another world

Regardless, you usually love watching them both talk with others, always intently listening and giving well thought responses, Jake occasionally bringing some humour into it to make other people laugh and Neytiri fondly roll her eyes. The key word here is usually. For some reason today it's grating on you, watching the two people you love most speak to the very pretty, very outgoing Tsanì. Tsanì is younger than the three of you, full of life and skilled in many things, conversation clearly being one of them with the way she has the rapt attention of your lovers. Their smiles send a soft flutter into your chest but you still wind up looking at the ground below your feet, brows furrowed slightly whilst you try to contend with the weird bitter feeling bubbling up between the flutters.

It's silly really. It shouldn't hurt your feelings at all but it does. You awoke alone, neither of your mates in sight as you silently battled with the morning sickness recently beginning to plague you. Normally they are there to comfort you, it doesn't get rid of the nausea but having their support makes it easier to deal with.

The rest of the clan outside of Jake, Neytiri, Mo'at and yourself do not know, it's just your little secret for now. You're carrying your first child, the beginnings of your little family, and yet you're simmering with a faint irritation at the attention Tsanì is getting from your partners. You’re a greedy little thing really. Your attention is drawn back to them when you hear Neytiri's laugh. Oh, Eywa, how you love that sound. Your heart pounds like the hooves of Pa'li across the grass and your eyes shimmer with adoration.

Unfortunately, you're broken out of your loving trance when Tsanì seemingly shows them something you cannot see, a bundle wrapped in a thin hide, and Neytiri reaches out to steady her arms, so close to the other woman, and to make it worse, Jake leans in as well! The three of them look so happy, almost as happy as when Mo'at said you were with child. It's ridiculous and you know it. You're pregnant with their child, but you've always secretly worried about being enough for the two of them. They're such brilliant people after all, Toruk Makto and the Omatikaya's prodigal daughter. They've never once made you feel like less. No, that's all you. It's something you're working on.

With a huff, and one last glance at the odd little huddle the three of them have going on, you turn on your heels and wander back up to your little home. Your ears are pinned to the side of your head and your tail swishes side to side, an obvious show of irritation that stops anybody from talking to you on your way home.

Once inside, you begin rummaging through the baskets, looking for something to eat and, even though you're unhappy with them, through no fault of their own really, you even make extra food for them, assuming they'll be back soon. You change your mind on what to eat three times because everything seems to turn your stomach a little, only adding to your, frankly, volatile state. You chop fruit and prepare a few teylu niktsyey, Jake's a sucker for teylu, with a furrowed brow and an ever present pout as your mind replays the image of your mates cosying up to Tsanì.

The sound of your mates’ giddy laughter and excitement approaching your home sets your teeth on edge, but your traitorous tail swishes a little as you dish out food for the three of you. You plop down on your rear, facing slightly away from the door as you begin aggressively munching on a sweet fruit, one of the few things that doesn't trigger your nausea at the moment. You focus on it's sweet taste as you stare at the wall opposite you as your mates enter the small space.

“Mornin’, baby, didn't think you'd be awake so early. You feelin’ okay?” Jake speaks first, a hint of worry in his tone that seems to always be there at the moment even whilst he's directing a smile at you. You take another bite of fruit, munching away with a grumpy pout.

“I am fine. I awoke alone, so of course I am awake early,” you mutter quietly. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jake and Neytiri share a glance. It's hard to tell what it is conveying but if you'd hazard a guess it'd be confusion at the attitude and a little bit of guilt for leaving you. You've had a distinct dislike for waking up alone since mating with the two of them, loving the feeling of being tangled up with them through the night and into morning. Jake is a busy man as the new olo'eyktan and often leaves early, which usually leaves you Neytiri to cuddle but today, you were completely alone! How rude!

You're so caught up in your own thoughts you don't even notice Neytiri slinking closer like she's dealing with an angry little nantang (viperwolf). She sidles up close to you before reaching out to brush a braid behind your ear, causing your cheeks to tint slightly purple. She coos softly, her voice warm and calming in your flattened ear.

“We are sorry, tìyawn (love). We had an.. errand to run.” Your eyes narrow a little at her obvious hesitation, and her own eyes avert from yours briefly like she's trying to hide something from you. Your tail twitches as you let out a petulant little ‘hmph’, turning your head to face the wall again.

Now Jake moves, wordless and annoyingly observant, his eyes focused on your features like they'll tell him what's wrong. When he realises he won't gain anything from just staring, he sits down directly in front of you, discretely tucking something behind him before he reaches out to nudge your chin with his pointer finger, tilting your head towards his.

“Baby. What's the matter?” You cross your arms over your chest, ignoring the way your heart beats at having them both so close like you wanted, but your tail betrays you again, beginning to flick at the end repeatedly.

“Hmph. Why don't you ask Tsanì? She seems riveting to speak to.” You're pouting at this point, and absolutely adorable in the eyes of your lovers, as is evident by the shimmers in their eyes. But they still want to get to the bottom of this without upsetting you further.

Neytiri's head lifts and you can tell her and Jake are sharing a silent conversation over your shoulders which only makes this feel worse.

