Thinking about everyone on base being horrified by how secretary!reader talks to price....
How could they not? John price is a man to be respected if not feared. Even higher ranks than him know he's only still a captain because he prefers to get his hands dirty himself. No one wants to mess with a man like that.
Then there's....you. the new secretary.
"John. Your paperwork." You tell him every morning, dropping the files on the table in the mess hall without much thought. The first time you did it, people genuinely flinched.
No one calls captain price john.
You have no care or respect for his rank, treating price as a casual coworker and not the weapon he is. Always a "john. I want my vacation time approved by this weekend." Or "your breath smells like coffee, john. You want some gum?"
People are convinced price is planning to kill you. No other option when you keep blatantly disrespecting him.
Of course the team notices it too. Worse though when they notice you still call ghost "lieutenant" and kyle and soap "sergeant"
"Doesn't it bother you, sir? The blatant disrespect?" Kyle asks one night at the bar, after price had mentioned you again.
"bother me? Why the hell would it bother me?" Price snorts, takes a bite of the crisps from ghosts plate "My wife can call me whatever she wants."
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imagine abbot being absolutely enamored with you, a new resident starting a rotation at the Pitt.
you fit in perfectly with the others (with him) , always ready with an answer to the question. eager to learn, you remind abbot of, well, him. maybe that’s why he wants to get closer, to learn more.
it’s not a crush. and if it is, well. it’s not like you need to know.
“where are you planning to work?” he asks you one day. it’s casual, easygoing. his hand trails over your hip, lingering, and like always, you let him. you don’t look up, focused on charting, but you do answer.
“probably pediatrics. or surgical, if i study more for it.” you answer absentmindedly, waving a hand around and almost brushing over his thigh. abbot bites back the noise he wants to make and leans in closer, a sense of satisfaction washing over him when your eyes finally meet his.
“do you think you’ll stay here?” you smile, voice taking on a fonder tone. abbot wishes it was for him. “yeah. i just want to be closer to my dad for the first few years.”
“yeah?” abbot encourages, wondering who he might have to talk to, to get to know better so he can get on your good side. “do i know him?”
“Michael Robinavitch. don’t you work together?”
and oh, abbot is fucked. he’s been flirting with you. his best friend’s kid.
You vaguely remember a time from when you were younger, full of lifeless bare walls and the choking smell of disinfectant. The incessant murmurs behind the glass, the dread of getting scruffed whenever you did something not up to standard.
The memories are fuzzy, where you're left grasping for the wisps of the crumbling recollections of your childhood; a gaping chasm in your existence so wide it feels like you've only existed for three years, not however many you truly are.
For three years, as far as you can recall, you've lived on the streets. Stuck in your feline form, not because you can't shift — though the process would probably kill you in your current state — but because maintaining your human form would demand more food than you have access to. Shifting takes precious calories you don't have the luxury to waste; it's already hard enough to sustain your kitten appearance.
You're exploring past your usual peripheries today, hoping to find some scraps or endear an ignorant human into giving you a meal to get you through the day. Most of them can't differentiate between hybrids and regular animals, so if you loiter close enough, they'll leave precious sustenance on the ground. It's not a foolproof method, however. Some humans aren't generous, especially when you have a penchant for biting and scratching anyone who gets within a foot of you. It's not as if you can help it either.
Every hand reaching could be your end. Every step too close is a threat.
What choice do you have? It's survival and you want to live.
By late afternoon, your stomach feels hollow enough to fold in on itself. You've only managed to get a bowl of milk and you don't want to scrounge through the dumpsters again. That's alley cat territory, and they aren't particularly fond of shifters, almost as if they can smell the wrongness on your fur, can tell you're not one of them.
So when you spot a cling-wrapped sandwich on the pavement, instincts take over and you're springing into action. Food food food is all you think: the soft dough of the bread, how it'll crumble in your mouth. The acidity of the tomatoes. You can't remember the last time you had fruit. And the thing you've been longing for most: chicken. Fatty, juicy chicken that might keep you going for another couple of days.
Everything else blurs. Your fangs sink down—
Salt. Sweat. Definitely not the sandwich you were eyeing.
You snap out of your daydream and jolt back, looking up to see an enormous, masked man crouched in front of you. His scarred hand hovers over the sandwich, two small indents marking his index finger.
Shit.
_________________________________________________
Simon wasn't expecting his day to go like this. After a grueling day at base clearing the paperwork he'd ignored for weeks — a part of his job worse than training rookies — he was starving, and the base cafeteria wasn't going to cut it.
