#peitho

You have noticed that things have become even more tense between you and the Captain since he had that incredibly close call that surely would’ve ended in a rather complicated KIA report if Gaz hadn’t reacted the way he did and pulled him to cover fast enough just a handful of hours ago.

And now everyone is pretending that didn’t happen, which only infuriates you more.

“Captain,” you greet him tersely before clearing your dry throat.

There’s another pause as he patiently waits for you to continue while you’re momentarily distracted by the uncharacteristic slight slump of his broad shoulders and an unfamiliar kind of softness peeking through the usual sternness in his steel blue eyes.

“I just... just wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re okay, sir.”

He gives a soft scoff, setting down the rifle for a moment before he gives you a lazy smirk. “I'm fine, Sergeant,” he pauses for another moment, his smirk wavers into a grimace as he reaches back to rub his shoulder, “just a bit sore.”

Observing his tight grimace as he barely manages to tend to his injuries, you take an involuntary step into the bedroom; ignoring the thought that you’re intruding and clearly crossing those blurry lines you two have been dancing around for months on end now.

Still, the door falls shut after you give it the weakest push, and then your footsteps are nearly silenced by the thin carpet on the floor despite your heavy boots as you approach the queen-sized bed.

“You’re clearly hurt.” The statement is laced with obvious worry that goes beyond a simple superior/subordinate relationship, but you could care less in this moment.

You almost lost him today.

His smirk fades away and he gives a small sigh as he realizes that he can’t just ignore you—or the elephant in the room. John takes a seat on the edge of the bed and reaches for his shoulder to gingerly touch a particularly sore spot.

“Fine. I’m sore as hell, but that’s all.” He murmurs with a wince of pain, pulling his hand back as he tries to dismiss how bad it actually is.

“We've got painkillers for that, y’know.” The sharp remark earns you another gruff huff and you notice how he tries to straighten his shoulders once you take a seat next to him on the bed. Sitting down on one leg, you turn sideways to get a better view on his form.

“Let me at least check if there are any major cuts or scratches that need to be cleaned, okay?”

John sighs once again, clearly exasperated, but he doesn’t protest further, aware that it’s futile. “If you must.” He grumbles, reluctantly giving in, and then he reaches up to take the hem of his shirt; his fingers briefly brushing your knee for a moment as he tries to pull it over his head.

His body is lean and toned from years of military service; a fair amount of scars peeking through dark, coarse body hair along with the faded ink of old geometrical tattoos that look like coordinates. The large muscles of his arms flex as he pulls his shirt off, revealing an ornament of bruises and scratches littered on his buff torso.

“Yes, I must.”

As soon as he rids himself of his sweaty olive green undershirt, you suck in a small hiss as soon as you see the level of bruising on his right shoulder and flank.

“Nasty bruise you got there, sir,” you remark empathically, fingers already itching to touch before you eventually reach out to skim them over the deep bluish–purple marks.

You click your tongue in chide as he flinches away, and you grab a gentle hold on his flexing biceps to keep him steady as you check his skin for other wounds, and you must admit that you almost get lost in the feeling of his warm skin beneath your fingertips. You trace the curve of his back, feel each bump of his vertebrae, the raised skin of marks and old tattoo ink, the way his muscles twitch and quiver, goose bumps breaking out wherever you touch.

There is an imperceptible hitch to his breath, but he doesn’t stop your gentle ministrations.

“Looks mean, but you’re gonna live, John.” You announce casually when he eventually clears his throat as if to snap you out of your sudden trance.

The feeling of your fingertips on his skin is almost addictive—too goddamn pleasant. John can’t help but shiver when your touch grazes over his old and new bruises as well as the sensitive areas of his skin. He tries to focus on anything other than you, but it’s getting more and more difficult, and he lets out a soft laugh at your faux casual tone, trying to mask the fact that he’d really like to have you touch him further.