“You.. Saw us? Speaking to Tsanì?” Neytiri asks gently, her hand settling on your arm, causing your heart rate to spike and prompting the irritating reminder of how easily she touched the younger woman earlier.

“Yes. I was alone and sickly and I wanted my mates by my side so I went looking. And I found you speaking to her. Laughing and joyful without any worries.” Your eyes drop to your food, fingers picking at the fruit skin absentmindedly like that'll stop your eyes from burning. Now you feel bad for teasing your friend when she cried so easily whilst she was carrying her first child. That's come back to bite you in the rear. You hear the two of them faintly sigh, guilty for leaving you when you so often deal with sickness in the mornings at the moment.

What you don't see however, is the faint amusement on both your mates faces that comes after the hint of guilt. They feel bad of course, not wanting to upset you on a good day but especially not at such a vulnerable time. But now they understand what's going on, and Jake especially can't help but tease. He calls you a ‘brat’ sometimes, which is a human term you've never come across and he refuses to explain it to you.

“Baby. Did that really make you jealous?” Your head snaps up, eyes wide and lips parted ready to argue. But you don't even get the chance because Neytiri coos softly once again, her arms slipping around your waist so her hand can rest on the faint swell of your belly that only seems to show when you sit with a slouch. It's adorable to them both.

“No. Of course not..” You mutter, cheeks and ears a deep purple as you try to deny the obvious. You are jealous and you know it. They know it too. “Maybe..”

“You are too cute when you are mad, ma yawne (beloved),” Neytiri murmurs against your warm cheek, her hand cradling the other one in order to bring you closer to her kisses. Jake chuckles softly, moving to grab something from behind him.

“You are adorable, baby. We're sorry for making you feel like that though. That wasn't the intention at all,” he says softly, leaning in to kiss your forehead, and then your nose and lastly, a little peck to your lips that leaves you wanting a little more. Greedy as always.

“We were speaking to Tsanì because we asked her to make these.” He holds out a little parcel, gently setting it in your lap before he shuffles in to your other side so you're now sandwiched between your two lovers, their legs trapping you in the middle of them. But you are right where you want to be, and happy purrs erupt from your chest whether you like it or not as your tail swishes side to side behind you, making your mates laugh fondly.

“What is this?” You look between them with wide eyes full of intrigue, and a hint of sheepishness for how you jumped to conclusions, but no matter. They both simply smile at you, and Neytiri nods towards the bundle in your hands, silently encouraging you to open it. Excitement begins fluttering in your chest, and you carefully unwrap the thin hide from around the object. Or objects, as when you unwrap it you find a trio of little wooden toys. One is a Pa'li, one an Ikran and the other is of the great Toruk.

“They're for the baby. Tsanì promised not to say anything until we were ready to announce it but we just couldn't help ourselves,” Jake explains. Though you can barely hear him over the rapid pounding of your heart and seeing the toys is impossible with the misty tears in your eyes. A stifled sob escapes you, and you raise a hand to swipe away the tears so you can see properly.

“Our little ones first toys.. Oh, you two.” You swat them both with your tail for making you cry, hands shaking slightly as you pick up the little ikran toy. Your fingers smooth over the surface of its wings, appreciating the detail and care of Tsanì's work. You can tell just from looking that it's modelled after your own ikran, she has a little nick in her tail that sets her apart from others. The realisation just makes you sob harder. “Oh, they are so sweet.”

Neytiri and Jake watch you closely, love and adoration in their eyes as you sniffle and sob over the little toys. Neytiri leans her head against your shoulder, pressing as close as she can to you so she can press her nose to your skin, taking in the subtle change in your scent. She simply loves it. And Jake is just quietly watching both of his girls, smiling in the quiet disbelief that this is his life now. He leans in a little closer as well, reaching up to push your hair behind your ear.

“Do you forgive us, baby?” He asks softly, his hand settling on your back and tracing little circles into your skin. Neytiri lifts her head, her attention drawn to you once again.

“Of course I forgive you both. You did nothing wrong. Can you forgive me? For being so..” You look down at the baby's toys that sit in your hands and lap, ears pressing close to your head because of your behaviour.

“Nothing to forgive, ma tìyawn (love),” Neytiri interrupts you promptly with a little shake of her head, beaded braids tinkling with the gesture. You turn your head to face her, disbelief written on your features, but she doesn't give you the chance to argue, pressing her soft lips to yours to make you melt into her embrace.

“Like ‘Tiri said, nothin’ to forgive.” Jake leans in to kiss your shoulder, chuckling briefly against your skin. “It was kinda cute though. Seein’ you all pouty and grumpy.”

You gasp softly and turn to Jake, ready to level him with another little swat but he beats you to it by kissing you as well, effectively silencing and flustering you all at once just like Neytiri did. Ironic considering the state you're in because of him. Your face burns with heat, turning your cheeks the prettiest shade of purple your lovers ever did see.

