His eldest sister’s middle child is turning six, so the three of you pile into his car on a warm Saturday morning to make the drive to the suburbs. The MacTavish-Donnelly household overflows with children in party hats and benevolently bored parents when Ghost pulls the old Jeep up to the curb, boxing some unfortunate van in the driveway, and your trepidation is visible the moment your shoes hit the pavement.

Being your partner has uncovered a new layer of perception for Soap and Ghost; they see and hear things they previously would have ignored, because with the way you move through the world you can ignore nothing.

You described it once having a live wire for every nerve ending; everything, everywhere, screams at you all the time.

So when you pause on the sidewalk when you see a trike in the front yard, and a few adults holding punch cups on the stoop chatting, Soap knows why he hears the wrapping paper around the present in your hands crinkle, your grip tightening.

He throws an arm around your shoulder and brings his lips to your ear. “You got your wee earplugs, aye, Ducky?”

“Yes,” you whisper nervously.

You sway into him at his touch—it’s grounding, you’ve explained. It keeps you from floating away, expanding outward to try to figure out everything happening around you. Nothing beyond the sphere he and Ghost make matters so much.

He kisses the soft spot of your jaw. Ghost comes up to your other side and pulls your hand up into the crook of his arm. “We can set the place on fire, if need be.”

“Don’t burn my sister’s house down, please, LT.”

“Sink fire. Set off the alarms, that’s all.”

You give a little sniff of laughter, and, thus fortified, the three of you advance.

There’s Twister in the living room next to a table piled high with a rainbow of gifts, children tumbling around each other on the mat and laughing while music plays on the telly. Pastel streamers and balloons festoon everything (the middle child being celebrated should grow up without any proverbial complexes, Soap thinks), and confetti is abundant on the carpeted floor like a piñata molted on its way through.

There are the usual stares as they walk through the house. Soap is used to it—likes to flaunt it even, sometimes—and Ghost has never given a shit what anyone thinks. But you seem to shrink even further between them as you feel watched, curious eyes wondering if the mousy little thing between them really arrived with two men.

Luckily, they find Mary in the kitchen, and even despite how obviously harried she is, wisps of hair flying around a lopsided ponytail, Soap’s sister brightens when she sees them.

“Johnny!” she exclaims, swooping him into a hug he’ll never get too big to fall into. “And Simon and Duck! Thank goodness, we’re about to cut the cake and we might need crowd control.”

“Mary,” grunts Ghost.

“Hello Mary,” you say.

Mary releases Soap and smiles very kindly at you. Out of all his siblings, she’s been the most fond of you from the start—probably, he thinks, because she sees something to nurture in you.

At that moment, two of Mary’s children and three of Soap’s nieces and nephews, including the birthday boy, rush in to glom around Soap’s legs, and after the choruses of “Uncle Johnny!” collide with him, they backwash toward Ghost, who always has candy in the many pockets of his utility pants for them to scavenge.

Soap’s family has accommodated you well, though—they flow around you like water, barely touching, and you take the opportunity to give Mary your own hug.

“We’re doing crafts in the backyard, Duck, I thought you might like that,” his sister says, patting your back.

You pull away and give her a smile. It’s one of Soap’s favorites; small and mysterious, and completely genuine. The one that means you’re very pleased, and you don’t feel pressured to show it.

“Yes,” you say, and you vanish outside to sit with the quiet ones.

Ghost allows himself to be dragged off by the rowdier kids, leaving Soap to lean against the kitchen counter and smile at his sister; when when she lifts a cup to sip at some punch, he taps her belly with two fingers.

He’d felt it when she hugged him. A little firmness, hidden by the weight she’s never managed to lose after three pregnancies, and the loose shirt she’s likely wearing to hide the growing bump.

“Number four,” he murmurs.

Jealousy, a thin, sharp garrote, tightens in a spool around his stomach, but it’s an old feeling—one he’s learned how to ignore, until it stops aching.

(Compromise—sacrifice. It’s how a relationship between three people sustains itself. Everyone in his plurality has given something up, or learned to live with something else, or adopted new practices they might otherwise have never picked up. It’s a solid, even foundation, and the last thing Soap wants to do is take a hammer to it.)

His sister’s face softens with warmth. The glow of it suffuses the stiff lines of her posture, gentling the anxiety that has fizzed in the way she stands.

“Our last one,” she says quietly. “We haven’t told anyone yet.”

“Planned?”

“No. God! Could you imagine? Mum and Dad are crazy enough.”

Soap smiles. “We turned out alright.”

Mary runs her hand over her stomach, quick but loving. “Yeah, we did. Remember me though? Swore I’d never become her, and look at me now.”

A house full of toys shoved into every corner; sippy cups in a wire drain basket by the sink. The long hem of her tunic shirt creased by tugging hands. The jamb of one door anointed with three different colors of sharpie, hatch marks measuring years of rapid growth.

Light, and warmth, and color.

“You’re happy, though,” he says.

“I am.” She aims a little grin into her cup—an expression he’s seen her make more often with every consecutive pregnancy.

A secretive curve of her lips. Tranquil, with the familiarity of some hidden insight, as if Mary can see facets of happiness that—to Johnny—remain a mystery.

“I always thought this would be you, you know,” she says. “If you married a girl, I mean. Then you and Simon got together, and I figured not, but…”

Soap settles his crossed arms lightly on his chest, sucking one cheek between his teeth. He sets his gaze on the rainbow of letter magnets on her fridge, spelling out the names of her children. “You know her. It wouldnae—wouldnae be a good idea.”

Mary nods. “And she doesn’t want any?”

“No. Neither of ‘em do.”

He feels his sister’s eyes on him. Probing, in only the way a mother of three’s can be—though even before having children, she’s always been able to see through him in a way no one else ever has.

“I dunno abou’ that,” she says eventually.

When he looks up at her, her gaze is angled elsewhere—toward the sliding glass of the back door, where a table piled high with cheap craft paints and canvas board and grubby jars of water are attended by the clan introverts. You’re the only adult sitting with them, happy not to be bothered—

But a little one comes shyly up to you, a messy painting clutched between two paint-smeared hands.

It’s Mary’s youngest, Angus—and her shyest. He comes to stand beside you with his shoulders hunched, eyes big and trepidatious as he waits for you to catch sight of him.

