

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

The word lands like a thumb on your tongue.

Sweetheart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That makes both of them pause.

And smile.

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

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

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

“Let us take care of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something in you folds instead of flinching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’ve already failed in that.

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

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

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

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

He’s right.

You don’t.

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

“You’re wet.”

It isn’t a question.

You whimper.

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

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

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

“No! I mean, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s see you, darling.”

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why would I wear these?

Why didn’t I check?

Why the fuck am I still here—

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

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

Would actually want you.

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

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

“Bend over.”

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

He presses, and you fold.

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

A spank, right over your soaked panties.

Crack— and your knees buckle.

Oh my God—

Your gasp is a ragged, dizzying inhale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Price steps into your view.

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

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

He's stupidly, devastatingly thick.

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

And Price laughs.

He laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like she thinks she can stop me.”

He chuckles. “That’s adorable.”

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

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

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

Nikolai presses in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he brings his balls to your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

They both laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just obey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet—

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

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

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

He pulls out.

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

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

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

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

“Was,” Price mutters.

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

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

It’s torture of the most exquisite kind.

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

But your mouth is full again.

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

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

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

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

And that makes things escalate quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

You latch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please, you wail wordlessly. Please—

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

You shatter.

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

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

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

But Price doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow down.

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

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

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

And your mouth is still on Nikolai’s balls.

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

And your tongue slides lower.

Past the seam.

Past the curve of his perineum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel Price falter; his rhythm staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause, breathless.

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

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

The effect is immediate.

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

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

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

“Jesus— fucking hell.”

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

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

And then it’s quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words bloom with new weight now, taking root.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe it has.

The scent hits you before the sound does. Sharp, brackish sweat cut with gunpowder and oil, layered under something deeper: leather, steel, the dry stink of sand and smoke. Your head turns instinctively.

Soap strides in like he owned the place, flushed and gleaming from exertion. His dark shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, translucent with sweat in places, and there's a scrape on his forearm that hasn’t stopped bleeding yet. His tactical vest hangs open, bouncing against his hips as he moves. He has that look again—eyes alight with residual adrenaline, skin pink from wind and heat, hair still damp and pushed messily back from his brow. He's chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too broadly, which means he has something stupid or dangerous in mind. Probably both.

“Christ, it’s warm in here,” he mutters, toeing off his boots near the radiator, which clangs faintly with old heat. “Were you lot tryin' to boil yourselves alive while we were gone?”

Ghost follows him in, quieter. He peels off his gloves without a word, the black fabric damp in his hands. He isn’t even out of his gear yet, still dressed in his reinforced trousers, boots caked with dried mud, black compression shirt clinging to his back and chest. His skull mask is pushed up, exposing the lower half of his face; the mouth veneath is drawn, his jaw flexing beneath a few days’ growth of stubble. You can see the faintest smudge of something dark on the side of his neck.

Neither of them have showered.

And yet your stomach flutters.

“Back already?” you ask, voice lower than usual, though you hadn’t intended it to be.

“Early extraction. Ghost didn’t even break a sweat,” Soap drawls, flicking the fridge open and extracting a bottle of amber liquid from the back like it's his reward. “Which is bollocks, ‘cause I’m about two degrees from heatstroke.”

He unscrews the cap with his teeth and fishes out three glasses from the shelf: one a chipped mug, another intact, and a clear plastic cup with the England crest on it.

“C’mon, love,” Soap says, sliding onto the couch beside you with the practiced ease of a man who both doesn't understand personal space and feels he doesn't need any, especially with you. “You’re off shift, yeah?”

You nod. “Just.”

“Then drink with us. Celebrate a job well done." He wears a wide, slanted smile, one that makes your belly flip when it conjures the memory of him wearing the same expression above you, his ID disc swinging from the chain around his flushed neck, skimming the valley between your bouncing breasts. "No bullets in my arse this time,” he adds, and you blink the haze of the memory away, left warmer as you roll your eyes playfully the way you know he wants you to.

You've shared a bed with him more than once, during late nights when the air was too heavy to sleep, long stretches between assignments, moments stolen in the lull between your worlds. It was easy with him. Good. Sometimes rough, sometimes slow, always welcome. And never more than what it was. But lately, your eyes had started to wander to the sergeant's looming shadow: the man who never touched and rarely spoke, but always seemed to be watching you whenever you were near.

And Johnny had noticed; he wasn’t the jealous type. He’d seen the way your glances caught on Ghost, too, how the room felt just a little too loaded when he and the big man visited medical or you crossed paths with them at the rec. He knew, too, that Ghost had heard the sounds you made together through the paper-thin walls of their bunks. That he had listened. Johnny told you so once, voice low and filthy while he fucked you slow, laughing when it made you go all soft and squirmy underneath him.

But Ghost never said a word. Because Ghost, the reticent bastard, wouldn’t make a move.

Not unless coaxed.

And not by his sergeant.

You glance toward Ghost, who has folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, his gaze cool and unmoved. The amber light flickers against his cheekbones, casting sharp shadows up the bridge of his nose. His dark eyes are on you again, and you shiver at the quiet intensity there.

“He’s not joining,” you murmur, more an observation than a question.

Soap flashes you a devilish grin, leaning closer. You can smell the salt on him, the heat rising from his skin like a slow exhale. “He never joins. He just sulks and stares.”

“I can hear you,” Ghost says flatly.

“Don' I know it,” Soap says wickedly, looking at you pointedly before pouring two fingers of whiskey into your glass, then his own. “Here. Just one.”

The glass is cool in your palm, slightly sticky from whatever surface it last sat on. You raise it, hesitate, then throw it back. The burn is immediate: sharp, medicinal, tinged with something smoky and a little sweet. It settles in your chest like a hot coal.