“Never forget, you’re our girl.” Jake’s voice rumbles warm and husky through his chest, and you can feel it on your arm with how closely pressed together the three of you are. All your limbs are tangled together in the best way. You can barely tell where one of you begins and another ends. Neytiri hums on the other side of you, her arms firm but comfortable around your body as she entwines all your tails together.

He'd looked up from his beer and said "There she is," in that low, unhurried rumble, and something behind your ribs had just—shifted. Cracked open and clicked into place like a round chambering.

You'd been eighteen then. Old enough to know better. Young enough not to care.

Now you're lying in your childhood bedroom with the door locked and the window cracked, and the sound of their laughter carries up from the patio below—your dad's easy and bright, and then his, that deep, warm thing that you feel more than hear.

And you press your thighs together under the duvet and stare at the ceiling and think about absolutely nothing.

It doesn't work. Never does.

Because John Price is downstairs in your father's house, and he's probably in that soft grey henley he wears when he's off duty, the one that pulls across his buff chest and does nothing to hide the breadth of him. He's probably leaning back in the garden chair with his knees spread wide and a cigar between his fingers, and you can picture it so clearly it makes your stomach swoop and drop.

That slow way he brings it to his mouth, the way his lips close around it, the way his steely blue eyes would look if he glanced up and caught you watching from the window.

Would he hold your gaze?

Your hand moves before you give it permission. Just resting. Palm flat against your lower belly, fingers splayed over the waistband of your shorts. You're not doing anything. You're just—so warm.

Their voices drift up again. You hear your dad say something about the last rugby match he watched on the telly, and then Price laughs, and the sound rolls through you like a slow wave of heat, settling low and heavy between your hips.

You slip your hand beneath the elastic.

You're already wet. Embarrassingly, pathetically wet, and you haven't even done anything yet—just laid here listening to his voice and thinking about his hands.

God, his hands. Broad and rough and so fucking capable, the kind of hands that probably know exactly how much pressure to apply and where.

You think about the way he gripped and curled around the neck of his beer bottle earlier, casual and sure, and your fingers press on your clit and your breath catches sharp in your throat.

You've tried this before. Plenty of times. In the shower, in bed, with your ex-boyfriend's clumsy fumbling that never quite got there. It always builds to a point and then just—stalls. Plateaus. Leaves you frustrated and aching and too much in your own head.

But right now you're not in your head. You're in his.

You're imagining what he'd do if he came upstairs. If he opened the door without knocking—because he would, wouldn't he, he's that type, all quiet authority—and found you like this. Flushed and panting with your hand down your shorts in the room you grew up in, and his name caught between your teeth.

Would he stop? Would he turn away, do the decent thing, mutter an apology and shut the door?

Probably. You shake your head. No. Not in this daydream he wouldn't.

He'd lean against the doorframe. He'd cross his arms over that broad chest and watch you with those steady blue eyes, and his voice would be so calm, so impossibly composed, like he's giving a briefing and not watching you fall apart.

Don't stop on my account, love.

Your hips jerk. You press harder, circling in tight little motions that send electricity sparking up your spine, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound because the window is open and they're right there—and somehow that makes it worse.

Better. The risk of it, the obscenity of it, touching yourself to the sound of his voice while he sits ten feet below you, oblivious.

Or maybe not oblivious. Maybe he knows exactly what he does to you. Maybe Uncle John has known for years—seen the way your gaze lingers a beat too long, the way you flush when he calls you sweetheart in that offhand way, like the word belongs to you. Maybe he's thought about it, too. Late at night, alone, his hand wrapped around his cock in the dark while he thinks about his best mate's daughter and hates himself for it.

That's it. Good girl. Let me see you.

The wave crests without warning.

It's nothing like the plateau. It's nothing like the stalling, the frustration, the almost-but-not-quite.

It's a full-body thing—a clench and release that starts where your fingers are and radiates outward in a hot, pulsing rush, and you arch off the mattress with your teeth sunk into your bottom lip and his name trapped silently in your throat.

Your thighs shake. Your toes curl. The sound that escapes you is small and strangled and desperate, and for a few suspended seconds the entire world narrows to the rhythmic throb of it, rolling through you in waves that leave you breathless and loose-limbed and blinking at the ceiling like you've just discovered a new law of physics.

There you go.

You lie there after, chest heaving and sweaty, hand still pressed warm between your legs. Your pulse is loud in your ears. The breeze from the window cools the thin sheen of sweat on your collarbones, and from below, their voices haven't changed—still easy, still laughing, still utterly unaware.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it with trembling fingers.

J. Price (17:36): Your dad's firing up the grill. Coming down, sweetheart?

You stare at the message. Read it twice. Three times, blinking slowly with your cheeks on fire.

Then you type back: Be right there ☺️

You're going to go downstairs. You're going to sit across from him at the table and eat whatever your dad's burning on the barbecue, and you're going to smile and make small talk and pretend your legs aren't still shaking and your knickers aren't soaked through because of him.

And when he looks at you—really looks, the way he sometimes does, lingering and half-lidded and maybe not as innocent as he lets on—you're going to hold his gaze.

And you're not going to look away.