Soap watches you greet the lad when you notice him. The expression on your face doesn’t change; you always speak to the children the same way you speak to adults, no exaggeration, no upward pitch. Angus stretches his arms out to present his creation.

You look at the canvas when it’s offered to you, and then in a smooth motion you slide out of your chair to crouch down to the boy’s level. As Soap watches, you cross you legs and invite him to sit in your lap, and then, with as serious an expression as you might have at a gallery showing, you begin pointing at different places on the painting. One arm is wrapped loosely around little Angus’ belly, holding the child to you like a stuffed toy.

One side of the canvas is in Angus’ hand; the other is in yours.

He can’t hear what you’re saying, as he watches your mouth move, but Angus positively glows with the obvious praise you’re giving him. When he turns to look up at you, you give him your mysterious little smile—

Something hot blooms in Soap’s chest.

Then there’s a shriek of laughter in the living room, and when Soap turns to look, he sees Ghost on the Twister mat, huge body set in an arch, feet on green, hands on red.

He’s going to bitch later about his back or his knees, Soap can already hear it ringing in his ears—but right now Ghost holds position as kids crawl underneath him or do their best to clamber over him like climbing a mountain. Then, suddenly, Ghost collapses with one of their nephews worming over his belly, throwing his arms around the kid and hauling him over his shoulder.

“Bloody mountain goats, I look like a jungle gym to you?” he barks, baring his teeth in a mock-snarl. Though at home he’ll have it on as often as not, he never wears his mask around the children.

Ghost surges up to spin the boy around, and the other kids crow with laughter and demands for a turn of their own.

“Watch the lamps!” Mary cries out, undercutting her warning with a laugh. “You’re as bad as the wee ones, Simon!”

The heat in his chest billows. St. Elmo’s fire catches in his alveoli, flash-burns the lining of his lungs inward to cloak his heart in a white blaze. Heat sears his neck upward to flood across his face.

He thinks of you, belly round, breasts heavy. Ghost with a baby in his arms, a tiny thing made tinier by the bulk of his huge frame. A toddler clinging to your leg, face tipped up to look at you with adoring eyes, or napping at midday, thumb in mouth, on Soap’s chest.

It takes his breath away. The kitchen sways around him, the earth’s center of gravity shifting. A fissure crack the casket of his want.

Mary catches his eye with a knowing grin.

He starts with Ghost.

You’re going to be the harder sell. Early in the relationship, the three of you had sat down to discuss this, and you had been unequivocal—no kids. You did not want children, and you did not want to be pregnant.

It was a sensory nightmare, you’d explained. The thought of sticky hands reaching out constantly to touch you, and shrill, high voices shouting and screaming, with no knob to turn down the volume, made you shudder with fear. Piles of toys to trip over, when your balance is medium on a good day, and no moment to sit down in silence without the risk of it being interrupted by some little goblin’s insatiable demands.

Put that way, Soap could see your point. He remembers his parents’ most exhausted days, dealing with no less than five children in the house and seven for birthdays and holidays. That kind of exhaustion would weigh on anyone, but for you, it would be a different beast entirely.

And Ghost was in accord—both for your sake, and his own. By then, he had told you and Soap about the Sonoran desert, Sparks and Washington, burning down his own house with four bodies still warm inside it—one smaller than the pool of blood it lay in.

He did not want to bring something into the world so easily taken out of it.

Soap could see that too. Certain moments in the field live permanently now in the folds of his brain, bloody and ugly and grisly in the way most people only encounter through fiction. Too real to him now not to look at his nieces and nephews sometimes with dread tearing up his gut.

Soap was outvoted. Moreover, he was convinced. So he kept his desires to himself.

But that evening after the party, he can’t stop thinking about it. A little bundle with his eyes, and your mouth, and Simon’s nose. Little hands curling around his fingers. A high chair at their dinner table, right next to his place. Bedtime stories. Halloween costumes. Friday night movies, like his Dad used to set up for him and his brother and sisters, popcorn fights during action scenes and falling asleep in piles on the floor.

Soap has always wanted children. Always. He thought he could give that up, being with you and Ghost—what’s between the three of you is rare, precious, more than worth having even by itself. He loves the life he has with his little family, and he wouldn’t change it.

But expansion isn’t exactly change, is it?

The more he thinks about it, the more right it feels. The more he can already feel the weight of his child in his arms. And he knows it would make the two of you happy, even despite the trepidation you and Ghost share. Neither he nor you grew up in happy homes overflowing with love—it’s natural that neither of you can see the potential of it.

But Soap did. Soap can.

He doesn’t mind being the visionary. He’s more than willing to lead the charge. He can do the work of opening his partners’ eyes—

And he’s not above fighting dirty to do it.

It starts with getting Ghost on his back. You’re out one night teaching an evening class (bento dinner in hand, an extra square of chocolate Soap snuck in at the last moment), so the next few hours are just for them, and Soap takes possession of every minute.

It’s always a sight. Ghost is the biggest man Soap has ever been with—and to have that huge body below him, fatty muscle red and quivering, hips rolling with a needy cant as Soap slowly drags his cock in and out of him, is something that never fails to take his breath away.

He massages his hands up and down Ghost’s chest, cupping his heavy pecs and thumbing his nipples as the big man’s eyes sink closed and his bitten mouth drops open. Between them, his cock, blustery red and standing straight up, twitches every time Soap pushes in, dripping clear and messy all over his stomach.

Ghost’s hands are vice-tight on Soap’s hips, but he doesn’t urge him to speed up, doesn’t snarl at him to get on with it, like he usually might. No—Soap set the mood just right, backing Ghost into the bedroom with soft kisses up his neck and softer hands wandering up his shirt. It’s honey-sweet and slow as dripping molasses, with Ghost hot and tight around him, their groaning breaths mingling as they hang there together in the moment.

Watching Ghost’s belly jump with pleasure, Soap says—breathlessly, as if letting it slip out—“I wanna get her pregnant, Simon.”

It’s only supposed to test the waters. Take Ghost’s temperature, see where his head’s at. Soap is ready for anything—for Simon to freeze, to glare at him, even to shove him away.

