#brainworm work

Graves knew he fucked up.

He should've kept his mouth shut but brat inside him said otherwise.

Now he's sandwhiched in between two certain Vaqueros with no way of escape.

Alejandro had pratically bullied himself inside, shoving the fat head of his cock past Graves tight rim without so much as a warning.

Given the size of Alejandro's cock, it's no wonder Rudy sank down so easily onto Graves small prick.

He couldn't keep up with either of them.

Rudy rode him ferociously, living up to the Vaquero name as he rocked his hips, treating Graves like he were some wild stallion.

Alejandro was just as rough - purposefully nailing his prostate, with every other thrust just missing the bundle of nerves that made Graves' toes curl.

The overstimulation had tears pricking at his eyes as he tried desperately to keep himself from crying out.

"Ale-" Rudy grins. "Look...he's crying."

Alejandro gazes over Rudy's shoulder, brown eyes hazy as he takes in the sight. "Mierda."

Graves doesn't try to cover his face, he was too overstimulated to care.

He probably looked pathetic; tears streaking down his flushed face, skin red-raw from being man-handled into god knows how many positions, with cum smeared all over his stomach.

Maybe now they might leave him be; but he was wrong. Very wrong.

The crying only served to turn Alejandro on, the Colonel's hips thrusting eratically as he chased his own orgasm.

"He's...so...loose." Alejandro pants, a shit-eating grin on his sweat-soaked face. "Like he's...made...for taking it."

The way they were talking about him, like he was some mutt they were trying to fuck into submission, had him bucking his hips.

"Ah-ah-ah." Rudy chides, grinding down on Graves and holding his hips down with his weight. "We make the rules, cabron. Not you."

Graves whines, the sound escaping him involuntarily. As much as he wanted to escape the onslaught of stimulation, he can't deny the electricity coursing through his body whenever the two men boss him around.

Alejandro drops his head onto Rudy's shoulders with a groan, his hips stuttering as he nears the edge. "Mierda....fuck, so close..."

"Aww, you close already, mi amor?" Rudy purrs, his voice honey-sweet as he slowly pulls himself off Graves, only to sink back down a second later, the action pulling more moans and curses from Graves' lips.

Alejandro growls into his lover's neck in response, but Rudy just chuckles and nudges him off with his shoulder. "Ay, so pushy."

Graves is losing his fucking mind, watching the two vaqueros banter whilst he lies here squirming is enough to have him screaming out pleas. "Please, please-...fuck, please! Fuck me!" He can barely see a thing as the tears pour freely down his face.

"With pleasure." Rudy goes back to his original savage pace, as Alejandro thrusts with new-found vigour.

Graves cries out, his back arching off the bed as the pleasure overcomes him, shooting rope after rope of white, hot cum into the Vaquero still riding him.

A satisfied groan escapes Rudy, his head tilting back in bliss as his own mess decorated the man below.

"Gonna cum..." Alejandro mewls upon seeing both his companions utterly ruined, his hips losing their rhythm once more.

"Inside?"

Alejandro only has time to grunt before he paints Graves' insides white with a roar.

CW: Slight angst (Joseph + his death)

Johnny didn't know about Joseph.

How could he? Ghost never told him.

So when he's handed Johnny's newborn niece, he froze. He didn't know whether he wanted to hand her back, so he could run out of the room and cry, or hold her closer, in hopes that he could protect her.

Protect her like he should have done with Joesph.

She's a gorgeous little thing, with messy brown hair and a sleepy little pout, she looks just like her Uncle.

Bonnie is what they've named her - after Johnny's Grandma. The name suits her.

Holding another baby, one that's not Joseph, was unsettling.

He should be holding Joseph, he should be able to hand him over to Johnny to hold, but Joseph's dead. He's dead for years, laying under six feet of cold, hard earth, and he's not coming back.

He should hand Johnny's niece back, he shouldn't get too attached to her; getting attached means getting hurt, and he won't get hurt again.

Not after Joseph.

Johnny walks over to him, a look of concern on his face. "Ye okay, Ghost?"

Ghost gives him a short nod, opening his mouth to speak but Bonnie beats him to it.

She wriggles and lets out a little coo.

Johnny grins. "Aye, that's right ma wee lass, this is yer Uncle Simon."

Ghost's heart stops. He hasn't been called that for years.

He doesn't know what to do.

Should he run? Should he cry? Should he scream at Johnny that he's not Uncle Simon, that Uncle Simon died along with the nephew he couldn't save?!

He finds himself looking down at Bonnie, and when she looks up at him with those blue MacTavish eyes, he does something he thought he'd never do again.

He smiles.

He may not have Joesph anymore, or Tommy, or Beth, but he has Johnny- his Johnny, and the whole MacTavish clan at his back.

Right now, this is where he's supposed to be.

John Price thought he'd outgrow his team, thought his boys would grow tired of him and leave.

They were all significantly younger than him, far too young to consider him as anything other than their Captain and far too early into their careers to ruin their reputations.

Besides, everyone left him eventually.

He should accept the inevitable.

And yet, he couldn't fathom the thought of another man taking his place, leading his team.

Those were his boys.