You marched into the sitting room where he was currently strewn lazily across the couch, watching the footy. Your heels clicked sharply against the floor, each step carrying the full, crushing weight of your fury. You stood purposely right in front of the television, blocking his view, your foot tapping as your patience wore incredibly thin at the sight of your far-too-relaxed husband.

“You look stunning, pet. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he teased, his dark eyes far too happy and clueless for your liking.

“Johnathan Price. Get up.”

The words came out cold, clipped, and squeezed through tight lips.

You could visibly see the color drain from the poor man’s face. He nearly hit the roof he sat up so fast, his military reflexes kicking in as his spine went completely rigid. If you weren't so profoundly pissed off, the sight of the legendary Captain Price scrambling like a recruit would have made you laugh.

A violent shiver ran straight down his spine. He knew he was in trouble. Big, catastrophic trouble.

In that exact moment, Johnathan's life flashed before his eyes. He scrambled to use every single ounce of brainpower he possessed to try and figure out what the fuck he had done for you to not only wear a expression of pure, unadulterated fury, but to use his full government name. It was a name he was certain you had only used twice in the entire history of your relationship—the first time being your official wedding vows.

He let out a weak, nervous chuckle, clearing his throat. “…Did I mention you look absolutely stunning, love?” he tried, saying anything in a desperate attempt to buy himself a few more seconds of survival.

But as he took a closer, frantic look at your elegant outfit, his eyes naturally darted past you to the small calendar hanging on the far wall. The date seemed to jump out at him. It hit him like a roaring freight train. Johnathan wanted nothing more in this exact moment than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

Before he could even utter a syllable of an apology, you silenced him instantly, thrusting a perfectly manicured finger directly in his face.

“You have exactly one hour to fix this,” you pointed, staring him square in the eye with zero room for negotiation. “And I swear, if you don't, you will regret the day you were born, Johnathan Price. Do I make myself clear?”

Price swallowed hard, looking exactly like a schoolboy who had just been chewed out by his headmistress. “Y-yes, ma’am,” he stammered, the fearsome Captain reduced to pure obedience.

“Good.”

With a sharp flick of your hair and a mean, deliberate sway of your hips, you turned on your heel and walked out of the room.

Never in his life had he seen you this angry, but as he stared at the empty doorway, his heart hammering against his ribs, he realised with a sudden, dark rush of heat that—by God—he desperately wanted to see it happen again.

-

Simon Riley

“Bear”

Being one of the very few people permitted into Simon’s carefully guarded life meant a great deal to you—and secretly, it meant everything to him. Although he had never been the type to be overly or publicly affectionate, ever since your very first date, you had jokingly referred to him as a 'Bear' due to his mammoth, intimidating height. From that night on, the nickname had simply stuck.

It was a lazy Saturday morning, and you and Simon were currently tucked up beneath a mountain of blankets, completely tangled together. Unfortunately for your plans of productivity, Simon possessed zero intention of releasing you from his embrace. He had you completely caged beneath his heavy, solid arms, his massive frame acting like an inescapable anchor as he fully intended to hibernate for just a little longer.

“Bearrr, come on. Time to get up,” you chirped playfully. You kept your voice light, airy, and sweet in a desperate attempt to coax your sleeping giant of a boyfriend back to the waking world.

Simon only let out a low, gravelly grunt in response. Instead of shifting, his grip tightened automatically. One of his massive forearms locked like a steel vice around your waist, while his other thick arm hooked directly over your shoulder, burying your face right into his chest and effectively pulling you into a heavy, affectionate headlock.

“Simon! Simon! Baby, I can't breathe—” you dramatically cried out, your voice muffled against his skin as you feigned succumbing to death by a pair of elite-soldier biceps.

The moment his government name left your lips, he shot wide awake.

In a fraction of a second, the heavy drowsiness vanished. Simon effortlessly loosened his hold only to flip you onto your back against the mattress, pinning your arms to either side of your head. He loomed over you, his massive chest shadowing your frame, his dark, sleepy eyes filled with a mixture of sheer hurt and profound disgust.

“What did you just call me?” he demanded, his voice a low, rough rumble as he sought to confirm his ears had actually heard what they did.

You lay beneath him, utterly trapped, but you couldn't help the bright laugh that bubbled up at his sheer, unadulterated dramatics. “Oh, so that’s what it takes to get you moving, huh, Simon?” you teased, deliberately leaning into the provocation.

He didn't offer a verbal reply. Instead, a dangerous, wicked glint flashed in his eyes. His large hands slid slowly down your sides, finding your waist, and he launched a relentless, targeted tickle attack.

Completely unable to breathe through the sudden onslaught of laughter, your body writhed beneath his hands as you begged for mercy. “Please, Simon! I’m sorry!” you choked out between breathless, echoing laughs.

“Who’s that, dove? Never heard of a Simon,” he murmured evilly, his thick fingers continuing their torturous, playful assault without a single ounce of pity.

“BEAR! BEAR! I’M SORRY, BEAR!” you squealed loudly, your body twisting as you tried in vain to wriggle free from his iron grip.