But instead—

“Fffffuck,” Ghost growls, chest expanding, stomach going concave as he heaves a deep breath in.

His brows screw together, upper lip curling, and he draws so tight around Soap that he has the delirious notion that Ghost is going to pull his cock clean off. If Ghost had been blushing before, he’s positively blazing now, red blooming bright across his face and chest and all the way up to the tips of his ears.

Soap knows immediately what’s happening—Ghost is on the razor’s edge of coming.

And all it took were those six little words.

“Yeah?” he presses, blending the long thrusts he’s kept steady until now into a few short, quick ones. “Yeah? You like that idea? Her all big with our baby, Si, something we put in her? Us?”

Ghost pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, throwing his head back. “Fuck—Johnny—” he snarls.

“Did y’see her with the wee ones?” Johnny croons, pressing the heels of his hands into Ghost’s stomach. “She’d be so good with a baby, Ghost, I know it. Our baby.”

Ghost starts panting, hard, grunting like an animal with every exhale. He’s never especially talkative during sex, unless it’s to give instruction or bark an order, but now it seems that language has completely abandoned him, as he tries to get Johnny to fuck him faster with the roll of his hips, trying to thrust his cock into the open air.

As if you’re already there, already taking him, and Ghost is trying to get himself as deep inside you as he can.

Johnny wraps one hand around it, sliding his fist loosely up and down. He can practically feel Ghost’s heartbeat plunging through every raised vein. If Johnny had the flexibility, he’d bend down right now just to get it in his mouth, but as it is he contents himself with getting Ghost’s precum all over his palm and licking it off with his tongue.

“Probably take a few tries,” says Soap, closing his hand back around Ghost’s cock. “Though with two of us, probably not long. Not if we go one right after the other, every time we can, aye?”

He pauses to spit on the red, exposed crown, circled round by thumb and fingers, so he can lube up his grip. Ghost’s dense, heavy thighs shake around his hips, as Soap thrusts his cock as deep as he can and slides his hand down to Ghost’s base. He mimics the squeeze of Ghost’s ass around him—the tightness of your cunt swallowing him up—as he jacks him off, up and down at the same time he pulls in and out.

“Fuck,” Ghost breathes, “Johnny, you—Johnny—”

“Sounds good, doesnae?” Soap says. “Gettin’ her between us, not stoppin’ ‘til somethin’ takes.”

“Fuck!” Ghost shouts, and then he’s gone, balls drawing up, a stream of white jetting out so hard it lands on his chest, right in the valley of his swelling pecs. Soap fucks him through it with his hand, and slams his hips hard against Ghost’s as as he chases his own end—

“Just—like—this,” Soap growls, tether snapping, and he empties himself as deep as he can into Ghost, cock pulsing as ecstasy pours up and down his stomach. He swears he can feel every drop of cum leaving him, and worries wildly that there won’t be enough left for you later, as the intensity of his orgasm seems to empty his balls of every last reserve.

He holds himself still for a moment after, still buried in his partner, nerves alight with an ecstasy so bright and so fervent that it’s sharp enough to cut him to the bone.

He feels very present. Anchored and secure in this place and time. At home, Soap struggles often with the feeling of being tugged in a hundred different directions, all at once, myriad urges to see, do, and act all clamoring at him for attention. It’s something that keeps him alive in the field—that keeps him thriving on deployment, really—but constantly on his toes when he’s home, all safe and sound.

Always searching, it feels like. Always looking for something he needs, and almost never finding it. The feeling quietens when Ghost curls his hand around the back of his neck, or you lean your head in close to his to kiss him or to speak.

Now—it’s silent.

A father. He’s going to be a father.

Panting heavily, Ghost finds his voice—at least, enough of it to start laughing.

“Spoiled brat, you are,” he chuckles in his steel-edged tenor. “You know that? Spoiled.”

Soap grins at him, caressing one thigh. “Your fault.”

“Mm,” Ghost hums, having long known that he’ll give Soap whatever he wants. The hard cut of his mouth is pulled into a wry smile. “She ain’t gonna fold so easy, Johnny.”

Soap pulls out of his partner, and crawls up to lay next to him. “I know. S’what I like abou’ her, after all.”

Ghost hums again. He lifts one arm to wrap around Soap’s shoulders, drawing him close, idly tapping his fingers on his tricep.

“You’re gonna have to get a desk job,” he says.

His tone is thoughtful, but Soap knows the words to be absolute.

Once you’d agreed to be theirs, Ghost had retired. It had surprised Soap and you both, but Ghost treated it as the most natural thing in the world. And it didn’t take very long, after the dust settled, for Soap to see why—you needed care, more than Soap had realized, and for Ghost, that need superseded any of his desire to remain in the field.

And Ghost was good at caring for you. It seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing: remembering what you liked to eat, helping you with your stretches, using the special brushes you had to wake your nerves up every morning. Putting together a schedule and keeping you on it, making sure you got to work on time and bringing you home at the end of every day.

And as you began to flourish in receiving his care, so too did Ghost flourish in giving it.

The hard edges of him softened. The sharp tones of his voice blunted. Soap saw Ghost become a steadier version of himself than he’d ever seen before—and he saw you blossom with a happiness that, at the inception of their odd relationship, had only begun to bud.

“Lookin’ after her is one thing,” continues Ghost. “I’m alright bein’ the hardass, ‘cause you make up for where I’m shit. But a kid’s different, Johnny. You don’t get to come and go as you like with a kid. It’s all, or nothin.’”

And Soap has to be honest with himself—a corner of his stomach clenches. There is a clarity in the smell of oil and gun smoke that he’s failed to find anywhere else.

But it does not dim the sunlight shining in his chest.

He knew it would happen someday, to old age if not a bullet. So to a baby?

Better than he really could have hoped.

He swings one leg over Ghost’s hips, and pushes himself up to straddle his partner. Ghost smirks beneath him, hands rounding the curves of his waist, sliding backward to palm Soap’s ass before traveling further down to squeeze his thighs.

“Gonna be fun, LT,” Soap agrees, grinning. “I hear pregnancy makes you horny as hell.”

“Bloody fucking hell, Soap,” Ghost snorts, lifting up to one elbow and dragging him down by the neck for a kiss.

next chapter early access

"What're you doing here? Don't you have friends to hang out with?" you grumbled as you made your way to the kitchen, the house empty besides the two of you. Reaching into the fridge for eggs, you started on food.