So why is it that he's staring down at the little shit that bit him? He should ignore it, leave the sandwich for the feral beast, and go home to make dinner and crack open a bottle of bourbon. He has better things to do, but something about your behavior makes him stop.
You're frozen, pupils blown wide as you continue to stare at him, as if locked in a standstill he didn't start. He gives you a once over: matted black fur, no collar, and a defensive posture tell him you're likely feral.
It clicks.
Ah.
You're a shifter.
He works with shifters. Knows them. And this isn't a cat.
You're not acting like a regular one: no hissing, no meowing, and no running. Just still, like you're trying not to exist, hoping his attention shifts to anything other than you.
It's rare to see shifters outside of the militia, but he's cracked down on enough research laboratories to know that domestic shifters were a thing. They sell well on the black market.
Something uncomfortable wells in his chest. What if you got snatched?
Usually civilians can't tell the difference, but there are always exceptions with nefarious intentions to boot, and coupled with the fact you're tiny, you wouldn't survive. Simon can't, on good conscience leave you to your own devices. He remembers being that small, remembers what that felt like. No one deserves that.
If you were an adult, he'd walk away without a second thought. But you're not. Bloody hell.
The longer he continues to look at you, the tenser you get, shifting on your paws. He has to grab you, even if it gets him bit and scratched; he's due for his shots anyways. And his resolve must show — because without another second, you bolt.
Simon sighs, picking up his sandwich from the ground. He can see your small form taking a sharp turn down an alley.
𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐅! 𝐄𝐆𝐎 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈 who’s nearly in his late thirties but yet still manages to fuck you mean. as his calloused hands grip your hips with bruising force, fingers digging into soft flesh as he angles you just right. "beg. again." his voice is a low rasp against your ear, voice thick with dark satisfaction as he watches your back arch off the sheets. "worthless little diamond in the rough. you came untouched and you're gonna take every inch i give you."
𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐅! 𝐄𝐆𝐎 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈 who loves when you suck him off while he analyzes and calculates his players moves through the camera. as you suck him off, his eyes flicker between the camera feed showing his players in action and your mouth sliding up and down his length. a satisfied smirk plays on his lips as he sees one of his players make a perfect play, matching his calculations exactly. "good girl,"
𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐅! 𝐄𝐆𝐎 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈 who even if he treats you like shit most of the time, he still has a soft spot when it comes to you. by letting you sit on his lap while studying his players position and strength. his arm wraps around you, pulling you closer as you sit on his lap, your head resting on his shoulder. he absently plays with your hair, his focus divided between the game and you. as he points out weaknesses in his opponents' formation, his touch becomes gentler, almost caring.
𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐅! 𝐄𝐆𝐎 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈 who loves fucking you while he gives instructions to his players, quoting he dictates that they must become the world's most selfish strikers by cultivating their own ego. his voice echoes through the room, commanding and dominant as he gives orders to his players. "be selfish. score more goals than anyone else. make the world bow to your greatness." his hips thrust into yours, punctuating each word as he drives into you roughly.
𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐅! 𝐄𝐆𝐎 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈 who likes eating you out. he buries his face between your legs, his tongue delving into your folds as he eats you out hungrily. his glasses fog up rapidly, the steamy air making it difficult for him to see. he pauses only briefly to adjust them, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh before diving back in, determined to taste your release.
𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐅! 𝐄𝐆𝐎 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈 who secretly likes when you two match in different ways. as he stands in his expensive suit, adjusting his cufflinks for the blue lock game event, he glances over at you. you're wearing a dress that matches his suit perfectly—the same shade of blue, same elegant cut. a small smirk plays on his lips as he approves silently before adjusting his glasses once again.
Emery Walsh used to laugh at Jack for having a thing with that younger attending, Mohan. Now she was the one being laughed at.
Emery Walsh, 38, living alone. Thinking the only thing she needs in life is surgery. Two days off a week was enough to rest up before work started again. It wasn’t healthy, Jack kept telling her this, trying to get her to go out, meet someone. Every-time she’d roll her eyes, say she’s “fine” and that would be it. He knew better than to push her.
Then you walked into the damn ER, bright eyed, naive, innocent, and she was fucked.
Emery Walsh follows you. With her eyes. With her body. She’s there. In case you need her. In case she needs you. Or in case someone gets a little too close.
Emery Walsh makes you tea, coffee, damned hot chocolate if you ask. Jack asked once - she flipped him off. She doesn’t have the time for it. Not really. She steals it. Anything for you.