You exhale, lips parting with a soft hiss.

Soap watches your mouth the entire time.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s a look,” he murmurs. “You always this good at takin’ it down?”

You shoot him a glance, more amused than offended. “You’re shameless.”

He leans in again, voice low now, warm as the whiskey. “Only when I’ve earned it.”

You don’t move when his fingers brush the hem of your sweatshirt, nor when he looks past you, over your shoulder, to where Ghost still stands unmoving. Sharp like a snap decision, Soap leans back and catches his index in your mug, dragging it with a scrape of porcelain across the table to meet his plastic cup for another drink. He pours with more ceremony this time, angling the bottle like he's showing off. The whiskey catches the low lamplight, shining golden as it sloshes into your mismatched glass. He fills it higher than before— definitely more than a shot— and slides it across to you like a challenge.

“One for my glorious return,” he declares, raising his own. “And one for the quiet bastard over there.”

You glance over the low back of the couch again, but Ghost still hasn't budged.

Soap tips his head toward you. “You’ve gotta drink both, since he won’t.”

You scoff, your eyes returning to the Scot. “That hardly seems fair.”

“But it’s fitting,” Soap says, nudging the rim of your glass. “You look like you can take it.”

You hold his gaze as you lift the second drink, the burn still humming low in your belly from the first. The rim clinks against your teeth as you knock it back, the heat sharp enough to draw a quiet gasp as you swallow. A trickle escapes the corner of your mouth, trailing down the curve of your chin and catching at your soft jaw before dripping slowly toward your neck.

You move to wipe it— too slow.

Soap is already there.

“Messy, that,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your jaw before he drags the tip of his index finger up the length of the droplet. He raises it to his lips, tongue darting out, slow and shameless, as he sucks the whiskey from his skin.

You don’t mean to stare, but your eyes can't help but linger on the wet pink of his mouth. And when they flick up, his are waiting.

“You’ve not eaten, have you?” he asks, voice lower now. Not concerned. Curious. Maybe a bit wicked. “Changin' colors on me. Whiskey’s gone straight to your cheeks.”

You shake your head once, feeling the heat settle high in your face, ripening your complexion. “Snack on the way out. Didn’t have time.”

Soap makes a low sound and taps the glass again, watching the way your fingers curl around it.

Ghost still hasn’t spoken, but you can feel the weight of him in the room— feel the press of his attention even if he pretends to be indifferent. But you dont look at him again, afraid any sudden movement might break his trance and send him stomping.

Soap leans back against the couch, legs spreading slightly, shoulder brushing yours. “He’s not lookin’,” he bluffs, just loud enough for Ghost to hear. “Not even glancin’. Could be all over you right now, and he’d just stand there, arms folded, like a fuckin’ statue.”

You smile, ducking your head slightly, a little drunk already. Not on the alcohol, though that helps, but on the smell of him. The salt and earth, the heady stink of his undershirt, still damp from the field. Sunbaked cloth and body heat and grit.

Without thinking, you tilt closer, let your nose skim his collarbone. Your lips barely brush his skin as you press your face to the crook of his neck.

He stills. Just for a moment.

Then: “Christ, you are drunk.”

“I’m not,” you murmur, voice muffled against him. “You just smell really fucking good.”

That makes him laugh, his chest rising underneath your palm. “Filthy, you mean. Sweaty. Like I’ve not washed in days.”

“Exactly.”

He hums, his hand sliding across the back of the couch, heavy and warm behind you. He doesn't touch you, but the implication is there, all that muscle close enough to make your scalp prickle.

“Look at her,” Soap says suddenly over his shoulder, lifting his chin toward Ghost. “Look at how she’s already meltin’. S’all big-eyed and dewy, lips parted, pressed into me like she’s tryin’ to crawl inside my shirt.”

You go still, both afraid and thrilled that Soap might keep running his mouth like this, burst the whole bubble open after all.

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t want to touch her?” Soap continues, that teasing lilt sharpening just a little more. “Pretend you didn’t notice how she looked at my mouth when I licked my fingers clean?”

You feel your pulse flutter; you listen for it, but Ghost doesn't answer.

Soap’s voice drops to a hush, loud in your ear but meant only for Ghost. “Pretend you don’t picture what her thighs look like wrapped around one of us— both of us— drunk off the smell of it?”

Your breath catches— not just from the words, but from the way Soap’s arm shifts behind you, his forearm brushing the small of your back, possessive without pressure. Your cheeks burn hotter than the whiskey.

You lift your head, just enough to peek out from the crook of his neck. Ghost stands across the room like a statue carved from shadow: arms crossed, shoulders squared, chin tilted down just enough to obscure his eyes in the dim light. But you can still see the tight set of his jaw, the way his throat works when he swallows, the faint glisten of sweat around his nose.

You look at him, and you feel... seen. Whether he returns the gaze or not.

And yet Soap is the one touching you. Soap is the one letting you lean into him, letting your weight settle against his side like he wants to hold it.

“You’re so bloody soft,” he murmurs then, just for you. His palm slides down your back, slow, sweet, to rest at the curve of your waist. “All warm and squishy and fuckin’ lovely. Like a proper bed after weeks of concrete floors.”

You blink slowly, that ache between your thighs growing bolder.

“Bet you’d let us sink into you,” he goes on, lips brushing your hairline now. “Let us get all tangled up in this sweatshirt and those pretty thighs. Be better than any mattress we’ve had since we enlisted.”

He lets his hand settle lower— just at the edge of where soft belly meets waistband— and then he stills again, as if daring one of you to stop him.

“You’d let me have a nap right here,” he says, nuzzling your temple. “Wouldn’t you, love? Let me fuck you slow, then pass out on your tits like a man who’s earned it.”