Only when he finally heard his proper title did the giant relent. He let out a low chuckle, collapsing down onto the mattress right beside you. In an instant, he reeled you right back into his chest, pulling your back against him before raining a heavy trail of open kisses all over your hair, your temple, and the sharp line of your jaw.

“That’s more like it,” Simon grumbled, his voice vibrating deeply against your skin as he buried his face in your neck. “No more of that Simon bullshit from you, miss.”

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at your incredibly dramatic boyfriend, but a soft, helpless smile spread across your face nonetheless. You loved every single unmasked, ridiculous piece of him. And, just as he wanted, you ended up spending the entire remainder of your Saturday tucked safely away from the world, being perfectly lazy and cozy in bed.

-

Soap “John Mactavish”

“Love”

You were heavily pregnant with your first child, and for the most part, the experience had been a complete dream come true. Johnny had miraculously managed to secure extended leave for these last few months, and he had been a constant, unwavering presence.

He was right there beside you for every prenatal class, eagerly sprinted out for midnight snack runs to satisfy your weirdest cravings, and would readily stand behind you to lift the heavy weight of your belly just to relieve the pressure on your aching spine. He was, without a doubt, the perfect partner.

On this particular evening, you were sitting on a stool at the kitchen breakfast bar. Johnny had insisted on cooking dinner from scratch, promising a hot, relaxing bath afterward to soothe your exhausted body.

“Nearly ready, lass. Hope you and the wee bump are hungry,” he teased playfully, glancing over his shoulder with a bright grin. He was a sight to behold, wearing a kitchen apron over his broad shoulders as he busied himself prepping the plates.

“Thanks, love. I’d be completely lost without you,” you beamed, smiling dotingly at him as he put the final touches on his culinary creation. You absentmindedly rubbed your stomach, noting that the baby was kicking quite a bit today. You didn't think much of it, given how incredibly close you were to your official due date.

But it was in that exact, unsuspecting moment that you felt it.

Your water had broken.

You could barely see your toes past the massive curve of your belly as it was, but as you looked down, a sudden, violent surge of panic shot through your entire body. The once-dry kitchen tile beneath your stool was completely soaked.

“U-uh… Johnny?” you called out shakily, your voice tight.

Johnny, who was still fully animated and yapping away as he plated up the food, let out a distracted chuckle. He didn't even turn around, completely misreading your panicked tone for a bit of banter. “Johnny? Aye, what’s with the formalities all of a sudden, lass? Usually I get a 'love' or a 'darling' when there's food on the line.”

“Johnny, listen to me—” you tried again, your breath catching as a sharp wave of adrenaline hit you.

“Who you calling Johnny, lass?” he teased, playfully shaking the spatula in the air, his back still turned. “You only use my proper name when I’m in the doghouse, and I know for a fact I’ve been an absolute angel today—”

“For fuck's sake, John!” you screeched.

The full government name cut through the kitchen like a flashbang.

The spatula fell silent. Johnny whipped around instantly, his blue eyes wide with a mixture of total bewilderment and sudden concern. He had never heard that specific, lethal tone leave your mouth before, and the sheer gravity of John completely shattered his playful mood.

“My water broke,” you said, staring right at him.

The legendary, highly decorated SAS sergeant stood completely frozen. He had a spatula gripped in one hand and a dinner plate in the other, utterly paralyzed like a deer in the headlights. In this exact moment, he did not look like an elite soldier trained to think critically under high-pressure, life-or-death scenarios. He looked like a man whose brain had just completely short-circuited.

“Johnny!” you screeched again, snapping him out of his trance as you began taking heavy, rhythmic breaths to regulate your racing heart. “I am about to have your child right here on our kitchen floor! I highly suggest you get us to the car or call an ambulance—whichever one is faster!”

“Y-yes! Right! Okay!”

With his military reflexes finally overriding his sheer panic, Johnny dropped the spatula into the sink, his training kicking into overdrive. He shifted into pure logistics mode, scrambling to grab the pre-packed hospital bag, your coat, and the car keys, his movements a blur of chaotic efficiency as he helped you stand and guided you toward the door.

Just as you reached the hallway, preparing to brace yourself for the drive, you reached out and grabbed his hand tightly, pulling his knuckles to your lips to give them a soft kiss. “Thanks, love.”

The familiar, gentle pet name acted like a tether, instantly dragging him back to reality. A massive wave of relief washed over his face, a bright, fiercely protective grin breaking through his nerves as he squeezed your hand back. He was ready.

-

Kyle  ‘Gaz’ Garrick

“Handsome”

Gaz came home from what you could only imagine was a brutal, exhausting deployment. He hadn't been himself since the moment he walked through the front door, clamming up every single time you tried to reach out to him. You knew it was part of the territory; being a military wife—especially to an SAS soldier—was never going to be a walk in the park.

Still, he had barely muttered more than five words to you over these last few days. He ate in silence, went to bed in silence, and ran off to God-knows-where during the day in a desperate attempt to clear his mind. You had tried your absolute best to give him space, but you were rapidly reaching your limit. You couldn't watch him drown in his own head anymore.