Emery Walsh listening to any of the music you recommend her. It’s nothing like what she listens to. But it’s you. And it’s perfect. She saves the playlist you make her, listens to it every second she gets. Her mind always falling back to you.
Emery Walsh nearly kisses you when you giggle at a single grey in her hair. It should be infuriating, embarrassing. But you do it in such a sweet way, a little gasp leaving your lips. Emery should feel terrible, a reminder of the age gap between the two of you. Yet, it only makes her want you more. Her innocent baby.
Emery Walsh getting drunk in a bar, confessing to Jack. Shaking her head. “We’re both evil,” she’d mutter, running a hand through her hair. Phone lighting up. A notification from you. Sweet Girl. “Yeah, but we both love it.” Jack replies, grinning as Emery types up a reply immediately.
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part four of an odd combination // matt murdock x f!reader
You like whatever is happening between you and Matt…but a label would be nice. It's a good thing Matt's more than happy to clarify. In any way he can.
wc: 4300
cw: smut: thigh riding 😌, dirty talk, teasing, spanking, slight hair pulling, and asphyxiation (Let me have this.) *reader is lifted off counter, and he would do this no matter ur size, let me be clear.
notes: Smut occurs after line break. This is like my 2nd time writing smut be nice to me or else. older matt murdock & younger reader!! gif from @faithbetryin. If it wasn't obvious before, it is now- I LOVE fragments.
The quiet whir of machinery hums in the mirrored box. There isn't any elevator music, but you tap your foot anyway.
You study your reflection, drinking in your efforts. Not only do you look hot, you feel hot. Beauty only becomes more prevalent the longer you stare. You poke your tongue out, then quickly straighten up, remembering the camera in the corner.
Anxiety has been tumbling in your stomach all day. Things have been going really well, but that doesn't stop you from freaking out before each date, especially tonight. Date number four. At his place.
Just the outside of the building was impressive, then the lobby more so. It's a clean building with a clean sidewalk. Ivory walls with intricate gold designs growing upwards and onto the ceiling. It's elegant. And intimidating.
The elevator gently stops and opens. Walking to his numbered door, you linger for a moment, shuffling your feet. You tap a series of soft knocks. The few seconds feel like forever.
Matt answers with a smile. He looks nice. Soft. It's stupid, but just his pretty face makes your anxiety unfurl. "Hi."
His grin grows. "Hi, sweetheart. C'mon in."
You give him a peck on the cheek and pass by. Your lips part in disbelief, barely enough self-control to not fully drop your jaw. His place is fancy. Like fancy fancy. You knew he had money, but...Jesus. Far too distracted by the sights, you barely register that he gingerly removes your coat and hangs it next to his.
Still eyeing the open living space, you slip off your boots and set them next to his shoes. Strolling in a bit further, you're surrounded by countless windows and crane up at the high vaulted ceiling.
There's an honest-to-god kitchen backsplash and island. Holy shit, the stove is part of the island. He definitely has a dishwasher, too.
With a slightly dry mouth, you remark, "Your place is beautiful."
You mouth the words as he says them, "I'll take your word for it." Matt trails behind your wanderings, but gently pulls you back. His chest to your spine. Little breaths tickle your neck.
"Smells good too."
A small kiss meets the middle of your neck. "I hope so." The tender kiss loosens your shoulders. It's only been a few days since you last saw each other, but it still feels like too long. "We're having chicken risotto and veggies this evening.”
Another peck is pressed into your neck, and then he's gone, moving into the kitchen. Everything is stainless steel, tile, or some fancy not-stained third option. "How can I help?"
There’s little effort in the steady teamwork. Plating, getting drinks, and setting the table are all done in a simple dance around each other. Before you know it, you’re enjoying Matt’s creation and moaning in satisfaction. “My compliments to the chef. Beautiful work, Murdock.” The verbal admiration lifts his head just a tad, whether he knows it or not.
Again, you haven’t been apart long, but the phone calls and small texts aren’t as fulfilling as in-person interactions. As portions dwindle and drinks empty, the rolling conversation finds a small lull. Perhaps this isn’t necessarily the best time to ask, but it’s on your mind.
The last few bites leave your plate, you ask, “Matt?” He hums, acknowledging you. “What are…we doing?”
He pauses mid-bite and squints. “Eating dinner?”