The breath shudders out of you.

And when you looked again at Ghost, you see it: the clench of his hands where they grip his biceps, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the heat blooming behind his eyes like something primal, barely contained.

He is watching.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek back to Soap’s shoulder. “I do want that,” you murmur, voice low and intimate, but not shy.

Soap’s breath hitches just enough to tell you he heard.

He pulls you onto his lap without hesitation, strong hands guiding your hips into place like he’d thought about it already, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. The denim of his trousers is rough beneath you, the hard line of him unmistakable beneath the worn seam. His palms settle over your thighs first, then slide up to squeeze at your hips and the softness there, wide fingers digging in just enough to claim.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass…” he breathes, softer than you'd expect. “You feel so good. Like you were made for this.”

And those words, that tone, make you sink right into it. You drape yourself over Soap’s shoulders, your arms loose and lazy with drink and heat, fingers threading into the thick hair at his nape. His skin is warm there, damp still with sweat and tacky with the remnants of field-dust that hadn’t yet been rinsed away. You nose along the side of his throat, breathing in the raw, masculine scent of him— salt, smoke, leather, the tang of metal and blood. Faint cologne still clings in the hollow of his throat beneath the grime, like it's soaked into his skin after too many missions and too little rest.

God, he smells like something that had survived.

You press a kiss there, just a brush of your lips. And when he lets out a quiet, clipped groan, you smile.

You don’t need Ghost to move to know he's still there.

He stays where he is, propped against the far wall near the door, one shoulder pressed to the plaster, half-shadowed by the dull glow of the crooked floor lamp. But you can feel the tension from here, can see it in the rigid lines of his body, the way his arms hang loose at his sides now instead of folded, fists clenched like he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

He can’t see Soap’s hands anymore, you knew; can’t see where they’ve slipped beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. Could only guess what Johnny is doing from the way your body shifts when your hips roll and your thighs tense around him.

But you know he can see your face. And oh, do you want him to see it.

You let your head loll back a little, exposing your throat, and your lips part around a sigh that could have been a breath or a moan. Soap is teasing you now, his hands slow and roving beneath your sweatshirt, thumbs circling just above your waistband, not yet touching anything obscene, just feeling. Mapping the soft swell of your belly, the dimple at your hip, the curve where your flesh overflowed his grip. His voice is a rumble against your ear, low and hot.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, breath catching as you shift in his lap, brush against the hard ridge of him pressing against the zipper seam. “All plush and warm, makin’ a mess on me already. Can’t even fuckin’ see what I’m doin’, can he? Poor bloke’s gonna lose his mind.”

You bite your lip hard enough to feel it throb.

Your skin buzzes under the low light, humming with the lingering warmth of the whiskey, the teasing drag of Johnny’s hands, and the fever-dream heat of being watched so closely. Your lashes droop, your mouth soft and slack with pleasure that hasn’t even peaked yet.

And always, your eyes drift back to Ghost, pulled there as that nervous thrill tightens in your chest until the heat and the alcohol finally make something snap.

Lifting your head, arms still loose around Soap’s neck, you find him across the room. You don’t say a word, just let your eyes lock with his.

And then— languid, dreamy— you open your arms again. Fingers spread, palms exposed. A silent but clear invitation.

Ghost doesn't reply. But his jaw clench hard enough you can see it twitch, even from here.

You feel Soap chuckle where your chests press together, his voice molten.

“She wants you to see it, Ghost,” he purrs, unable to help himself from teasing. “Wants you to feel what you’re missin’.”

Then, to you, as his hands finally slide lower, gripping your hips:

“Tell me, love. You want me to make you come while he watches? Want him seein’ your face when you fall apart?”

You don't answer right away; instead, your gaze stays on Ghost across the room, watching the stoic man closely. And the signs are there: the muscles in his jaw are visibly flexed now, his fingers still clenched tight by his sides. His whole frame looks wired, like he's barely holding something inside, his eyes dark and fixed to your face as if trying to read every twitch of your lips, every shift in your breath.

Behind you, Soap’s hands squeeze, fingers digging possessively into your hips, rocking you gently over the hard ridge of him beneath his trousers. But you don’t look at him. Not yet.

Your voice, when it comes, is husky, warm with heat and whiskey, but clear.

“No,” you say, loud enough to carry across the room, soft enough to sound intimate. “I don’t want him to watch.”

There's a beat of silence.

Soap’s brow arches, his lips quirking like he's about to tease again—

And then you add, your tone slipping into something velvet and filthy, “I’d like him in my mouth.”

The room goes still.

Soap lets out a bark of laughter— low, delighted, breathless. “Fucking hell, love.”

You feel his hands clench again, tighter now, just shy of bruising as he pulls you down harder onto his lap, grinding you against the firm line of him. His breath is ragged against your ear, his chest rising fast beneath your weight.

“You hear that, Ghost?” Soap calls, his voice all bright amusement and dark hunger. “She doesn’t want you over there, sulkin’. She wants you down her fuckin’ throat.”

Still, Ghost doesn’t move. But you see it— the shift in his stance, the widening of his eyes, the way his chest expands with a deeper, slower breath like he's trying to ground himself but isn't succeeding. His knuckles are pale now, clenched so tight his veins rise stark beneath the skin.

And you know he's imagining it. Imagining your mouth on him. Imagining how you’d take him: on your knees maybe, or still warm from Johnny’s lap, lips kiss-bitten, eyes half-lidded and wet. You can see behind his gaze how badly he wants it.

How badly he wants you.

When he steps forward, it's without a word.

He doesn't rush— just steadily closes the space between himself and the couch, cautiously, controlled. It's the kind of movement a man makes when he’s already lost the argument with himself and is just trying not to lose his grip on everything else.