You woke up in the dead of night yet again to the sight of him sitting rigidly on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the floor, totally stuck in his own skull.

Sitting up, you clicked your bedside lamp on, the soft golden glow cutting through the dark room. You shifted over and instinctively wrapped your arms around his broad, tense shoulders, placing a soft, lingering kiss against his skin.

“You okay, handsome?” you softly asked.

He brushed off your concern exactly as he had been doing all week, pulling away from your touch with a tired sigh. “I’m fine, love. Just tired. Don't worry about it,” he muttered. It was his usual defense mechanism—his way of telling you to go back to sleep because he didn't want to talk.

But you were completely fed up. Fed up with being pushed aside, and fed up with being kept in the dark when all you wanted was to remind him that he didn't have to carry the weight of the world alone. Not anymore.

Rejecting the dismissal, you climbed out of bed, marched all the way over to his side, and plopped down on your knees directly in front of him on the floor. You took his rough, calloused hands in yours, forcing him to look down.

“Look at me, Kyle. It’s me.”

Hearing his actual name—not his callsign, and not a soft distraction—caused his tired, shadowed eyes to meet yours. It was only for a brief, fleeting moment, but it was all the confirmation you needed to know that your husband was still in there.

“Kyle, look at me,” you whispered again.

As you spoke, warm tears began to well up in your eyes. When his gaze finally locked onto yours this time, it was filled with so much raw, unspoken pain that you couldn't help but let those tears fall, weeping silently right in front of him.

The sight of your tears seemed to shatter whatever walls he had left.

Slowly, his broad shoulders completely relaxed, the rigid military tension finally bleeding out of his body. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead down against yours in a silent, powerful gesture that let you know he was finally ready to let his guard down.

“God, I missed you,” he whispered, his voice cracking from the overwhelming release of pure emotion.

Before you could reply, he hooked his arms under you, effortlessly pulling you up off the cold floor and onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around you in a fierce, crushing grip, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“I missed you too, handsome. More than you could ever know,” you sweetly cooed back through your tears, wrapping your own arms securely around his neck and pressing a gentle, reassuring kiss to the side of his head.

You didn't know exactly what had happened to him over there, but in this moment, the details didn't matter. All that mattered was that your husband was finally safe in your arms, letting his walls crumble so you could help him heal.

-

-

-

-

-

The moment the cold water hit your skin, a deep, shuddering sigh left your lips. As the stream ran through your matted hair, it began to warm up slightly, but you were honestly too exhausted to care about the temperature.

Too wrapped up in the blissful sanctuary of the running water, you had absolutely no idea you had suddenly acquired an audience. And they were standing in a state of absolute shock and giddy amusement.

“Jesus Christ,” Soap muttered under his breath, his eyes instantly glued to your form. He was completely enamoured, watching the way the water glistened down the plump, smooth curve of your ass.

Gaz walked over to see what the hell Soap was staring at so intently. The second he rounded the corner, he froze, jaw dropping so fast he practically drooled.

“Mate, why the fuck are you—oh.” Gaz’s train of thought was instantly derailed, his brain short-circuiting entirely.

You began lathering shampoo into your hair, your back still completely turned to your pervy teammates, utterly oblivious to the commotion you’d caused. Your hands tangled in your long locks, pulling them up and giving them a full, glorious display of your toned back. Your spine arched slightly as you began to hum a mindless tune to yourself, working the suds into your scalp.

Taking their sergeants' sudden silence as an open invitation—and getting thoroughly pissed off that their orders were being ignored—Captain Price and Lieutenant Ghost stormed over.

“Are you lot fucking deaf?” Simon growled out, his voice a low, threatening rumble. But the words died in his throat. 

He went wide-eyed beneath his skull mask, shutting up instantly as he took in your naked form.

A slow, knowing smirk crept onto Price’s face. He thoroughly enjoyed the view, but he enjoyed how easily undone his hardened men were at the mere sight of you even more.

“What’s wrong, lads? Never seen a woman before, is that it?” Price teased, though his own eyes lingered. The three younger men stood entirely unfazed by the jab, unable to look away.

“I just… I didn’t realize our wee sergeant was quite so much of a lady under all that gear,” Soap choked out, his Scottish accent thick with awe.

To be fair, you weren't exactly the overtly feminine type in the field. Matching the masculine, rugged energy of the unit was a survival trait, and living and working alongside hardened military veterans most of the time didn't leave much room for glamour. 

But all that brutal training and combat experience had sculpted your body to absolute perfection.

Yet, there was something undeniably, breathtakingly feminine about you in that exact moment. 

The way your chin lifted toward the showerhead, leaning your head back into the spray; the way your long hair was tussled with white soap suds; the way your soft, supple curves were on full display, glistening and wet under the dim light.

It wasn’t until you finally turned around to rinse that you saw the group of men ogling you like a bunch of spellbound schoolboys. 

You didn't scream or cover up. Instead, you simply rolled your eyes, reached over the partition, and grabbed your towel.

‘Those fucking idiots.’