You slump forward, then back up. “Sorry, like.” You fan your fork between the two of you. “This, us. Do you want a label? I- I need some clarification.” Quietly contemplating, his head tilts, and a soft smile slowly grows on his face.
“This can be whatever you want.”
Not impressed, nor understanding, you grumble. “That’s nice and vague.” Setting the utensil down, you gesticulate through the dialogue. “Give me some parameters. Expectations, wants, thoughts. What are we…what are we working with?” Dinner and welcoming conversations put you at ease, but now, gnawing at your lip, your heart steadily races. “Are you um, wanting something?”
Open and calm, all of his focus turns to you. With elbows on the table, he leans forward and answers, “I would like to date you. If you’d let me.”
That’s what you hoped to hear. A new courage loosens your throat; the words and questions you’ve been clutching onto all night can finally be let loose. “I would really like that too.” You press your lips together and think of a better way to phrase it. “Are you… expecting any favors? I mean, you bought the cardigan, so...are you wanting sex in return?”
Matt chokes on his water, then clears his throat. Still working through a cough, he clears the air. “No. No favors. Just-” He waves his hands out, but you don’t know what that means.
“Just dating?”
“Yes.” He clears his throat again and shifts, slowly angling away from you; he sits taller with his hands lightly folded in his lap. It’s a good impression of confidence, but just misses the mark. “It can be dating, but maybe I’d get to spend some money on you. Get you things. If you’d like.”
The soft blush nipping at the tips of his ears showcases genuineness and boyish want. Slowly nodding, you work with the new information. Thoughts fumble while you play with the condensation on your glass.
“I would like to be up front and say that I won’t be dependent on your money.”
A sunrise pink flushes his cheeks, visible even with his glasses. “And that’s okay.”
Already so bare in the conversation, you restlessly tap against the perfect wooden table. Even though your values have aligned thus far, you’re still nervous. “I don’t like using people or asking for things…and what if I never wanted anything? Would you still want to date?” The inquiries come out quieter than you expected.
His hand reaches out, palm up, hoping you’ll accept his invitation. You do. “You won't be ‘using me’ if I'm offering. But yes, I would still want to pursue you.” He pauses. “Perhaps you don’t like to ask, but do you like to receive?” The double entendre makes you roll your eyes, but your heart stutters.
His thumb affectionately caresses the back of your hand. Letting go, you grab your plate and ask, "Finished?" He wears that stupid smirk that causes your chest to ache, making you anxious for a whole new reason. Matt nods, lifts his plate, and makes sure his fingers brush against yours.
Your chatter echoes in the wide empty space while you move into the kitchen. Quiet footsteps follow behind you. “To recap, we would both like to pursue dating. You would like to make the very interesting choice of occasionally spending money on me and I occasionally remind you that I will never depend on it, and my attraction to you isn't monetary.”
Turning just in time, you witness his dimples delve deep and a beautiful shy red grow on his face. It makes you feel giddy. I did that. “That sounds perfect.”
Your heart hitches, but you quickly move to your self-appointed task. Glancing around and pulling open random base cabinets, you mumble, "Where the heck is your dishwasher? I know you have one; your place is too fancy to not have one.”
"Just set 'em in the sink. I wanna talk."
Stopping in the middle of the kitchen, you grimace. "Ooh, that's a fun, scary phrase."
Thankfully, his smile is amused. He takes the dishes away and corrals you until your lower back hits the island. You take the hint and shift onto the countertop.
Matt slinks close, standing between your legs. Reverent hands skim your sides and the outsides of your thighs, brushing back and forth. The delicate friction sparks warmth.
He murmurs, “You never answered.” Shuffling even closer, his face inching towards yours, you lick your lips. Strands of silver shimmer in the kitchen light. Dipping to your ear, he whispers, “Do you like to receive?”
That is so not fair. He’s cornered you, set you at eye level, and asked a heart-racing question. In a sultry tone, you reply, “Hmm, maybe.” Slowly pulling back, he squints and tilts his head. It’s so cute when he does that.
His wandering hands feel heavier. Purposeful. “Don’t tell me no one's eaten you out before.”
“I won’t tell you that then.” You chuckle when his head falls into your sternum, groaning on your behalf. Apprehension claws though your stomach and lungs, but you stuff it down. Comforting the poor man you say, “Had a partner try, but nothin’.” Go for casual. Shrugging, you pry the embarrassing words from your tongue. “Could just be a me thing too.”