His boots barely make a sound across the concrete floor, his eyes on you the whole time. But not just you— he looks between you and Soap, the press of your bodies, the way your thighs frame Johnny’s lap, the bruising grip of his broad, tanned hands on your hips, the way they slip lower to knead your wide ass. His expression is unreadable, but his body betrays him.

Because by the time he reaches you, the thick ridge beneath his trousers is unmistakable: heavy, straining against the front of his waistband. And when you reach out with one hand— slow, like he might startle— you feel the subtle flinch in him.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your finger traces along his belt, featherlight, then circles the buckle. You feel him tense; his cock twitches visibly beneath the fabric when your knuckles brush over it.

You look up at him, heat pooling in your belly, your voice low.

“I meant it.”

Soap hums low in his throat, one hand slipping under the waistband of your leggings to grope at your ass as your fingers work open Ghost’s belt slowly. The buckle clinks, its metal warm from his body. You mouth at the front of his trousers through the fabric, catching the scent of him now, and god, is it thick. Deep and musky, soaked with sweat and the faded presence of gun oil.

You drop your jaw, dragging your tongue over the rough fabric, and Ghost hisses through his teeth.

Beneath you, Soap begins to rock you more deliberately now, the denim of his jeans rough against your leggings, his cock straining against the fabric, grinding up between the softness of your thighs.

“Go on, love,” he murmurs, voice hot and wicked in your ear. “Show him how pretty you suck cock. He’s been dyin’ to know.”

You drag Ghost’s waistband down with practiced slowness, hands trembling slightly from anticipation, from need. His cock springs free— thick, flushed, heavy. Your breath catches at the sight. And you can't help it; you steal a moment to bury your face against the coarse, sweaty curls at the base, inhaling greedily. He smells like sex and tension and everything that makes your mouth water.

You kiss the root, nuzzling, tongue darting out to taste the salt of his skin, the sweat collected there. Ghost groans— a low, guttural thing— and finally, finally, touches you, resting one large hand at the back of your head. It's heavy, dizzyingly large, cupping the curve of your skull with the sort of latent power you know could crush the bone if he wanted to.

But he doesn't; doesn't even tighten those thick, rough fingers. Ghost just holds you there, letting you taste him for the first time. You lose yourself in it for a moment, so much so that when Soap shifts under you, pulling your leggings down to mid-thigh, you sigh out a startled moan against Ghost's silken skin.

Soap groans when the curve of your ass presses down harder against his lap. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his tone almost awed as he bucks up to answer you. “You’re soaked.”

You don't reply, just open your mouth for Ghost, lips wrapping around the head of his cock, your tongue teasing the underside as you suck him in slow. Johnny shifts even more beneath you now, likely working his pants open, but it can't pull your attention from Ghost's cock. Its weight is obscene, stretching your mouth, and you revel in it— the taste, the heat, the way his thighs tremble slightly as you drag your tongue beneath the crown.

It's only when you feel Soap's blunt head bump clumsily against your pussy, red hot and eager, that you begin to quiver with need. Your hole flexes when he presses up, and your mouth drops open, and then they both slide into you in the same moment— your body welcoming them in, already open and wet, your breath hitching as your throat fills and your cunt does too. The angle is perfect: Soap buried deep from beneath, Ghost pulsing against your tongue, the two of them claiming you in tandem.

Ghost’s hips roll once— slow, cautious— and you moan around him in encouragement, the vibrations making him shudder. You keep one hand at his hip, grounding him, and reach the other to cup and knead his balls, slick with sweat, musky and perfect.

You're surrounded by them. By the scent, the weight, the breathless grunts and quiet curses and the heavy slide of Soap’s cock as he rocks up into you from below, forcing Ghost a little deeper into your mouth each time. Their rhythm syncs around you, your body nothing but sensation, exquisite and aching.

And Ghost—God, Ghost.

You look up at him, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, eyes wet with want. And he looks as wrecked as you feel. Silent, but his breathing is ragged, his lip caught between his teeth as he watches your mouth work him over with filthy reverence. The sight makes you moan softly, the weight of him thick on your tongue, the heat of him flooding your mouth. His foreskin slides wet and slow with every pass of your lips, and you tongue beneath it deliberately, learning the contours of him by feel. His taste is already blooming over your tongue: clean salt and musk, the silk of his skin steeped in the scent of sweat, fabric, and restraint finally slipping loose.

Soap shifts his grip, pulling you closer into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him fully now, your knees braced on either side of his hips, thighs spread, his cock sheathing deep inside you with every grind of your hips. The denim rasps against your skin, hot and textured, a perfect counterpoint to the slick glide of his cock.

He rocks into you again and again, slow and deep, his hands gripping your back like he can’t decide if he wants to fuck you or hold you.

And your mouth is still full of Simon.

You arch slightly over the back of the couch, low enough to give you leverage, high enough for him to stand comfortably before you. One of his hands grips your skull, gentle but anchoring, while the other braces against the backrest beside your shoulder. He's staring down at you now, jaw tight, chest rising hard.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny groans, his hands traveling up under your sweatshirt again, splaying even wider over your back, kneading more intently at your softness. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

You make a sound around Ghost’s cock: half moan, half admission.

“Having us both,” Johnny continues, voice velvet-rough. “Just like this. Me fuckin’ you full while you suck him off. God, you’re fuckin’ tight.”

You moan again, louder this time, and Ghost bites off a curse above you, soft and gritted. His cock twitches in your mouth, so you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, drag your lips slowly up the length of him before descending again, tongue tracing every ridge.

Johnny’s eyes never leave your face.

Your brow is damp with sweat, your skin glowing with heat, mouth stretched open and wet. You know how you looked— fucked-out, wanting, nearly wrecked— and knowing Johnny can't get enough of it just increases your pleasure.