“Thanks for that enlightening analysis, princess.” The pet name slips out by accident and it rolls off his tongue too damn easy.

You swat at his biceps, purposely avoiding his bruised skin. “Is that the proper way to talk to your amateur nurse, Cap?”

He gives a low laugh at your playful smack, his smirk returning as he lets you inspect his bruises and wounds.

“Well, to be honest, I’m not sure if nurses should get so handsy.” He teases you in return, his smirk growing as he tries to ignore how good it feels to have your hands on him.

“Pfff.” You snort. “I can show you handsy, sir. This is nothing. I was just worried.”

He chuckles again, his dark beard twitching with the motion of his face. “Such thoughtful concern over your superior, hm?” He quips, his eyes trailing over to the closed bedroom door before returning back to you. “Ghost and Soap have guard duty until later in the night. Gaz is gettin' some rest downstairs. We’re basically alone.”

He cringes internally at his own assessment; sounding like a right numpty, though you don’t seem to mind.

“Mhm,” you hum absentmindedly, taking one last look at his back before glancing at him–only to find him already gazing at you, causing your heart to thump harder and your cheeks to warm. “What?”

John doesn’t respond right away, his blue eyes taking a long, lingering moment to drink you in. He takes in just how soft you look in the dim lighting of the bedroom, even still clad in your dirty fatigues. How your thigh is pressed against his the way you’re sitting, and just how perfect your hands look roaming over his bare skin.

He finally takes a deep breath and exhales slowly as he tears his eyes away from you to check out the door again before looking back once more, eventually answering in a soft murmur: “Nothin’.”

Meanwhile, your mind is racing: He’s my captain. He's taken, fucking married. He’s not mine. Not mine. Not mine to take. Not mine to want.

And yet, you almost find yourself pleading as you utter his name pathetically: “John–”

He eyes flicker immediately as you say his name like that—all needy and desperate. He swallows thickly as his heavy gaze lingers on you, taking in your flushed cheeks, parted lips, and how your lashes flutter.

John responds in kind; your name a gravelly murmur on his lips, just as quietly with the same hint of need in his voice.

He shouldn’t. You’re his subordinate and you’re too young. And he’s bloody married.

But he’s a weak man at heart, after all, and his blood is starting to rush and simmer while that familiar tingle starts low in his gut, causing his cock to stir in his cargo pants.

He nearly lost his life today—which wasn’t the first time, but the realization that he’s getting slow is clawing at his shoulders like a heavy burden since it happened.

John takes a deep breath, his bare chest rising and falling as his gaze flickers between your flushed cheeks and soft-looking lips. “You shouldn’t... You shouldn’t look at me that way. You’re my subordinate. I’m married–” He pauses, as if struggling to put his thoughts into words, before he continues: “I’m older than you. I’m your captain.” His voice is barely above a whisper–his way of warning you, of holding back, of convincing himself that this is a bad idea.

Your jaw clenches as his words sink in, settling deep and heavy in your gut and causing your own shoulders to slouch, my chest to ache, your stomach to drop. He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t make the situation better.

Heaving a shaky and long sigh, you glance at the dusty carpet briefly, trying to sort your jumbled thoughts and feelings before closing your eyes.

You’re tired. So fucking tired to pretend that you don’t want him, of having him pretend he doesn’t want you.

Letting your head loll forward, you rest your forehead against his naked upper arm; discreetly breathing in his scent before murmuring: “Then send me away, John. Give me the order and I’ll leave through that door.”

The feeling of your forehead on his bare shoulder makes him shiver, his fingers curling into himself as he tries to fight against the urge to reach out to touch you, to take what he’s been craving for months.. John can feel how exhausted you are—emotionally, physically, and mentally, and it mirrors how he’s feeling. He hates that he’s partly the reason for it, but he doesn’t dare to do anything to change it.

So he just sits there, listening to your words and trying to resist the impulse to wrap his arms around you in comfort.