He withdraws from your chest. Warmed hands halt. “I'm extremely certain it's not a ‘you' thing.” The conviction makes you almost believe him. He removes his glasses, sets them on the counter, and slides them out of the way. Touches return, fingers tenderly sink into your flesh, kneading your tensing muscles. “But someone has made you cum, right?”
You feel self-conscious, knowing that you are, in fact, the common denominator. "No, but I've had sex, I mean, nothing mindblowing, but it’s okay.” It isn’t okay, but you could very well be the problem. Better to lay that out now- put him at ease for later on.
“You’re serious.” A competitive glint flicks across his face, making you uneasy. It isn’t a ‘fun game’, because something is…wrong with you? He wets his lips. “What are you comfortable with?” You roll your eyes, but one hand rushes to your face and pinches your chin, chasing you back towards him with kisses. You give in too easily.
“I’m very comfortable with handsome, semi-gray lawyers. Does that count?”
A smirk lifts his face. “You like me for my gray hairs and wrinkles?”
Savoring the soft divots, your pointer finger strokes the crow's feet crinkled at his eyes and caresses the permanent wrinkle between his brows. “They definitely add to the appeal.”
In a softer tone, he pushes again, “What do you like, sweetheart? Where are our lines?”
Our lines. You like the way that sounds. “Hmm. Our kissing, make-outs, and dry humping sessions are very much welcomed. Last week was good.” Teasing, you whisper in his ear, “Why? Do you want me, Matt?”
His hands move away from your body and dig into the countertop. It’s fun to watch him try to control himself. I like this game. His head nestles forward, and he grumbles, “What’re you doin’, sweetheart?”
Flinging your head back, you heave a bored sigh. “Nothin’. Making conversation.”
Sudden, warm laughs make you shiver. “God, you’re trouble.”
“Oh, I know.” Readjusting, you move swiftly, but before you can hop off, Matt pulls you to him. The two of you chest to chest, if you could get any closer you'd fuse. Your nose against his. Sharing air. You don’t fight the magnetic pull towards him.
Cupping his face, your kisses are grateful. God, you’re so lucky to feel such a thing. With zero lead-up or hesitation, he whispers into your lips, "May I eat you out?"
Caught off guard, you laugh, jutting your head back- which he takes advantage of, pressing himself even closer into your neck. "So polite." Shifting tones, you brush his thin hair and murmur, "Another night." Matt playfully grumbles, like you're the one denying him pleasure.
He damn near whines. "When will I get to make you cum? Tonight?”
Your hand traces down his chest. Truly abashed, you mumble, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”
Moving into his neck, you nibble behind his ear; his head slips back with a groan. Fuck. Your legs attempt to close at the heady sound, but only tighten around the body still posted in front of you. “...my butt is falling asleep.”
Hearing his chuckle and feeling his smile embedded into your skin, positive flutters replace apprehension. His arms wrap around you, yanking you as close as you can get. Confident hands roam down your back, lingering at the dip of your spine. The pursuit grows deeper, practically devouring you. He tenderly cups your left cheek and kisses across your face, moving down your neck. “Bed? Couch?”
Your response is breathy, “Couch.”
He lifts you off the counter. “Oof! Shit, you’re strong.”
Still kissing, he mutters, “God, you’re trying to kill me.” Matt drops to the couch, quickly gathering you against him. Shifting, you straddle his lap. A sigh leaves from deep within your belly. You savor the way his strong, sure hands move across your body and expand across your back, caressing you. Palming your ass, he brings you even closer.
It sparks a beautiful flashback to your last date. What started as a dinner date ended up similar to the current situation. You were sliding into your sinking sofa, and he was eventually crowded over you. Dry humping and earnestly kissing. His hard body leaned heavily into yours, wanting you impossibly closer. Like a couple of teenagers who couldn't get enough.
And right now, his cock is half hard and growing against you with each movement. Slowly, your hips shift. It's clumsy at first, just desperate and chasing, but the two of you find a rhythm.
Coveting his whimpers, you ride against him. Gyrating and bucking against his bulge, you nudge against his abrasive beard, nipping and sucking small red marks into his skin. He throws his head back in pleasure, bonking it against the back of the couch. You grumble, “You were so selfish last time.”
He tries to pull back, but your diligence to the task at hand causes his head to become heavy again. “Huh?”
“You weren’t making any of these sounds last time, that’s so mean, Matt.”
His sighs are airy and the best god damn thing you’ve ever heard. “Sorry, Sweetheart.”