“You love it, don’t you,” he pants, his voice rougher as he begins to fuck up into you harder now, making the slap of your bodies echo softly in the low-lit room. “Love bein’ between us like this. Mouth full, cunt full. Don’t even know who to come for.”

You whimper.

Then, just as he slams into that spot inside you that makes you jolt, you pull off Simon’s cock with a wet gasp, strings of saliva clinging to your lip as you drag your hand down to wrap around him instead. Still working him. Still letting him feel the slick grip of your worship.

Your voice comes out cracked and hoarse, eyes fluttering half-lidded as your body bounces in Johnny’s lap.

“Fuck, Johnny…” you breathe, loud enough to make Ghost shudder above you.

You jerk him slow, tenderly, your thumb rolling over the swollen head, still flushed and slick. Your free hand cradles his balls, gently tugging, letting your tongue drag along the underside of his cock as you look up at him, lashes damp.

“You can let go,” you whisper. “I want you to. I want to hear it.”

Simon’s mouth parts slightly, and something in your chest leaps, yearning for his answer. But no words come. Just a quiet, bitten-off grunt and the tremble in his thighs.

And all the while, Johnny keeps fucking you, his hips driving up into you from below, his voice spilling constant praise in your ear.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy, babe,” he whispers, biting your shoulder. “So fuckin’ perfect. Can feel how much you’re lovin’ this— fuck. Grip me like that again and I’m gonna come.”

You can feel it rising in you too, tight and dizzying, but it twists when he says that. And the sound you make, the sound that feeling squeezes out of you, is so desperate and raw it shocks even you.

The pace turns frantic.

Johnny's thighs flex beneath you now, solid and unyielding, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare skin, biting at the soft swell of your ass as he fucked up into you with brutal rhythm. Every thrust jolts you forward, makes your thighs and belly wobble with each bounce, your whole body alive with friction and heat. Sweat pools against your sides, between your breasts, slicking the waistband of your leggings where they cling around your knees.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass—” Johnny growls into your neck, his voice strained and ragged.

You're panting, moaning, arms limp around his shoulders as you take it, want it, so very badly.

But your mouth needs more.

It needs him.

You turn back to Ghost, eyes hazy, lips wet, and opened for him again.

His cock slides back over your tongue with no hesitation this time, just need. Your arms wrap loosely around his hips, holding him close, grounding yourself to the sharp lines of his body as Johnny bounces you hard enough to rock his cock deeper into your throat.

Simon doesn’t move anymore, doesn't thrust. just holds you, both of his hands gripping your head now, fingers flexing, breath hitched in his chest.

And still you moan. Louder now. Tighter.

Each of Johnny’s thrusts forces Simon deeper, and each inch of him against your tongue makes your head spin. Your jaw aches, your cunt aches, your mind spirals.

You can barely think.

You only know that you want them, both of them, to fill you, to unravel for you, to give you the evidence of their pleasure, that last piece of themselves.

You whimper around Simon’s cock, eyes glassy, drool slipping from the corners of your mouth, needing—

And then—

Low. Hoarse. Like it's being torn from him, Ghost speaks.

“Fuck— love, I’m not gonna last—”

It breaks you open.

You clench around Johnny so hard it makes him gasp. His hands fly to your hips, anchoring, his next thrust wild and uncoordinated as his orgasm slams into him.

“Jesus fuck—” he chokes, buried deep, spilling inside you with a low, broken moan.

You sob around Simon’s cock, grinding down hard on Johnny as your own climax overtakes you— wet and fierce, like your body can't hold it in anymore. Your legs shake, toes curling in your socks, pleasure crashing through you with dizzying intensity.

And Simon—

You feel him pulse on your tongue, thick and hot, his hips bucking forward in a stuttered jerk as he comes hard down your throat, voice breaking in a guttural moan.

“Shit, love— fuck—”

You hold him, let him give it all to you. Swallow what you could, the rest slipping from your lips, dripping down your chin as you whimper through the aftershocks. Your thighs tremble, muscles twitching, your whole body flushed and shaking with exhaustion and satisfaction and something more you can't begin to name.

Gradually, everything slows. Softens.

Simon’s hands ease in your hair, smoothing it gently now. One slips to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the mess with startling tenderness. Johnny is still beneath you, arms wrapped around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder, breath coming in hard, hot gusts.

And you stay there, bodies tangled in the low flicker of lamplight as your skin begins to cool. The room is quiet now, save for the slow, exhausted inhales of three people too wrung out to move just yet. Johnny’s face is still tucked against your shoulder, his grip slack but lingering, like he didn’t want to let go. Simon’s thumb is at your cheek, still smoothing gently along the bone like he hasn’t realized he's doing it.

Your voice breaks the silence— thin, rasped, but unmistakably smug.

“Welcome home.”

There's a beat.

Then Ghost huffs out a short laugh, almost a scoff, though still fond. He ducks his head slightly, one hand rubbing his face like he can’t believe you.

Johnny lets out a wheezy breath of a laugh beneath you, hands squeezing your waist.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, voice still hoarse. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“Good timing, right?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself sink into their warmth.

Simon’s hand moves to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading wide, grounding. Johnny’s thumb traces slow circles into the softness of your hip.

And for a while, none of you say anything more.

You don’t need to.