“You should leave.” His voice is rough, though the usual command in his tone replaced by uncertainty.

You let out a snort, but it’s lacking any humour. This is unfair. Life is fucking unfair.

He smells musky; like three day old sweat, dirt, and stale cigar smoke, and you want to lick his throat, to finally have a taste while you rake your fingers through his thick chest hair.

“That’s not an order, sir,” you sigh, “that’s a bloody suggestion.”

John grits his teeth, his jaw clenches tight. He can’t deny that you have a point—he knows that his attempt at shutting this down is pretty pathetic. He knows it, but he’s not willing to admit it.

“You’re pushing it, Sergeant.” He warns you then, his tone more commanding now as he tries to keep himself from pulling you into his lap and doing something that he’ll most likely regret come morning.

“Get out.”

It’s a right stab to your heart as much as your ego, even though you know he’s doing the only right thing.

And of course, you will leave, hobbling away like a kicked puppy, and you will lick your wounds in some corner far away from him—and you might even finally let Soap lap at your neglected cunt like he’s been half-jokingly asking for until you forget your goddamn feelings for John Price.

Leaning back at once, you straighten up, clearing your throat before getting up from the bed, rolling my sore shoulders—sore from your rifles kickback and weight, sore from keeping your composure since watching your Captain nearly die today.

Perhaps somewhere in your silly, illogical mind, you thought it would change things between you. In a perfect alternate universe, John Price would’ve realized that there’s more to life than duty and survival—and he would be yours.

“Yes, sir. Have a good night, sir.”

John watches you go, his eyes following your every move as you roll your shoulders and clear your throat, slipping back into your role as obedient soldier, his sweet little Sergeant. He’s relieved that you’re finally leaving, he really is—or he desperately tries to make himself believe it.

Yet, there’s a feeling in his chest that says something entirely different. He can’t quite put a name to it, but it’s there none the less.

And it hurts.

“Good night... Sergeant.” He responds, his voice rough and uncharacteristically quiet as he continues to watch you, fighting the urge to call out for you to come back and stay.

And you don’t dare to turn around again before the bedroom door softly clicks shut behind you, leaving you standing by yourself in the semi-dark, narrow hallway of the safe house while your heart is racing, and your throat tightens as you swallow down a myriad of emotions before exhaling a shuddering breath. What the hell were you thinking? Throwing yourself at him like that?

That gruesome pressure returns in your chest and your eyes sting with tears as you lean against the door briefly, desperately trying to get a grip on yourself.

Distraction. Your spine straightens. You’re in desperate need of a distraction before you do something really stupid.

The sound of your footsteps slowly fading away brings an almost eerie feeling to the quiet night.

John remains seated on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands now as he tries to sort through his conflicting thoughts and emotions and will away the chub in his trousers. He’s more than aware that it was inappropriate for him to allow you so close to him, but he can’t deny the powerful urges he felt when you were touching him.

The sound of your sigh as your forehead rested against his bare skin haunts him; the memory of your touch on his shoulders now burned into his mind.

He never questioned it before, how the touch of Annette has never left him as breathless and discombobulated as yours, but perhaps it’s just the near death experience from today that has left his mind, body, and soul in such a bloody frenzy.

You find Soap downstairs, sitting on the tattered couch where Gaz is supposed to be; his head leaned back against the backrest, his canteen clutched tightly as it rests on his thigh.

Picking up on his light snoring, you approach slowly, careful not to startle him.

“Psst, Johnny?” you whisper, nudging the tip of his booth with yours, “Johnny? Aren’t you supposed to be on bloody watch with Lt.?”

Soap’s eyes shoot open at the sound of your voice. He’s a light sleeper as it is, but this mission has made him even more restless, and he rubs a hand over his face, scratching at the stubble at his scarred chin as he glances up at you, his bleary blue eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out what you’re doing here.