"Nae, everyone's busy today. It's just you and me, little sis," he grinned at you over the back of the couch, teeth shockingly white against his tanned skin, his blue eyes crinkling. You turned away in annoyance, feeling the familiar heat start up low in your stomach. A nausea inducing roiling deep in your core.

You hated when he was home all day. He'd take every instance he could to pester you. Well, he would always pester you but this was cranked up to the extreme. He would hover and touch you and run his mouth in a way that severely pissed you off. He was just constantly there. You never got a moments respite.

You turned around only to jump in shock at the fact he was standing right there, tucked up behind your back, looking over your shoulder, having been watching you cook.

"Can you give me some breathing room?" you huffed, throwing an elbow out to catch him in the midsection only for him to dance away at the last second.

"You gonna make me some of that?" Eager. Like a puppy.

"Absolutely not. I'm not your personal chef," you spat back moving to switch off the stovetop. You smacked at his hands when they reached around your sides like he was going to grab the food until he retreated once more.

"Don't touch it," you snapped as you stepped to the side to get a plate. Looking down once it was in your hand you saw half your food gone and your brother sucking on his fingers like they had gotten burnt.

"Johnny MacTavish!" You shoved at him but he remained infuriatingly steady, leaving you feeling like you were pushing against a rock. The force moved you backwards, leaving the counter to press into the small of your back. "You are a full-grown adult capable of making his own food. Stop stealing mine!"

"What a weakling. You couldn't stop me even if you wanted to," he shot back as he reached for the other half of your egg, grubby fingers reaching into the pan with no regard for the heat or that the food wasn't his. You reached out to try and smack it from his hand but he was faster than you, having it up and to his mouth before you could blink, chuckling at your shocked face.

"Told you so." He took a step forward, closing the remaining distance between the two of you. Leaning down he put his face right in front of yours. "In fact, I'm still hungry. Why don't you make us both something this time."

You shouldn't have done it. You know you shouldn't. You still can't seem to stop yourself from reaching up and grabbing a full handful of his mohawk and pulling sharply downwards.

Johnny's eyes rolled back as a moan rumbled its way from deep in his chest.

You were shocked at the sound and let your hand relax, soft strands flowing through your fingers as he tilted his chin back down until he was staring at you once more, irises nearly eclipsed by his pupils, only a thin ring of blue left.

"Do that again."

"Johnny, I—"

"Again."

He had you pinned in place, gaze locked with yours as he commanded you like it was his right. As if he'd ever been able to boss you into doing anything. Gritting your teeth, you spat back, "You wish," into the charged air.

Who knows who made the first move after that. One moment you were at each others throat, teeth bared in a grimace as short, sharp breaths whistled out from between clenched teeth then the next his lips were on yours and it was hot. Hot. Hot.

Your whole body was on fire as he pinned you back against the side of the cabinets, the sharp edges jutting harshly into your back but you couldn't be bothered to care as your hands wrapped around his neck to anchor him to you.

His wide hands were on your hips, tracing upwards, carrying your shirt with them. High enough that he could touch skin, fingers sinking into the fleshy rolls of your hips as he grasped and kneaded.

You bit his lip at his familiarity but all he did was laugh.

Pressing into you harder, he continued to kiss like it was all he could think about. Like it consumed his every waking thought. He kissed like he was obsessed with you. With your taste on his tongue.

You were panting into his mouth when he threw a hand up against the upper cabinets, keeping you hemmed in, making sure he was all you could see. All of a sudden you got a whiff of his heady scent. Thick, sitting on the back of your tongue, rich like butter. You had to swallow the drool accumulating in your mouth as you turned towards his armpit, now directly beside your face. You took in the patch of dark curly hair and wondered what it would feel like against your tongue. You only barely kept yourself from finding out.

Realizing you had been drifting towards his armpit, ready to dig your nose in you turned to press your lips to his jaw instead, kissing up along the line of bone until you could bite at the hinge. Moving around, you worked on leaving a mark right below his ear.

He moaned at the sensation, driving his hips forward in search of friction, anything to help alleviate the ache. It was easy to bring your mouths back together once more, chasing each others taste as you both fought to come out on top.

Dropping his arms, he moved to your waist, stopping to play with the plush skin once more before moving upwards, your shirt caught on his thick wrists. He slipped his hand under your bra to find your nipple pebbling against his fingertips. A solitary soft brush was all you got before he gripped the skin firmly between his finger and thumb, pinching sharply and pulling.

You yelped—a sharp, high yip at the sensation before you retaliated by biting, hard. Teeth sinking into plump flesh until it split spilling coppery warmth into your mouths. He laughed at the sensation, not put off in the slightest.

"Be fucking gentle," you practically snarled at him.

"Sorry, sorry, didn't realize you were such a baby. I can be soft."

Choosing to ignore the first part of his sentence you pulled him back to continue kissing, tongues chasing each other as his dipped in to trace your teeth, taste now tinted with copper. He coaxed your tongue into his own mouth to suckle on, the firm suction causing the roiling in your stomach to nearly boil over. You shifted your things, barely able to make out the wet squelch over the sound of you two kissing.

He pulled back with a gasp, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. "Let me eat you out," he begged in a desperate tenor, darting into peck at your lips like he couldn't get enough of you. "I'll make it so good for you, please," he pleaded.

You were torn. You shouldn't be doing this, it was wrong. You took in his blown eyes and flushed cheeks. But he was asking so prettily. Maybe once wouldn't hurt. It was just head. People got it all the time. It wouldn't mean anything. Just using him to scratch an itch.

Decision made, you nodded, "Okay," giving into his pull, ready to be whisked away.

He didn't waste any time, an insolent smile crossing his face as he ducked down to press one more kiss to your mouth.

"I knew you couldn't resist me," he tilted his head down to make eye contact with you, "This is gonna be good, do you trust me?"

He was your tormentor. The bane of your existence. He was the reason you checked behind doors and under beds when you thought you were alone. There was nothing you did less than trust him. Still, you reached out to grab his hand, pulling him quickly behind him on your way to the bedroom.