Price likes to fuck you before missions, to empty his head and get himself sharp before going into the field. Theoretically, he could just jack off to achieve the same post-nut clarity, but why would he when he can rut into your pliant, willing cunt instead? He especially likes to do it when you're set to leave on mission first thing in the morning. He'll show up at your bunk at 3 or 4am, already ready to ship out while you're still in your sleep shirt and cotton bikini briefs. Not particularly sexy, but he's gonna strip them off you right quick anyway. You think maybe he gets off on the contrast-- him in full uniform minus his vest and weapons, you pinned beneath him all bare with your soft parts made vulnerable, pretty with your nipples perked up tight from rubbing on his fatigue shirt. He typically fucks you in a mating press, beating into you hard and fast with single-minded purpose. Your moans and squeals and grasping arms clawing at his back are secondary; for Price, it's all about letting the muscle memory take over, his head a blank slate as he focuses on only the sensations in his body: the burn in his abs, the smack of his thighs against your ass, the steadily mounting pleasure that flares brighter when he hits you just right and your pussy squeezes him like a vice. He's not particularly trying to make you cum, but once he finds his release and pulls out, straightening his clothes and patting you on the bum like a silent 'atta-girl,' he's happy if you did. He'll nod approvingly like he does when you do well in one of his maintenance drills. Briefly, he'll let his blue eyes crinkle, and then the captain's back-- reminding you it's still wheels up in an hour, no matter how fucked out you are :(

Soap likes to use you as a reward for a job well done when you all return to base. He burns off his residual adrenaline by fucking you with his tongue and his fingers and his cock until he's finally out of energy, which can take hours. In the field, he'll motivate himself by imagining what he's gonna do to you once he gets back, working himself up until, by the time you reach exfil, he's practically chomping at the bit to get at you. On the chopper, the guys know to leave the seat beside you open for Soap cause otherwise he'll make a scene. And the whole flight, he's crowding you into the wall, plastered to you thigh to shoulder, searing you with body heat and smelling of foreign earth, gunpowder, sweat, and testosterone. Sometimes he doesn't talk, just sits there breathing hard through his nose until you hit the tarmac, at which point he springs up, curls an arm around your neck, and hauls you along with him toward the barracks. Other times, he sets little challenges for himself-- trying to break his pr for shot accuracy, for example. And if he succeeds, he spends the flight with his head ducked close to your ear, murmuring in that rough brogue exactly what he'd been doing to you in his head as he cleared rooms and set charges. Then, he places a heavy hand on your thigh, squeezing and kneading as he whispers to you. He'll wait a bit so that when he finally sneaks his fingers down between your legs, he'll find your fatigues a little damp, your pussy so drooly for him that she managed to soak through the protective fabric. It's a guarantee he'll later be gorging himself on your sweet wet cunt. He especially loves to pin you down with his thick, tanned arms, pressing his forearm hard into your pelvis to keep you from squirming away as he eats your pussy until you're teary from overstimulation :(

Gaz likes to fuck you in the downtime between missions, especially when you've been on base awhile awaiting your next assignment. There's only so many things he can do to occupy himself, after all. He always whizzes through the debrief paperwork; he runs through his new novels in a week or two max, and he refuses to read on his phone; and there's only so many times he can destroy Soap at gin rummy before it gets old. So once that familiar boredom begins to pluck at him, Gaz will resume his games with you. The type of attention he pays you will ripen, turning from warm to heated; he'll start shooting you those extra-sweet smiles you like extra-often, shifting his normal sarcastic humor into flirty teasing. With a word here and a subtle touch there, he'll rile you up til you're the one approaching him, asking him to please fuck you. 'Course, angel,' he'll coo. 'Other lads not treatin' you well enough, eh? Need me to give you a proper good fuck?' Early on, when you first joined the 141, he'd befriended you right away, not just because you were a pretty thing who endeared herself to everyone so quickly, but because he saw potential in the way you stared at them when you thought no one was looking. He folded you into the group, then plied you with stiff drink and those soft, soulful eyes til you eventually turned over your secret fantasies to him. Now he'll have you ride him, gasping out thank yous as he pinches your clit 'til you cum-- the first of many orgasms he intends to wring from you. And if you really let yourself go, let him see how desperate and pathetic you are for him, Gaz will reward you by finally switching on the vibration for the plug he stuck up your ass, fucking you through the new intensity til your eyes roll back :(

With a grunt, he hauled in the last of the traps, ropes biting into his palms. The catch was shit today. Crabs picked clean, a few soggy clumps of kelp, and one stubbornly intact Coca-Cola can which made the few dull fish he'd managed appear even duller. He squinted at it, then flung the red menace into the skiff’s hull and went back to ignoring the ache in his shoulders.

It wasn’t like he needed the money; he had enough set aside to get by now he'd been discharged. Really, he was here because no one asked questions about where he came from or why he kept his face half-covered even when the summer sweltered. They just called him 'Riley' and kept their distance, which suited him fine. Most days he barely needed to muster more than a grunt at the harbor master and a nod at the woman who ran the corner shop. Bought his tins, his tobacco, the occasional flask of something stronger. Spoke when he had to. Glowered when he didn’t.

And people left him alone.

He liked that. Liked the stillness. Liked that he could be quiet without it meaning anything.

The sun was barely up now, dragging a pale sliver of light across the wet curve of the rocks. He tugged the scarf up higher around his jaw, the wool scratchy but familiar, and angled the boat back toward shore. There was still work to do—gut the fish, fix the net, check the generator at the cottage. But all of it could wait. The sea had already taken the best part of the morning, and he was in no rush to fight it.

It wasn’t until he was halfway to shore that he noticed the gulls again.

Circling. Low.

Not scavenging, it seemed, just... hovering. Over the tidepools at the north end of the rocks.

He frowned, instinct curling in his gut like a slow twist of rope. Probably just a seal carcass or some poor bastard’s dog washed up in the night before.

He angled the boat toward the curve of the bay without quite thinking about it; when his tongue skimmed the backs of his teeth, it came away just a touch too bitter. 