“Gaz’s takin’ my shift. What d’ye want?” He rasps out, his deep voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah, he’s a nice lad, innit,” you remark quietly, pondering for a moment as you take in his dishevelled state.

There are black grease smudges on his face, a purple bruise adorning his cheekbone, dark Mohawk looking like a hen’s nest, his tac vest half unclasped, woodland fatigues in disarray. He looks like a proper mess, though you’re not faring any better.

“You look like hell, Tav,” you whisper, mouth curling with a suppressed smile. He snorts, lifting his free hand to flip you off haphazardly. You huff in amusement, shuffling on your feet as you glance back at the stairs that lead to the first floor, and then back at Soap.

“I know you’re tired, but uhm–” Your stomach flutters and you stuff your hands into your pockets to keep them from fidgeting nervously. “Fancy a shag?”

Soap’s thick eyebrows shoot up at your blunt question, his tired expression shifting into one of curiosity and surprise. “A shag, eh?” He chuckles roughly, his lips curling into a wolfish smirk while his previously tired eyes start sparkling with bright glee.

“Cannae say I was expectin’ tha’ one now.” He straightens slightly, sitting up to get a better look at you and you almost shiver under his suddenly molten gaze as he looks you up and down agonizingly slow, before nodding his head in response.

“Aye, ‘m down.”

Exhaling a sigh of relief, some tension finally leaves your battered body.

“Brilliant,” you mutter with a step towards him; taking his canteen, you drink a long swig of the chilled water as if preparing for a marathon, before screwing it shut and holding out your free hand to him invitingly.

“C’mon, then. Don’t want the others to fuckin’ walk in on us.” You try to quip casually, though deep down, it’s a valid fear of yours.

Soap chuckles, and of course he notices your skittish nervousness, though how could he ever decline your offer—especially after a fucked up op like this one.

“Fair point.” He stands up from the couch, his body towering over you as he gives your hand a tender squeeze before he follows you towards the stairs obediently, his hand remaining securely in yours.

The sound of muffled moans and gasps fills the air, mixing with the creaking of the old bedframe and the wet slapping of skin on skin.

Soap has been sitting propped up against the worn out headboard; rough hands tightly gripping around your thighs as you ride his painfully hard dick at a tortuous slow pace, his grunts and curses blending with your soft mewls and whimpers while you roll your hips all sensual in a way Soap never dared to imagine.

He’s always fantasized about you ravishing him like a starved wildcat; scratching and biting as you tell him to fuck you harder—though he doesn’t mind the opposite. Not at all.

However, this is slowly turning into proper torture as you keep edging him—intentionally or unintentionally, he can’t tell; his brain is filled with cotton, his muscles bunched tightly with restraint to keep himself from bouncing you on his cock or fucking up into you with wild abandon. He watches how his cock disappears inside you; your essence creaming around the base of his shaft and matting his pubes as it runs down his sac.

The smell of your combined arousal is heady in the air; stuffing the small bedroom with pheromones and the scent of sex—intoxicatingly so.

Gripping your flesh tighter, his blunt fingernails dig into your soft skin as he growls out a command. “Faster. Fuck, baby–” He licks his dry lips, drinks in the bonnie flush on your cheeks, the hazy look in your eyes, and his chest puffs out. Steamin’ Jesus, you like it. “Go on, ride me faster, princess.”

Your lashes flutter shut, and you almost want to protest at the nickname, a meek attempt to keep yourself from catching anything too emotionally serious, but then Soap’s hand cups your jaw, pulling you back into the here and now with him.

“Look’it me, baby,” he murmurs deeply, his darkened eyes staring up at you in the low, gloomy lighting—a deep shade of indigo the way his pupils are blown.

And you don’t fight it. You let him guide your face down to meet his gaze, your breath hitching in your chest as you meet owlishly big eyes, seeing the raw adoration behind a faint glimmer of something feral and animalistic—like you’re something special and worth looking at, worth wanting, while his reverent touch sends wave after wave of violent shiver down your arched spine.