Lightly nipping once more, he groans, but not nearly as deeply. That won’t work. You’re tactical; you need to bite and suck and nip, and he obviously needs it too, but unfortunately, the stupid stuffy lawyer people wouldn’t find it ‘professional’ to have beautiful hickeys adorned on his neck. Whatever. Unbuttoning his shirt, you chant, “Off, off.”
You and Matt work well together, getting his dress shirt off in record time and flinging his undershirt somewhere else. God, he's pretty…pretty scarred? What the hell happened?
Sensing your questions, Matt attempts to distract you by craning upward and kissing your face wildly. Unable to help yourself, you run a hand down his surprisingly toned body and broad shoulders, not lingering on the old wounds. It’s such a shame he has to wear fancy suits all the time, granted he looks hot in them, like super hot, but this is a whole ‘nother type of sight, seriously “You too?”
You heard absolutely none of that. “Whaa?” His wide smile and silent laugh kill you a little. Warm hands skim under your shirt. “Oh! Ahuh.” Your cardigan and shirt are hastily thrown away and join his scattered clothing.
His hands leave your hips and slide up your body, palming your breasts. You groan, and he checks in. “How’re you feelin’, sweetheart?”
Groaning into his pecs, you admit, “Uggg, so good. You’re so pretty, oh my god. It really sucks that you have to wear those suits all the time. I mean, you look hot, but this was the view the whole time?”
He tries to laugh, but your wandering lips make the sound quiver. "The gray hair and wrinkles are doin' for you, huh?"
Mumbling into his chest, you ask, “And what of it?" Soft, warm lips skim upwards, lingering just under his collarbone. Your mouth waters. “Can I bite?”
His chuckle is huffy but attentive to your wants. “Sure, sweetheart.” A slow, intrigued grip holds the back of your head. You’re pleased with the attention and confirmation, so you bite. The reaction is beautiful: He hisses, arches, and yanks you closer against him when your teeth sink deeper into his clavicle, licking and sucking the wound after. It’s as if he’s attempting to fight off the sharp pleasure, but succumbs far too easily. “Fuck. Pants. On or off?”
You pant into his mouth, “I, uhm.”
He kisses you passionately. “We’ll leave ‘em on. Bra on?”
“Off.”
And suddenly, Matt has all the time in the world.
Rushed kisses slow and turn deliberate, attempting to bring you back down. He delicately traces his fingers around the fabric’s outline. Feeling the materials and elasticity, like he could pick out each fiber. He slowly drags the straps down your shoulders. It makes you squirm; you want him to hurry it up, but the steady pace amplifies the pleasure.
It’s a soft but undeniable shift, your desperate attempts at hearing his whines were fulfilling, but now Matt’s focus solidifies on you.
A murmur is barely audible. “Lemme take my time.” Heavy hands focus on your biceps, and his fingers tuck under the straps. Focused on the tender touches, you hardly give thought to the wide hand moving across the expanse of your back. The clasps are unhooked singlehandedly.
It joins the haphazard mess on the floor. The sudden chill makes you shiver. A sigh escapes when his hands meet your breasts and slide across your chest. He's such a fucking tease- caressing goosebumps and gently playing with hardening nipples. Your chest arches into his hands, and your eyebrows pinch at the new sensations. You were wet before, but adoring touches dampen your underwear further.
This experience is already better than literally everything else. God, what will sex be like? But you’re not sure if it’s enough. If you'll be enough. Your hips lose tempo for just a moment, but Matt pulls you back into time. Vulnerable and airy, you ask the question that lies heavily upon you, “What if I can't cum?”
Dedicated hands don't leave your chest, but continue sliding, pinching, and pulling. He nudges into your neck. His breathing is controlled. “Then you don’t cum. But don’t you feel good, sweetheart?”
You nod resolutely. “So good.”
“Then let that be enough.” He knows right where your worries are. That there's something wrong with me. The movements slow even further as Matt’s hands move to where your ass meets your thighs, hauling you upward until you’re on your knees. Your trembling fingers run through his hair, savoring the love bites nipping into your sternum and breasts, lavishing each nipple with much-needed attention. He puts all previous partners to shame.
“We feel okay, baby?”
“Mhmm.”
“C’mere.” You hunch back down, but Matt tugs under your legs again. “No. C’mere.” A hand is wide across his own thigh, rubbing it up and down, inviting, no, demanding you to straddle him.