—

His lips made contact with your cunt as he drove straight in, no hesitance to be seen in his actions. You gasped loudly as your hands darted down to thread through his hair, gripping tightly—tension on his scalp. A dirty grind of your hips against his face all but subconscious, no reasoning to be had.

He was skilled, you'd give him that. He honed in on your clit with unerring accuracy, pulling it between his lips to suckle at. Your back arched at the wave of heat that crept up your spine at the action. A tingling sensation chased it, leaving your skin buzzing.

"Johnny!" you gasped shocked at his enthusiasm.

"Mmm," he moaned into your cunt, pulling away just far enough to say, "Keep saying my name like that and you'll have me finishing in my pants. Christ, the taste of you."

He dove back in with a moan, eager for any hint of arousal he could coax from you, drinking it down greedily. Lips and tongue moving from the base of your slit up to your clit before back down again. He had your brain slowly melting out your ears.

He hummed delightedly into your cunt. "How do you taste so good? I can't get enough." Hot breath hit the sensitive skin and caused you to quiver. The slight bristles from his chin rubbing against and between your thighs adding to the tension that continued to build. "So fucking sweet for me."

He paused.

"It is, isn't it?" he asked, pulling away slightly to your disapproving mewl.

"What?" you panted, trying to bring your brain back online, using these precious few moments to try and collect your thoughts.

"For me," he grinned up at you nastily from between your thighs, teasing you even now. "You're sweet for me, aren't you?"

You felt your face heat in embarrassment before your mouth dropped opening in a yelp, derailing your thoughts once more as he slid two fingers into you without asking, keeping eye contact the whole time.

"All this. It's just for me. Because you like the way I look, you like the way I kiss, you even like the way I smell, don't you?" his voice dropped to a whisper as he said it, mocking you in your desire.

And you couldn't deny it.

You did like all those things. A lot. But you'd be damned if you told him so.

"I like it when your mouth is busy," you snarled, using your grip on his hair to direct him back to your cunt, grinding against the hard ridge of his nose as you clenched around his fingers. He chuckled before his tongue came out, then he was groaning at your taste once more. Twin moans echoing in tandem. His hips worked against the mattress as he fought to grind against something, anything.

He spent an eon between your thighs as he ate for his pleasure, fingers working to coax out every hint of flavor to be enjoyed, his tongue chasing the runnels of slick down to your ass, pausing to press lingering kisses to the tight ring of muscle before moving his way back up to your clit. You couldn't help the resulting clench at the foreign sensation, no one having ever dipped so low before.

"You're sick," you gasped, even now fighting for the upper hand as your release hovered right over your shoulder. "Can't believe you like eating ass." He pulled back and looked up at you, slick covering the bottom half of his face in a sheen. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes glassy. He looked debauched.

"Next time I'm gonna eat your ass and then fuck it. I'm gonna go slow and be loud and it's gonna be so good. We'll see what you have to say about it then," before he dove back with a vengeance, fingers curling up to press against your sensitive walls, searching for the spot that made you clench.

You couldn't help it. When he pressed against that soft, spongy area your hips tilted up and you humped up into his face, your body moving without your say so. A shocked, Johnny! combined with your brow furrowing signaled your orgasm was imminent, having slowly built up from having his lips suctioned around your clit..

With just a few more crooks of his fingers and wet grinds of his tongue against your clit you came. You saw stars dancing behind your clenched eyes as you panted into the air, unable to keep your hips still as you twitched forwards and back, chasing the feeling of Johnny's tongue still on your slit, greedily sucking down any hint of you he could get.

He pulled his fingers back with a wet squelch and you looked down to see them make their way into his mouth to be slurped at greedily, his eyes closing at the taste as he humped into the bed. Removing every hint of your slick he moved up to press those same digits into your mouth, now covered with his spit.

"Suck," he commanded.

Pulling his thick fingers in as far as you could, you traced along the seam between the two, a teasing, tickling touch. You suckled firmly, allowing him to press against your tongue far to the back, almost deep enough to trigger your gag reflex—stopping just shy. You brought your teeth down to the skin around his knuckle, digging in firmly, leaving deep indentations. You watched his eyes blow out at the movement, a deep well of want showcasing itself in the moment. Holding tight for just a moment you eventually released him, allowing him to pull his fingers back now covered in your spit, teeth marks deep purple-red impressions in the skin.

He popped them into his mouth once more with a cursory suck before dropping to pull his pants down, kicking them off to land somewhere in the space of your room. You couldn't help the way your gaze darted down, taking all of him in. The dark hair across his chest continued below his stomach, trailing down to connect with his thick pubes, a fluffy bush encircling the base of his cock. Flushed a ruddy color, the mushroom tip gave a jump and let out a dollop of precum at your perusal, pleased with the interest shown. You had to swallow the drool that flooded your mouth.

Crawling back onto the bed and up between your thighs, he paused once he was face-to-face with you. "Look at you, splayed out all perfect just for me," he cooed. "You're gonna be my pretty little toy, aren't you?"

"Fuck off," you huffed, "You're such an asshole," turning your head away you reached up like you were about to push him away only for him to catch your hands and pin them beside you.

"Nuh-uh," he cooed. "You're just going to lay there like the little princess you are and let me fuck this sweet cunt. She's been crying for me for so long but I'm here now. I'll make her feel good."

He angled his hips down, pinning his cock between the two of you as he ground forward. A smooth glide of skin against skin as he skated through your arousal to bump against your clit. You panted at the sensation.

He teased you for what felt like an eternity. Never pressing inward, just a slow, steady grind against your clit and lips, taunting without resolution. It was infuriating and you chased after him, trying to encourage him inside. You needed him. Your cunt pulsed in its emptiness, hungry. You snuck a hand free to reach down and take care of the issue yourself but he caught your arm and moved to hold it again, firmly.

"If you're not going to fuck me," you said, fed up with teasing, "Get out so I can do it myself." You would. You had plenty of toys stashed away in your closet and nightstand to have yourself a very good morning, especially after he'd already made you cum once.

"Oooo, gonna pull out your little toys? Are any of them as big as me?" He pressed the tip of his cock to your slit and pressed ever so slightly, just enough to spread the lips and give you a hint of the burn, "Nae, I can fuck you if that's what you really want."