He couldn't lose them - not now, not after everything they'd been through.

He needed them.

Nobody could have them but him.

One by one, he lured them into his bed; Gaz, Soap, Ghost and even Roach, all surprisingly eager to please their Captain.

Each of them believed it was just a little "team-building" exercise, a way to blow off some steam after a rough mission or a little comfort during the long, cold nights, with no knowledge of Price's other 'activities'...or his little sabotage to the condom.

Night after night he'd repeat the process, carefully pricking holes in each condom ready for the next round and plugging himself up as soon as they left, praying one of their seeds would take.

Praying a little miracle would make them stay.

After a few weeks he called a meeting, one he'd labelled as "urgent and important".

His boys came running, quickly squeezing into his tiny office and staring curiously at the little stick on his desk.

Price smiled.

Nobody could lead his team, nobody could take his place - take his boys from him.

Not now.

CW: Mpreg/Pregnant Adler (Implied)

Nobody would expect America's Monster to dance around his kitchen, singing some run-down version of "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" by Cyndi Lauper at ass o'clock in the morning.

Yet here he is, doing just that as he's starved of sleep by a wailing newborn.

He's tried everything, every goddamn trick in the book, but Phillip was having none of it. The little bastard would only scream louder, his face turning red as he fought off any sort of attempt to be soothed.

Adler was gagging for a cigarette, but, as heartless as he was, he wouldn't put his son down until he was quiet; he wanted to have some sanity left when he returned.

So on went the radio.

Anything to drown out Phillip's howling.

Of course, the first thing Adler could make out is some trashy song he'd only ever heard Woods singing, and he groans.

If he's going to be up with a squalling infant, he might as well try to listen to something good.

Just as he's about to change the channel, Phillip finally begins to calm down, his wails turning into little, hiccupy sobs.

"You little shit." Adler mutters, and reluctantly forgoes changing the radio.

By the time the first chorus rolls around, Phillip's sobs have finally ceased, and the little Adler's content settled in the crook of his father's arm.

"Fuck me. After everything I've done, this is what gets you to settle?!" Adler can't believe the little bastard's insolence, waking him up at ungodly hours, only to fall asleep after ensuring he's deprived him of vital sleep.

Little shit.

All this kid knows how to do is shit, and cry, and spit up the few ounces of milk he's been able to drink between his bouts of screeching.

Then again, Phillip is only five weeks old.

There's not much else he can do.

Adler sighs and looks down at him, only to find big blue eyes staring up at him. "Fuck do you want now?"

Phillip gurgles, before letting out what seemed to be an involuntary squeak; the noise startles them both.

"What kind of fucking noise is-" Adler doesn't get to finish his sentence before Phillip's whimpering once more, his lower lip trembling as he pouts.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

In a last ditch attempt to save any sanity he might have left, Adler gently rocks side-to-side and hums along to whatever is playing on the radio.

Phillip makes a grizzling noise - a low whine which sounds like a quiet, continuous cry - and Adler starts singing any words he can remember.

Fucking hell, he sounds terrible; there's no hint of a tune and his voice is raspy as hell, (whether it was from the current lack of sleep or his lifelong habit of smoking, he didn't know), but if singing this god-awful song is what saves him from another meltdown, then so be it.

Hearing his father's voice must have done something, because any noise of distress soon comes to an end and Phillip settles once again, his eyes fluttering close as he finally succumbs to sleep.

For once in his life, Adler's thankful for Woods and his shit taste in music.

Rocking his way over to the bassinet he'd set up in the living room, he prays the little bastard doesn't wake up in transit, before gently depositing him into the crib.

Once he's sure Phillip is down, Adler wastes no time in going outside and sparking up a cigarette.

Adler's known for being a smoker, but after going almost nine months without one, he's been devouring them like a last meal these past few weeks.

The tobacco tastes like heaven as he inhales deeply, puffing out a stream of smoke as every nerve in his body relaxes.

Well fuck. He needed that.

Only after taking a moment to himself does Adler realise he's left the radio on, the trashy music waltzing through the house as it continues to play.

He debates turning it off, but eventually decides against it.

If it kept Phillip asleep long enough for him to enjoy his cigarette and catch up on some of his own sleep, he'd keep it on all goddamn day.

Surprisingly, he finds himself smiling at the irony of the situation.

With whatever Woods listened to back in the safehouse, it's no wonder the kid has such shit taste, all he's ever heard is Woods' crappy choice of music for the past five months.

Poor kid.

After finishing almost a full packet of cigarettes, Adler slinks back into the house just as the sun begins to rise.

Too tired to drag himself up to bed, he drops onto the sofa and pulls the blanket over himself, hoping to get some shut-eye before he's awoken once more.

The radio still plays quietly in the background and Adler groans.

He forgot to turn the damn thing off. Again.

Being this exhausted, he can't be arsed getting up to switch it off, so he leaves it running.

Thank you for the tag @imrowanartist :D

I've been working on a smol "blame the brainworms" piece so here's a couple lines from it:

What did she expect? With a narcissist mother and a father whose emotions turned faster than the ferocious tides of the sea, it's a miracle she was able to make it out at all.