Their faces burned a deep crimson from a potent mix of embarrassment and sudden adrenaline. They had just been caught red-handed looking in on their teammate, and they were fully expecting a high-decibel meltdown.

Instead, you casually wrapped the towel around your wet hair, stepped out of the stall, and walked right up to them. They stood entirely paralysed, practically terrified to even breathe, as you looked every single one of them dead in the eye with a sharp, deviant glint in your gaze.

“What?” you asked, looking down at your bare body before locking eyes with them again. 

“I may look and act like one of the guys on a run, but I’m very much still a woman.”

You flashed them a teasing, wicked smile, walking right past the frozen line of soldiers while shaking your head. 

As your hips swayed deliberately down the narrow corridor toward one of the bedrooms, walking painstakingly slow, each step further adding to the aching bulge in their pants. You could feel all four pairs of eyes burning holes into your skin with an intense, suffocating heat.

Stopping just at the threshold of the doorway, you trailed off. “Well…”

You slowly turned around, a dark, playful look washing over your face as you looked back at the hallway. 

“Are you lot just going to stand there, or do you actually want to come get a closer look? Your call.”

You didn't even have to wait for an answer. The words had barely left your lips before all four men practically tripped over their own boots, breaking their paralysis in a desperate, chaotic scramble to make their way into your room.

Hey, nothing like a little boost in team morale, right?

-

-

-

-

-

John Price

John glances between you and the car and back again.

It’s unbelievable. Fucking bonkers. The car is completely smashed. Sandwiched. Hardly anything left to it. The fact that you’ve seemingly walked out of the car unharmed is a bloody miracle.

“It’s a shame. Was such a good car,” you sigh, wistfully.

John’s hand drops from his face. “You’re worried about the car?”

You shrug. “Of course. We’ve had it for years.”

With a heavy sigh, John drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you to him. As your arms wrap around John’s middle, he breathes you in, savoring your warmth and smell. Just hours ago, you could have been gone. Crushed. Broken and unresponsive.

“Hardly care about an old car, love,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “Just glad you’re safe.”

“John,” you laugh. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

“You’re goddamn infuriating,” he murmurs, going in for a kiss. “Thinking I care more about some fucking car.”

John claims another kiss. Another. You’re alive and that is all that matters.

“Bloody hell!” comes a low, masculine voice. “Get a fucking room!”

You pull away abruptly, tugging on John’s hand, leading him away from the burly tow truck driver.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“You’re back early.” Kyle emerges from under the sink, wiping his hands on a towel as he sits up. He checks his watch. “You’ve been gone all of five minutes.”

That’s right Kyle. Only five.

Five minutes it all it took. That’s how the saying goes, isn’t it? Most accidents happen within five minutes from home. Or is it five miles? Fifteen? Doesn’t matter.

What matters is the god-awful bumper to bumper scrape on the side of Kyle’s new car. A gift from his rich uncle because he’s the favorite. That car is special to him, and you fucked it up. Bad.

“We don’t need it,” you say, lamely.

Kyle’s surprise at your unexpected arrival morphs into confusion. “You decided we don’t need what?”

Shit.

“That,” and you wave your hand in the air, “part you gave me. I mean, is it really that necessary?” You end on an awkward giggle.

Kyle’s confusion dissolves like smoke. “The part I gave you? Told you to take it to John at the hardware store. That part?”

You lick your lips. “Yes?”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” you reply automatically.

It’s too sharp, too high of a crack. Kyle stares at you intently. Nothing gets past him.

“I won’t be mad,” he says, his voice calm and cool. “Talk to me. Something happen?”

Your stomach drops, twisting hard. Not like you can cover this up. It’s his car. You can’t drop it off at the shop and pretend that everything is fine.

“I might have scraped the side of your car,” you admit.

“Might?”

You feel them then, the tears. Hot and salty.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey. Hey.” Kyle tosses the towel aside and comes to you, encircling you in his arms. “Are you okay? No bumps or bruises?”

“No,” you sob. “Just my pride.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Oh shit.”

Symbols ignite on the dash. Some hold their glow while others flash violently in warning. There’s a consistent hiss you can’t locate, and the radio continues to blare “You Spin Me ‘Round” by Dead or Alive.

“Fucking Jesus,” comes Johnny’s voice to your left.

He’s bent forward slightly, one arm out. It’s pressed against your chest like you’ll fly out of your seat and through the cracked windshield.

“The car,” you breathe. “The car. Oh my God.” Johnny’s hand shifts to your face, grasping your head before moving downwards, checking you over for injuries. “And the cow! Did I hit it? Do you think it’s okay?”

Spawning next to Johnny’s window is the hairy cow in question. It moos, and you both jump. A few more appear behind it, and beyond that, a broken wooden fence where more Highland Cows gather, staring at the accident.

“Fence rotted away,” mutters Johnny. “They got out.”

You sigh with relief, and then groan. “Goddamnit. How are we getting to your parent’s house? This is—I fucked this up.”

Johnny turns in your direction. “Ma will understand.” He reaches for you again, cradling your face. “It’s just a car. You’re more important.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Slow down, dove. You’re talking too fast.”