Yet, Simon Riley was nothing if not stubborn, even with only himself to war against. He tied off at the dock with practiced hands, his movements brisk and automatic; while the tide lapped lazy and brown around the pilings, he barely glanced at the gulls wheeling overhead, their noise fading into the dull hum that lingered between his ears most days.

The boat could wait. So could the catch.

He swung his coat over one shoulder and climbed the path toward the cottage, gravel grinding under his boots, the back of his neck damp under his collar. When he reached the porch, he paused to knock the mud off his soles and stepped through the warped wooden door.

Within smelled faintly of smoke, salt, and worn wool. He stripped off his coat and scarf, tossing both onto the back of a chair, and caught an unwelcome glimpse of himself in the dusty mirror above the hearth.

There they were again— too many freckles for a man his size, who'd seen what he's seen and done what he's done. They had always pissed him off, even when he was a kid, but living here, the sun had darkened them, made them stick year-round. Multiplied now, they dusted across his cheeks and the tops of his shoulders, permanent constellations he couldn’t scrub away no matter how many summers he burned through. They softened him, gave the wrong impression. Like if someone looked too long, they might start thinking he was kind.

Simon dragged his eyes away only for them to catch on the next new eyesore (the scars mottling his face had long ago become just visual noise, at least to him). His hair—shorn close to the scalp—was uneven again. He could see the patches near the crown where he’d gone over it twice and still missed spots. Didn’t matter. It stayed out of his eyes, and no one was looking at him close enough to care. Brusquely, he rubbed the top of his head before catching himself, dragging that hand down his face instead, palm rasping over his stubble. That, at least, had always been something he kept well under control. Let it grow too much and it started to itch, started to pull when the balaclava rubbed against it. Though he didn't wear it anymore, had replaced it with the cowl when he moved to a place where a big man with scars could fade into the fog without the help of a mask, the ritual of razor and cream held fast day in and day out.

He was still looking in the mirror. Simon squinted at himself judgmentally. 

That's quite enough of that. 

He moved through the small space with the kind of economy that comes from living alone for too long. Kettle. Mug. Matches for the burner. He lit it, and the room held its silence with him while the water began to heat. No sound but the occasional tick of cooling metal or the faint groan of old wood settling.

It was only once he stepped outside, mug in hand, that the gulls caught his attention again, clustered now in a tighter spiral over the north rocks.

And this time, they weren’t just drifting.

They were watching.

He took a sip of the tea; it burned his tongue, but he didn’t flinch. Wind curled across the bluff, carrying the scent of iodine, and he squinted toward the rocks.

Still circling.

Persistent bastards.

He could ignore it. Should. Let the tide take whatever it wanted and spit it out clean. The gulls would pick it over, and the sea would forget it by morning.

But that extra bitterness still lingered in the grit on his teeth, and it wasn't because of the tea.

He set the mug down on the porch railing with a faint clack and sighed, scratched the back of his neck.

Might be a seal. Or something worse. Something rotten and bloated and no longer human. The kind of thing that lingers in your head long after the smell fades.

He would know. And he didn’t want that anymore. Didn’t want anything, if he was honest.

But the knot in his gut didn’t loosen.

With a low curse, Simon ducked back inside, grabbed the coat and scarf off the chair, and jammed his arms through the sleeves like it had personally wronged him. He wrapped the wool cowl high over his mouth, up to the bridge of his nose, and shoved his boots on without bothering to retie them.

"Fuckin' birds," he muttered, already walking. The path down to the north rocks was slick with seaweed and rain from the night before. "Can't leave bloody well alone…"

He descended surefootedly despite the terrain, grip steady on the weathered rail, sharp eyes scanning the surf.

He hadn’t even made it to the bottom before he saw the glint of something pale caught between the rocks and the tide.

For a second, he thought it was a body.

Not here. The thought flashed through him before he could stop it, some unwelcome, tight feeling dropping low behind his ribs.

But the shape was wrong. Too fluid.

Too strange.

He squinted through the rising mist, hand tightening on the rail.

Ghost watching as Soap gets you ready, sitting across from you in one of those spartan, army-issued chairs. Belt hanging loose, pants undone, thick thighs spread, thin black shirt straining against his bulging arms; tattoos shifting minutely as he lazily palms his soft cock. Just watching.

It's meant to tease you and Soap both. You hear him behind you, muttering to himself as he works, his brogue roughened by the welcome sight of your stripped body. He whines and salivates at the supple bulge of your flesh between the ropes, groaning as you start to drip the more you get wrapped up. Forced to be patient, both of you, as he weaves the rope in the right places, ties it with the right amount of pressure, careful that the knots will hold fast but not cut off blood flow. That would be dangerous, and the boys don't want to lose their pet. Soap dresses you up all pretty for his lieutenant, and with each coil that moulds your body to his whims, your freedom slips farther away. 

You happily let it.

When he finally finishes, there's rope everywhere; it feels like you can't move a millimeter apart from wiggling your toes. Your forearms are cinched together across the middle of your back, the position pushing your chest out like you're showing it off, held secure by a brassiere made of rope. It frames you in, circling around and up your sternum in a proud display of bulging tits and piqued nipples. Those are squished against the sparse sheets in Ghost's bed now, since once Soap finished with your top half, he laid you out on your belly. Holding open your spread legs, he wove rope around the soft fat of your thighs, pressing down your calves to meet them, hog-tying you into place before dragging you forward to let your head hang off the end.  

Except it doesn't hang, exactly, because Soap has even woven the length of your hair with rope - knotting it around the strands and tying it to your ankles, preserving that pretty angle from your chin down to your collarbone, the taut line of your throat. It lets you keep staring at Ghost as he draws his fist over himself, lets you watch as his dick gradually stiffens, jutting from that tangle of light, soft-looking curls. 