Your face flames red. “I don’t-”
“Trust me.” It’s not insanely different in concept. You’ve been dry- (well, you're not very dry) dry humping for god knows how long, why is this different? His hand moves up the back of your neck and threads through your hair, only to give a single taunt tug. “Stop thinking.”
Hesitant, you climb over and straddle his thigh, but keep some weight on your knees. He gazes towards you, annoyed, but it fades when you sink down fully. You’re so turned on that Matt must feel your warm core against his slacks.
Matt hooks his hands behind your knees and slides you forward. Cradling your face, his mouth meets yours, which steadily becomes uncoordinated. You both huff a laugh at the unexpected lewd sounds.
His tongue barely licks against your upper lip, lingering at your parted mouth, then grazes lower. Light licks savor your pliable state. A small string of spittle connects his hovering mouth to yours. Fuck.
A barely-there kiss falls to the corner of your lips. He slides his tongue into your mouth, brushing against yours. You don't mean to, but you whimper. A calloused hand spreads across your throat, not squeezing, but steadfast. It's like he wants to get under your skin. Like he wants to be in control of each breath. In complete control.
He’s got you riding without realizing it. It feels so good. You ride for a long while, enjoying the feeling of his sturdy muscles tensing and letting go. Surely, your thighs and calves will ache tomorrow.
Then it happens: spooling pleasure loses its tension; you don't want the warmth to go away, but it always does. This always happens. Disappointment blooms in your chest. What's the matter with me? This-
Matt continues to pull and push your hips, but nudges your head up with his own. You try to fight it, but suddenly, he's gripping your chin. Displeased hazel eyes bore into you. I told him this would happen.
“Stop chasing it.” That's…not what you expected to hear. His hand lowers and tightens, stealing an inhale. It brings you back. The stern expressions soften. You lean into the gentle hold. “Let this be enough. Okay? Can you do that for me?”
Slumping again, you hold the hand that cradles your throat and murmur, "Okay. Yeah. This- this is enough."
Now that he knows it's enough for you, he wants more. "Very good. Faster.”
Still shy, you waver. “Matt-”
An arm wraps around your waist, yanking your chest to his. His head plummets forward, mouthing at any area of skin he can reach. “God, you're beautiful.”
Insecurities keep the movements restrained. Grumpy, he mutters, “C'mon.” A moderate smack falls against your backside. Not expecting the impact, your movements stop; his palm freezes, then carefully rubs where his hand hit. “Sorry. Are you okay?”
“Ahuh.” You take a moment to catalog the new sensation, or at least you try. “Just surprised me. You can…uh, again.”
Matt’s strong jawline clenches, but he remains composed. His hand circles your ass once more, taking his sweet, sweet time. Anticipation grows. Just before you complain, a swift smack hits you, making you gasp. The sound makes you jump more than anything.
Matt’s hand caresses the impact site. “How's that, baby?”
“Mhmm.” He waits once more. Then delves out another. They slowly escalate. Eventually, determined and sure. Even with the layer of cloth, the alternating hits and soothings make you squirm. You’re desperate again. He’s got you pulled tightly against him; you can’t run (don’t want to run) from his hand.
Because something about the hits sting so perfectly. It rouses you from your countless thoughts, then swiftly tugs you down into a watery mindset. You ride his thigh without thought. “Ah.” Tension rises deep in your belly; you slump, leaning into Matt. So many sensations running into each other, leaving you with nothing but a quiet mind. You shudder.
“Just like that. Thaaat's it.” Greed laces through his words.
Your forehead falls into the crook of his neck. The collective sweat slides your head even closer into his skin. Taking advantage of the new angle, you suck and bite, making him growl.
It must be an erotic sight: You, shirtless and bra-free, pressing your collapsed self into Matt. Riding his thick thigh, absolutely desperate and whining. Oh, and Matt. Muscular arms keep you close. Continuously moving hands seem to know just where to go. Pulling you tight, holding your jaw and throat, palming your breasts. Sliding, tweaking, pulling, pushing. He's everywhere.
Something builds. Your blood rushes just a little faster and your hips hump with more intention. An overwhelming feeling lies just on the horizon.
You moan when another smack hits. "Don't chase it. Let this be enough." An unmistakable feeling of Matt’s devilish simper presses into your skin.
Quivering hands anchor at the back of his neck, sinking into his skin. It keeps getting better. Grasping his hair. You can't help but frantically ride his thigh. “W-wait,” you whine, “Matt.”
No one has ever made you feel this good. You've brought yourself to orgasm- no one else. But Matt is tugging you along to an unfamiliar apex. He knows just what to say. How to praise and mock.