Notched at your entrance, he was ready to push in but paused for a moment. Looking at you his bright blue eyes pulled you in, drowning you beneath their weight. With a sly smirk he drove himself in all the way to the hilt in one go. Tip to base, everything fully seated in the blink of an eye.

The stretch was intense. Yowling beneath him you twisted and thrashed, arms still pinned beside your head. He moaned above you, riding out your bucking hips as if it was his divine right, keeping pressed close to you. Pulling back as you started to settle, chest heaving, he said, "I knew you'd feel this good, so fucking feisty."

You were going to kill him.

"You asshole!" you screeched in a broken voice, his thick cock stretching your tight cunt until it was snug. You felt your muscles fluttering around him, trying to accommodate to this new shape.

He had the audacity to laugh at you like you were making a joke. Like he didn't just try to meet your lungs through your cunt. He was lucky he wasn't anywhere near your mouth or you'd turn and bite him again.

"Next time, I'm pegging you and we'll see how you like it," you sneered at him, teeth bared in a grimace. You imagined it—bending him over the bed, lubed up strap jutting from your body as you sunk into him. Holding him by his hair, fucking your hips into his ass.

"Already thinking about next time?" His eyes lit up, bringing you back to the present, "I must not be fucking you well enough if you're capable of making plans like that."

"You said it, not me," with a dismissive look across your face only to have your mouth drop open in an oh when he took that as permission to start moving, pulling out to the tip before pressing back in with abandon. Duel moans twined through the air at the sensation, the smooth drag of skin on skin electric in the morning light.

When he slid back in, hips pressed tight against your pelvis as he strove to reach all of you, you realized you might be in trouble. He was right. He was good at this. And now that you had a taste, you weren't sure that you would be able to go without.

You put the thought to the side and focused on the here and now. An easy thing to do when he was slowly rewriting your brain function and filling it with nothing but thoughts of himself.

He started up a steady pace, soft plaps playing accompaniment as his full balls swung below, meeting your ass with every thrust. He seemed determined to carve a spot out for himself, prying muscle apart until it felt unnatural when he wasn't fully seated. A hollow void that begged to be filled.

You couldn't help the moans that picked up, keeping time with his tempo. Steady little ah ah ahs as he worked, your hands reaching up to claw at his shoulders, leaving trails of fire, little bites of pain he no doubt relished.

You could hear your cunt squelching around his cock with every thrust. You were dripping down to the bedsheets, leaving you laying in a puddle of slick as he worked above you. Unrelenting. Ceaseless.

You couldn't breathe, your whole body felt awash with pinpricks, like static electricity was running right beneath your skin. It found a home in your core, starting a tiny ball of desire that grew larger with each slide home.

"If I would've known it was this easy to make you be quiet, I would've had you spread on my cock ages ago," he cooed in a mean, condescending voice, looking down at you with blown out eyes. He had a sheen of sweat across his brow and he was panting with the exertion, a flush trailing up his chest to sit in his cheeks.

"I knew I'd get you underneath me, knew you couldn't resist. I see the way you look at me, the way you drool over me. Its embarrassing how obvious you are, thinking about your brother like that," he trailed off into a taunting tone, like you were the one who did something wrong. Something to be chastised for.

"Shut up, you don't get to talk to me like that."

"Tell me, is it living up to your expectations?"

And damn it, it was. Surpassing them even. The steady strokes of his cock stirring you higher and higher, panting breaths mingling as you climbed towards your crescendo.

"I said shut up. Fuck me like you mean it." You rolled your hips up, meeting him halfway, fucking yourself on his cock. "Unless you're getting tired."

He took offense to that and picked up the pace. Hooking your knees under his elbows he leaned down, spearing you open in a mating press. The new position had tears springing to your eyes, overwhelmed by the sensations. You fought to keep them from spilling but they overfilled your lashline, trailing down your temple.

"Do I have you crying for my cock?" He mocked, attempting a cocky tone only to miss his footing, landing somewhere around breathless. "Fuck you look so pretty," his voice trailed off at the end, ending in a whisper. "Yeah. just a pretty, dumb cockslut begging for me."

You couldn't help but chant his name as you got closer, his cock scraping every sensitive area in this position.

"Shit you feel so good, I knew you'd feel this good, always knew it."

His babbling did just as much for you as his cock and fingers did. Coaxing you ever closer. Closer. Closer.

"You gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Yeah, I think you are," he panted into your mouth, the two of you sharing breaths, contributing to the lightheaded rush you felt.

And you were. Standing right on the precipice, waiting for the final push. It came from Johnny slamming into you with one punishing drive, pelvic bone grinding on your clit just right, triggering your orgasm in high definition. Starbursts flashed behind your eyes as your muscles spasmed, clenching down on him vigorously. Your contractions pulling his own orgasm out of him, kicking and screaming.

He dropped his head to the crook of your neck with a loud groan as he panted. He kept shifting like he was trying to press his cum deeper inside, just that little bit further. You shivered at the sensation, fighting to steady your own breath.

It was an age later that he pulled out and turned to fall on the bedsheets beside you, staring at you with a blissed out, shocked expression. He raised a hand to trace it along your cheekbone, following it up to your temple then down around the cusp of your ear. You felt traitorous butterflies growing wings in your stomach at the gentle touch.

"I knew you were a slut for my cock."

Until he opened his stupid mouth.

Turning your head away you slapped at his hands, moving to sit up, looking for your clothes. Finding your shirt first, you pulled it over head and turned to look at him, still sprawled out on the bed, hands behind his head, full frontal display as his damp cock slowly dried in the still air.

"This is never happening again."

Despite Mactavish’s protests you’re both made to help with unloading the ship. Your labor is forcibly lent to the effort, so you take pleasure in slowing it down. Which leaves the sun starting to drift below the horizon by the time a warm bowl of stew is pressed into your hands as payment for your efforts.

It’s well into the evening before you ever finish tramping up the short hill that Mactavish’s house sits atop. You brace yourself for the worst as he opens the door and ushers you inside. Blood and gore splattered about, bones littering the floor, trophies from his hunts, everything that will turn your stomach more than it’s already turnt. You’re half flinched when you step inside.