Then, with his cockhead nudging your cervix and his shaft stretching your sopping walls deliciously, you notice how gorgeous Johnny MacTavish is—especially like this. All debauched and fucked out because of your doing. Fucking hell, no, he’s gorgeous all the time if you’re truly honest with yourself.

A louder, more pathetic moan slips past your lips as your head lolls back when you finally pick up your pace at his encouragement. You’re properly impaled on his fat cock; feeling him in your guts as you ride him mercilessly, hands braced on his broad shoulders while his fingers dig into the fat of your ass. Your tits bounce with each grind, sore muscles clenching with exertion as you pant against his sweaty skin.

“Yeah, fuck... just like that, princess.” Soap murmurs, eyes rolling back as you start bouncing on his throbbing prick with wild abandon. “F-Fuck, so bonnie, baby. Feels s’fuckin’ good, fuckin’ perfect–ngh–” And he grits his teeth, nostrils flaring with sharper breaths, as he feels that familiar pressure in his balls, those electric tingles at the base of his spine.

He doesn’t know what you did, but he’s going to come sooner than he planned to. He forces his eyes to open as you moan his name; the sound causing his cock to twitch inside your tight channel.

And, fuck—

The sight of you is a goddamn fever dream; your body moving on top of him so perfectly, the pretty flush on your cheeks, the way your lips are parted, kiss-swollen because of him, your brows furrowed in pleasure. He can still taste your cunt on his tongue from when he’d sucked your essence off his fingers during foreplay.

You’re a bloody vision—a beautiful, sinful vision.

He tightens his grip on your ass cheeks, breath stuttering at the obscenely wet sound when his cock disappears inside your dripping hole, skins sticky with precum and your slick. His fingers dig deeper into your flesh as he pulls you closer with each movement, bucking his hips to meet your body halfway, to bury himself deeper inside you—desperate to leave his mark, to burn this moment into your memory.

Soon enough, you can feel yourself at the precipice of your own orgasm as you roll your hips more frantically; fucking yourself stupid and using his body while he’s taking what he needs just as desperately in return. He plays with your bouncing tits, slips one hand between your thighs to rub his thumb over your slick, swollen clit, leans in to drag his tongue from the valley between my breasts up the column of your throat before wrapping his bulky arms around your waist and pulling you close enough to capture your lips in a bruising kiss.

“M’gonna come,” you mewl hotly against his lips, legs trembling and nails digging into his meaty muscles as he grins back wolfishly. “Please–”

His lips are messy against yours as he captures your mouth in a fierce kiss, his tongue delving deep as he swallows your moans, licking into your mouth and lapping at your silky tongue like an eager dog, greeting his owner with a wagging tail.

Soap is losing control—control he was trying so hard to keep even before you proposed this.

His fingers slide up your body; from your ass to your hips to your waist, roaming over your sensitive skin with greed. He’s about to tip over the edge, all it take is another fluttering squeeze of your cunt as desire and adrenaline rushes through his veins. In this pleasurable frenzy, he growls out a command: “Cum f’me, princess.”

And you do—you come apart on top of him, your walls clenching and rippling rhythmically around his rock hard cock in a vice grip, and a guttural moan is torn from deep within his chest as he follows your lead and lets go.

His legs jerk, his toes curl against the mattress, and his abs flex under coarse body hair as he spills his load into the condom.

For a moment, neither of you finds the strength nor mental capacity to say anything as you heavily against one another for support. The room quiets at once; silence only broken by your panting breaths as you twitch and writhe with glorious aftershocks.

Then, Soap leans his head back against the headboard, a dull thud followed by a boyish chuckle as he keeps holding you close, your face buried against his shoulder, your quaking body pressed flushed to his. His other hand pets your hair soothingly—a stark contrast to the harsh command he had whispered into your ear moments ago.

“Good girl.” Soap smirks triumphantly as he feels how you relax against him, your muscles gradually easing and melting in his embrace.