Your little neglected clit tingles at the sight of him. You wish you could rub your thighs together, take the edge off the anticipation after such a long and thorough preparation for your soldiers. And Soap was thorough, no doubt about it. Even your labia are framed by twin ropes that fatten up your lips, press into the crease between your groin and thighs. The pressure brings no pleasure with your legs kept apart as they are, but once you're stuffed with something... 

Well.

"She's even tighter this way, Lt," Soap pants, chuckling through the breaths as he works into you with little jerks of his hips, gradually splitting you open. "Tightest we ever had, tha's fer sure."

You gasp at the frisson as he finally butts up against the end of you, pleasure shivering through your gut. The bite of the knots into your skin, the lewd sound of your cunt squelching around Soap's dick, the way the ropes keep your lips hugging him so close that your clit gets a little rub each time he presses in...

It's dizzying. You thought you'd been fucked every which way 'til Sunday by this point in your life, but you realize now you've never been fucked quite like this before. And there's nowhere to go; naught you can do but take what they give you and nothing more. Reliant on their kindness. 

Or lack thereof. 

Your eyes keep wanting to close, but you force them open, your focus locked on the thick, ruddy meat hovering in front of your face. And each time Soap fucks into you, you jerk forward, little squeals punching from your watering mouth as the force keeps you so tantalizingly close to what you want.

And you really are so close. If you could just poke your tongue out a bit more... 

Ghost grunts, drawing your gaze to his scarred face. You've been theirs enough times now that he's started letting you see him, so you don't have to guess whether he's smirking slightly as he looks down on you, holding his cock just far enough away for you to have to strain for it.

"C'mon, little bunny," he taunts, amused as you stretch your tongue out, muscles quivering, brow pinched. "Give us a lick."

You're caught between wanting so desperately to taste the meaty head of his cock and trying to endure the way the rope in your hair has your scalp screaming for mercy. Ghost sways his hips teasingly closer, still just a whisper out of reach; so precise as he orchestrates your torture. You whine, more pathetic than frustrated now that the ache in your locked muscles has set in and Soap is fucking you with steady, grinding thrusts meant to keep you feeling good without letting it build into anything substantial. 

"Poor lass." Soap pouts at you, running his hands up the bend of your waist, skimming over the ropes to get your soft flesh in his palms. You sigh as he rubs you nicely, stroking over your hips and the globes of your ass, shallowly massaging your sore body. "Tryin' so hard t'be good fer us..." 

Soap maintains the pretense of sympathy until he hooks his thumbs into the crease between your ass and thigh; you feel the tug as your cheeks spread when he pulls them aside. You huff, souring when he groans appreciatively at the sight of your holes - one puckered up tight and quivering in protest at the rush of cool air, the other with its rim stretched so thin around his cock, dragging as he inches out of you just to watch the way your cream smears along his shaft. The loss of his cock stretching you piles onto Ghost's taunting as Soap keeps just the head nestled inside your poor cunt. 

"Wet as a faucet though, this one," he says offhandedly, ripping a moan from you as he fills you again in one smooth stroke. "Might wanna keep teasin' 'er, Lt. Like the way she gets all leaky over ye." 

Soap falls back into that rhythm he likes, this time holding your cheeks open to watch the way you swallow him up as he fucks you. Clearly, he'll be no help to you. You return your attention to Ghost, and your eyes grow three sizes as your nose nearly skims his knuckles. 'Cause he's gripping his cock right - right - in front of you. It's red and angry-looking, swollen with vitality, and actually close enough for you to make contact with his tip if you can ignore the pain it would require to reach. 

And really, it's utterly fucking pathetic how you lunge for it, a whine straining from you as you yank your own hair just to flick the tip of your tongue against his slit. To be denied so long and then given what you yearned for makes it feel like so much more than it is, and you lap up that briny musk like you'd desiccate without it, single-minded in your need to have just the tiniest bit of him in your mouth. You even manage to stretch a little farther and purse your lips, giving his tip a little kiss; you shudder with pleasure as he squeezes out another drop of precum for you to lick up. 

"She wants to suck yer cock so bad, Ghost," Soap remarks, his hips slowing to a languid pace before stopping altogether. A whimper eeks out of you as he presses in deep and sits there. If you could, you'd buck or squirm away from him, but there's nothing you can do but take the sharp, warm pinch of his cockhead pressing achy-tight against your cervix. "C'n feel it. Cunny squeezed me when she got a little taste o'you."

"Tha' right?" Ghost looks down at you, drawing a thumb along the edge of your jaw. You whimper again as it passes close to your bottom lip, feeling spent, weak and needy in the wake of all the build up, the teasing, the trembling pleasure as they toyed with you, pushing that twisting intensity just past the threshold of your endurance. When Ghost feeds you his thick thumb, you suck it in greedily, sniffling back tears at the relief it brings to finally have your mouth properly filled with something. 

"Been too mean t'you, have I?" He patronizes you, and you don't even care; you nod as he cups his palm against the side of your face, your soft cheek meeting the grit of his calluses. The gentle contact is like a release in itself. You lean fully into his touch, docile and pliant, dropping the weight of your head into his palm. He tuts, clicks his tongue, rumbles something vague - gravel-on-asphalt tinged with dark pity. 

"A'right, lovie." Ghost pulls his thumb from your mouth and steps back. 

The loss is devastating. You nearly cry, actually, beside yourself that he'd take it all away after barely giving you anything. But he's looking past you to Soap, pushing his pants down those thick thighs. You swallow your tears, watching as his cock bows under its own weight when he steps out of the pooled fabric.

"Le' 'er taste 'erself, Sergeant," he murmurs, jerking his head in a brusque summons for Soap to take his place.