His grip on your hips digs deeper. He coos, encouraging, “That’s it, keep goin’. I know. Oh, I know, sweetheart.”
Your kisses are uncoordinated; he reciprocates, but smiles when your face drops, making the beloved ‘O’ shape (surely with a pinched and focused expression). Lighthearted, he mocks, “Feels so good, huh?”
And it does, it really, really does. Your fingers dig into his skin.“Ma- I’m.” Matt swallows his groans, wanting your genuine bliss to be the only sound in the room. Your body pulls taunt.
Clutching onto him and pushing into his skin, you gasp. “Oh, oh!" The long sought-after sensation consumes you. There are no wandering thoughts or half-hearted pleasures, but a raw, fufilling completion.
He clenches his jaw and shudders upon hearing, “Ohfuck, ohfuck, m’cuming m’cuming.” Needing him close, shamelessly humping and thrusting, your legs lock into his, grinding as deep as you can.
High-pitched whimpers make his chest heave. Matt’s head falls against the back of the couch, holding you, and trying to keep himself together. His hands no longer clutch at your skin, but gently move your hips, forcing you to continue rocking against the hard muscle you straddle, prolonging a sensitive high. You're shaking on his lap, cunt clenching and shivering. Torrents of pleasure ebb slowly, but the oxytocin floods.
After perhaps a whole minute of wordless pants, you breathe into his heaving chest, “Oh, what the fuck?” Perspiring bodies shift together. Exhausted, you shove your face into Matt’s pecs. “Oh my god, Matt.”
Matt’s laugh is velvet. He caresses your dewy back, thrilled and feeling high off your orgasm. A trembling hand tilts your head up; he kisses your lips and miscellaneous portions of your face. Your half-lidded eyes flutter, unable to focus fully.
Bristling stubble scratches against your neck. Nibbling your ear, he scoffs into your skin. “It’s not a ‘you’ thing.”
A whisper curls between your bodies. “You just need someone who knows what they're doing. You need someone to talk you through it, and that’s okay. That's okay, sweetheart. I'm right here.” He angles his head down and kisses your forehead. He pulls you closer and sighs. “We're gonna have so much fun.”
how about you and gaz fighting for your captains approval. more like you trying to compete with the golden boy of the group.
ghost ends up noticing how you start moping around like a kicked puppy, and soap practically begs him to do something because you’re not acting like yourself anymore. plus, he figures since ghost is the second oldest in the group, it’d have more of an effect on you.
you truly give up on your little mission to get some sort of recognition from price but you realize that his attention is fully taken from kyle and you really can’t blame him..he’s a pretty boy.
you’re toying with your lunch one afternoon and you’re zoning out a bit, the rest of the groups talking slowly fading out and ghost sees you, and he remembers what soap asked of him.
“alright, you lot get your gear ready. we leave at 1700.” price says, grabbing his tray and soap and gas follow suit and you’re about to before a large hand presses down against your shoulder, making you sit back down.
“finish your food, soldier. tha’s an order.” ghost voice breaks through to you and you’re knocked out of your little trance you were in and see that you haven’t eaten anything off your plate.
“i— ghost, i gotta get my stuff ready, cap’n said—“
“are you disobeying a direct order, sergeant?” he says, voice deadpan, no room for discussion and suddenly you’re shaking your head, a jolt of guilt coursing through your body as you turn back to your food and start shoveling it down.
ghost could see it in your eyes, you were like a dog just wanting its masters approval and he finally understood why you seemed so down, you needed a firm hard in more ways than most.
price is so busy with one pup he’s totally neglected another so ghost figures he just has to pick up some slack from the old man.
when you all finally meet ghost sees you fidgeting with your gear and he steps up to lend a helping hand. he grabs the top of your vest and pulls you forward, you stumble a bit but end up finding your footing.
“does this meet your approval, sir?” you try to sound sure and strong but ghost can hear the unease and softness in such a simple question. see the way your eyes shake as you try to figure out what expression he’s making but unfortunately the mask conceals it all. conceals the shit eating grin on his face from how cute you look at the moment.
he pulls at your straps, making sure they’re nice and tight and he doesn’t miss the way your breath hitched a bit when he got close to your inner thighs from your holsters.
“looks good, kid. move along.” he mutters out, giving your bum a small tap and he definitely doesn’t miss the bite of your lip and flushed neck when you walk towards the humvee. kids these days.