“I hit a tree! I ran into a fucking tree!”

Simon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I heard that. Not the last bit.”

Your words fire like a semi-automatic. Simon can hardly keep up.

“There was a kid and I wasn’t going to hit a fucking child with a two-ton car so I swerved—”

“Love,” sighs Simon, grabbing his keys and boots, ready to walk out the door.

“—then there was this llama wearing a pink party hat and a raccoon so I assume there was a birthday party or something because why would there be a fucking llama in the middle of the suburbs—”

Simon pauses with his hand on the front door, opened mouthed. “A what?”

“—and where did the racoon come from and why was it chasing the llama and why—”

“Did you hit your head?”

You go silent for a beat. “Did I—” and then, “are you even listening to me, Simon? The car is totaled.”

Simon rests his head against the wood door, eyes shut as he steadies his breathing. “I don’t care about the car.”

“Well, I care.”

“You hurt? Bleeding? Feel dizzy? What’s today’s date?”

“It’s June. First Thursday of the month.”

“What year?”

“Fuck you and come help me!”

Simon chuckles, a twinge pulling at the corner of his mouth. You’re acting a brat, running your mouth, which means you’re perfectly fine, as least mentally. “Sure you’re not bleeding?” he asks, opening the front door. “No scratches?” And then, because Simon finds it amusing, “Impalements?”

“Very funny,” you snort.

“Love you,” smiles Simon, bolting the door. “Be there in ten.”

It's flatpack. IKEA. Forty quid and a bag of wooden dowels. A normal, boring, adult activity that millions of people do every weekend without incident.

But Simon is building it shirtless, because he got warm, and he's sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with the instruction manual spread across one beefy thigh, and he's wearing reading glasses—the ones he thinks you don't know about, the ones he keeps in the junk drawer next to his side of the bed—and he's holding a tiny Allen key between two fingers that could crush a man's windpipe, and he's frowning.

Not his scary frown. Not the operational, someone-is-about-to-die frown.

The little one.

The one where his split brow furrows and his lips press together and he looks like a very large, very dangerous man who is mildly inconvenienced by step seven of twelve.

And you're standing in the doorway.

You've been standing in the doorway for four minutes; hands clenched at your sides, and a feeling building in your chest that can only be described as rage.

"Whot," Simon says, without looking up, because of course he clocked you the moment you approached the room.

"Nothing."

"You're starin'."

"I'm not."

"Y'are. Can feel it." He picks up a wooden dowel, examines it, checks the diagram. Pushes his glasses up his nose with one knuckle. "Either help or stop hoverin'."

The glasses adjustment. The calloused knuckle. You want to bite him. You want to sink your teeth into his stupid massive shoulder and shake him like an overstimulated dog with a squeaky toy.

"I hate you," you say eventually.

He looks up slowly; one eyebrow raised above the glasses. "Whot?"

You start gesturing wildly. "I hate you. I hate your face. Put a damn shirt on."

"... No?"

"Put a shirt on or I'm going to do something insane, Simon Riley!"

He sets the Allen key down and looks at you properly. There's a smudge of saw dust on his cheekbone and his dirty blonde hair is pushed back from his forehead and the reading glasses make his dark eyes look bigger and you are going to lose your entire mind.

"You olright?" he asks, with the same cautious tone he'd use on an unstable IED.

"NO! No, I'm not alright. You're sitting on my floor building me a bookshelf in your reading glasses with your stupid arms and your stupid frown and I can't—I literally cannot—" You gesture at him incoherently. "How DARE you!"

His eyes flick down to the bookshelf, then up again. "How dare I... build furniture?"

"How dare you look like THAT while building furniture! You look like a—like a domestic—like someone's HUSBAND—"

His frown drops. "I am yer husband," he deadpans.

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!"

He stares at you, and the ghost of a smile is pulling at the corner of his mouth now, which makes everything worse, because Simon Riley almost-smiling in reading glasses is a federal crime.

Simon clicks his tongue. "C'mere," he says.

"No," you retort petulantly, arms crossing again.

"You're goin' to come here, sit in my lap, and tell me exactly whot's wrong with you."

"What's WRONG with me is that you're—" You cross the room in three furious strides, drop into his lap, grab his face with both hands, and kiss him so hard you nearly knock the glasses off. He catches them. Catches you. One strong arm around your waist, holding you steady while you kiss him like you're trying to absorb him through osmosis.

When you pull back, you're breathing hard. He's not, just watching with that smug expression of his.

"Better?" he asks calmly.

"No. I'm still angry."

"About the bookshelf?"

"About your ENTIRE existence, Simon."

"Noted." He puts the glasses back on. Picks up the Allen key. "Step eight requires a Phillips head. Make yerself bloody useful and pass it."

"I hate you."

"Y'mention that." He kisses your temple without looking up from the manual. "Phillips head. Top of the box."

You pass it and stay in his lap. He builds the rest of the shelf with you sitting between his legs, silently furious about the way his pale forearms flex, tendons twitching, when he tightens the screws.

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.