His hand continues his gentle ministrations, his touch so gentle as he holds you close, your head resting on his shoulder as your lips skim along his collarbone, causing his flushed skin to pebble with gooseflesh.

“Ye feel better now, princess?” he asks, his voice soft and almost tender, a subtle hint of his Scottish brogue lingering in his words.

You nod slowly. “Better,” you repeat softly, vulnerable, the word coming out slurred.  Pressing a kiss to his collarbone, you pull back with a lazy smile while his cock softens inside you, giving the occasional last twitch whenever you move and squeeze around him.

“Saved me lots of trouble tonight, you could say.”

“Ye’re welcome.” Soap murmurs in response and his arms tighten around your naked body, unwilling to let go just yet. He’s knows what you mean.

He could feel it right from the start, knows about the strange thing between you and the Captain, knows that this was just to take the edge off—a simple distraction, though a welcome one. He can’t quite help it, though—the protective, possessive side of his nature is suddenly rearing it’s ugly head.

It’s no secret that he’s wanted this, wanted you, basically since you joined the bloody task force. And he’d tried, God, he’d tried to shoot his shot with you multiple times now—and it’s the only one he keeps missing despite his sniper skills.

“Don’t fall in love,” he mutters under his breath before cupping the nape of your neck, pulling you even closer before he buries his face into your neck, breathing you in deeply.

Quirking an eyebrow, you let out a sharp snort, though your stomach flutters at his quip.

“I feel like that should be my line, Tav.” Soap is an emotional man—as tough and quick-tempered as he is playful and caring. A right sap that one, if you’re close enough to him.

Soap sighs, shoulders sagging. He wasn’t talking to you.

You drag your bottom lip through your teeth in thought, carding your fingers through his mussed Mohawk. “We’re good, yeah?” you ask, voice genuine, before you pull back slightly to meet his eyes.

They’re nearly shining in the dimmed light—bright and so beautifully blue again now that the cloud of lust has vanished.

Soap hums, his gaze momentarily flickering to your face as you ruffle his short hair with the tips of your fingers. He’s still breathing deep and heavy, his chest rising and falling beneath you in a steady rhythm, and he doesn’t answer your question verbally—instead, he simply grabs your chin with his free hand, angling your face towards his as he leans in for another kiss.

It’s sensual, passionate, and so very... intimate. Perhaps too intimate for the words he forces out next: “Aye, no strings attached, princess.”

The aftercare drags on longer than it should. You know that and he does, too—yet neither of you can help it nor cares.

Eventually, Soap lifts you off his lap carefully, and he sucks in a sharp breath when his overstimulated cock slips out of your abused cunt. He’s quick to grab his shaft at the base, keeping the full condom in place; smacking his lips at the sight at the sight of it—a waste of a perfectly good load.

Meanwhile, you roll over onto the mattress like dead weight, letting out a soft groan and feeling deliciously boneless.

Soap chuckles quietly at the endearing sight of your relaxed body and dopey expression.

His own body is still thrumming with a strange sense of energy, though he’s also feeling rather limp, sated. He rolls the used condom off of his softening cock, knotting it and reaching over to toss it into the open rubbish bin next to the bed before flops down beside you onto the old mattress, inhaling deeply as he stretches out his large frame, sore joints cracking and popping.

“Mmmh, ye’re one hell’uva woman, ye know,” he mumbles, his deep voice even rougher as he reaches out to pull you close with ease, tucking you in and holding you snuggly to his side while his calloused hand starts stroking up and down your back.

“Perhaps Cap should’ve more near death experiences–” He snorts.

Even in his exhaustion, he doesn’t miss how soft and right you feel pressed up against his large, muscular body, your head resting against his bare chest while his heart thuds strong and steady. He could get used to this. He wants to get used to this.

“–if it means ye’re gonna come crawlin’ into m’arms each time.”

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