Mactavish’s house is quaint, but clean in spite of the layer of dust that seems to have gathered in his absence. The wood beams and daub over stone hold up the roof as well as anything else could, and there’s a small opening near the back you assume leads to a bedroom. There’s a table, chairs, a fireplace, and a wash bin with dishes stacked to the side. It smells the same way all houses that have been left for weeks at a time do, it makes you sneeze and Mactavish mutters an apology as he shuts the door behind you. The sparse living quarters speak to a man that lives on the sea. You wonder how long it will be until you’re sleeping on the ship again.

“Outhouse is in back,” Mactavish tells you when he sees you looking around. He runs a hand over the wood holding the door, fingers notching in the carvings there. “Built it myself,” He continues, “don’t usually have guests.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to entertain me long.” You wander to the fireplace discarding your- his fur cloak on a nearby chair. You crouch down in front of the stone to start building a fire. You’re too much your mother’s daughter, too much a helper to survive. Mactavish follows to crouch beside you, tips his head to watch you.

“Want me to get some wood, Vaenn?” He asks as you glance around, “It’s just beside the house, need tae get the tub down anyway.”

You do your best to ignore him and sweep away the ashes littering the fireplace with the short handled broom that had been sitting beside it. The thought of a tub makes your shoulders tense. The idea of this man undressing around you makes your heart hammer in your chest. As if you were family just because you shared a tongue. How can he even think such things? 

Mactavish stares at you a long moment before he stands and turns towards the door. You keep your eyes on the fireplace, your fingers trembling just on the edge of creation as you grasp for straws. For anything to say to tear him down, to rebuke the idea that you need any of his help. The door closes behind him, thunderous in the silence. Your tongue is getting slow as it adjusts to the viking’s rough speech.

Or perhaps silence is the best course of action. Give him nothing and hope that in turn he expects nothing. No, you know yourself too well, you’ve always had trouble holding your tongue when anger seizes it. If ever there was a time to let yourself spit and swear it’s now. Laid in the belly of the beast with nothing to cut your way out.

Although that’s not entirely true. Your eyes catch metal with every turn they take around the small house. There’s the knife in your pack. There’s two more stuck near the hearth. You see an ax hanging over the door, an iron pot, wooden furniture, and a ladder. Perhaps more weapons hidden among the rafters. You glance up to survey what’s been stashed under the roof. Spare furniture and furs, dried and smoked meat, cloth bags held haphazardly in nets. And a tub. 

You frown at the damned thing and hope it springs a leak. Wooden slats fitted together with an iron band around them, the wax on it shining dully in the house’s low light. Your skin itches with grime, smoke and blood stain your skirts, and your head still hammers with the persistent rocking of the long boat. It’s a miserable fate to be condemned to, as if your kidnapping wasn’t punishment enough now you must treat your kidnappers.

You eye the axe over the door again. 

No. You refuse to let such violent thoughts consume you. You will not sit and let the vikings’ warring become your own, as much as your struggles have gotten you nowhere, you aren’t out of options yet. 

You eye the tub that hangs in its netted cage from the rafters. Perhaps if your struggling won’t help you, your compliance will. Never let it be said that you didn’t explore every means of escape except the easiest. Though you don’t see how it could be easy. The mere idea of compliance revolts you, and your stomach churns unpleasantly at the thought of giving any of the men --Mactavish especially-- any ideas that you’re a willing captive. But sacrifices must be made if you’re to get your freedom.

There are women and children here that need care, you can focus your attention on them. That’s simple enough, and when you’re ripped again from your comfort to aid the vikings on their raids, you’ll- you’ll-

You’ll tie yourself to whichever viking seems easiest to sway. Eventually guard will be loosened enough for you to make your escape. Though you’re loath to think what that swaying may entail. 

You think of the women in your village, how they’d spoken about men’s weakness to women, to their own instincts. You think of the way Mactavish draws himself to you, tied already with knots your nails are bloody trying to unravel.

You wonder if this is how he finds his thrill, catching unwilling prey and toying with it until it breaks. Well, not you. 

Your throat tightens at the swing of the tub, a trick of your eye you’re sure. Yet it does swing, in your mind, it hangs over you like the sword of damocles, poised to bring about your ruin with one swift cut. It has to be Mactavish. You won’t be able to master the vikings’ tongue fast enough to try and win over any others. You don’t even know the others, save for Gaz and the captain. No, Mactavish is the most logical choice. He knows your tongue, played witness to your grief (to your village’s execution), he holds the most guilt. He has it coming. 

The door opens and you’re shunted from your thoughts. Your head turns to watch Mactavish set wood by the armful inside the door, your stomach squirms when he looks up at you with a smile. You tell yourself that it’s hatred, loathing, revulsion.

“Should be enough for a fire,” He tells you, shutting the door tight behind him after the last load. You nod. Your mind is made up, but your tongue struggles to follow it. You don’t know what to say, how to act, you’re not versed in anything but your herbs and remedies. Even with those your knowledge is lacking and uncreative. The idea of being sweet to this man makes your stomach turn, and you’re sure he wouldn’t believe it anyway.

You go to pick up the wood, work will take your mind off your planning, and Mactavish catches your arm.

“Go fetch water,” He orders, “I’ll build the fire and get the tub down.”

“Me?” You ask, somehow the idea of being let out on your own for something as simple as a chore had not occurred to you. Perhaps your freedom will come sooner than expected, any other plans can be abandoned in favor of your first one: run.

Mactavish must know the glint in your eye too well, or else must sense some other change in your demeanor because his smile is mean and his eyes are hard when he reminds you,

“You won’t get far if you run, they’ll just bring you back here.” He says it like he wouldn’t be part of the hunt. “They,” as if the other vikings act independent of him. “Vaenn,” you remind yourself, prey. Why wouldn’t the dogs chase down a lone deer, sick with grief and wandered too far from her herd? You can practically feel them nipping at your heels already. You doubt Mactavish has ever given a thought to his own ability to flee.

You glance at the thick corded leather and fluffy furs that seem to lay against him like a second skin. No, you don’t think this man has ever been meant to be anything but a viking. You’re sure he ran off to join them as soon as they landed on his shore. 

“Where’s the well?” You temper your trembling, slough off the adrenaline that threatened to send you bolting. 

Mactavish leads you out the door and points back behind the house to a small ring of stones, just high enough to keep children from falling in. You wonder why a man who lives alone would think to build up the walls of a well when a wooden cover works just as well on the ground as it does on stones, and banish the thoughts that your thinking churn up. You will not humanize the wolf that drools over the marrow in your bones. He has nothing for you, no kind hand or offer of assistance, and will take everything given the opportunity. 

There is no humanity here.

The blue sky feels dull, the white clouds tinted grey, the grass rippling with shadows, so close to your home and yet so very alien to you. The squat houses that dot the town are stained dark from wear, and you manage to dim the colorful banners that signal the market closer to the harbor. Your eyes land on the strange spire that seems to needle the sky, the building dismal and dark nearer the center of town. Vikings must find the sharpness of a blade so beautiful that they construct monuments to it. 

There are people there, threading through the paths that spread through the village like arteries. Mothers and children, craftsmen and shepherds. Sheep wander through the hills on the far side of your village and you feel your heart clench for your own village’s flock. Likely all dead now.

You turn your eyes to the well, and the bucket Mactavish had thrust into your hands. Work. Work will take your mind from your thoughts until your muscles ache too much to ignore. Then you can find a fitful rest.

You lug the heavy bucket of water back to Mactavish’s house just as smoke begins to stream from the hole at the top of it. You shoulder the door open and take the bucket towards the fire, eager to be free of your burden. 

“We’ll need more than that,” Mactavish tells you from behind. You turn to watch him on the ladder, his cloak abandoned and his linen shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans to grab the rope holding the tub aloft, and you watch with curiosity as he pulls himself onto the rafter and sets about untying the knot. The flex of muscle under fabric doesn’t escape your notice, and the flicker of fire over his features makes him look more beast than man. The thick dark hair on his arms doesn’t help. Like a bear, you think, too big to face with just your wits. 

Your fingers itch for the knife in your bag and you dismiss the thought.

You won’t let these vikings make you a killer, their violence might touch your mind but you won’t let it take hold. You’re smarter than that.

“What for?” You ask, though you know what for. Know it as clearly as you know the thunk of wood as Mactavish lowers the tub to the floor, as well as you recognize the strain of muscle against fabric a size too tight. Mactavish’s biceps flex from the weight of the tub even as it gentles itself on the wooden floor.

“You know what for.” He doesn’t patronize you, doesn’t look at you like you’re stupid, in fact he doesn’t look at you at all. He merely sets his gaze towards the wall and swings himself back towards the ladder. Silently, desperately, you hope he falls. You know it wouldn’t make any difference if he did.

“I’m not taking a bath,” You tell him.

“Aye, ya are.” He responds easily, clamoring down the ladder to finish setting the tub right. He gathers the netting from underneath it and begins winding the rope around his arm in quick motions.

“And you’ll force that on me too, I suppose?”

“If I have to,” Mactavish looks at you, his eyes like steel in the light of the fire. You want to protest, but you know it won’t do any good. You scowl, and turn to stalk out of the house. You can’t do it, can’t tie yourself to a man like him even if it is an act. Mactavish… no Scotsman would turn his back on his own people like this. A viking through and through. He doesn’t deserve that tartan.

You’ll find another viking then. Gaz seemed nice enough, pitying of your situation at least. You’ll try him.

You reach the well before you remember your hands are empty. Your frustration boils in your chest, and rips from your throat in a growl as you turn and storm back towards the door. 

Mactavish is dumping the water into a cauldron over the fire when you stomp inside. He smiles when you snatch the bucket from his hands, smug. What does he have to be smug about? Asshole.

You storm out of the house a second time and hear Mactavish’s chuckle follow you through the door. Your cheeks burn with every step you take. Your shame follows you all the way to the well and you consider running just to make Mactavish’s life harder. Likely it would make yours harder as well. You weigh the pros and cons of it as you carry the full bucket back from the well.

“In the tub.” Mactavish tells you over his shoulder. You curse him under your breath as you pour the first bucket into the wood basin. This is going to take ages. You have no reason to comply except that Mactavish’s watchful eye makes compliance feel more like an inevitability than a choice. One more he’s taken from you, you suppose. The man does make a habit of stripping you bare of every path you might take in favor of his own.

Your next trip stirs a cold breeze under your skirts as you haul the overflowing bucket from the bottom of the well. You nearly lose your grip on the rope when you shudder. The cold here feels bitter. Are you further north than your village? Or are you already remembering the flames before the winter.

You try to remember your mother’s face, the way she’d bundle you against the cold with scarves and mittens. It doesn’t make you any warmer. You didn’t think it would, but you refuse to hold death as the only thing you remember of your life before this.

Someday you’ll be back in your village, you’ll find the bodies of the people you love and you’ll bury them. Then maybe you’ll bury yourself. 

Better than being a viking. 

You dump your second bucket of water in the tub. Mactavish is making himself busy with searching the house for something. You don’t ask. Conversation with him does nothing but anger you. You’re already stewing with each lap you take between the house and the well, festering in your thoughts to pass the time. Your fingers begin to ache around the fifth bucket, your back following near the seventh. By the time you return with the eight Mactavish is dumping the boiling pot into your chilly tub. 

He takes the bucket from you and dumps it into the cauldron to boil. He doesn’t return it. You stand stiffly near the door, unsure what to do with yourself now that your labor seems to be completed. Even your thoughts seem to focus into a single point, settled on the glitter of water in the fire light. Your fingers squeeze into fists, your nails digging into your palm painfully tight. You release the tense fists and scratch your thumb nail against your fingertips instead. 

Mactavish begins unlacing his leather vest and you press yourself closer to the wall. Your eyes follow each pluck of his fingers, drag with the cording through the eyelets, your heartbeat is starting to quicken with each rung on the ladder of his laces that gets discarded. You may as well be trying to paint yourself on the walls with how tightly you press yourself against it when Mactavish lets the leather drop off his shoulders. 

He settles it on a chair with his cloak and furs, then turns to you. You flinch into the wood.

“Thought I told you,” He mutters to himself, loosening the lace on his undershirt and stripping the garment over his head, “I’m plannin’ on courting you properly.”

As if such a thought could comfort you now. He takes a step towards you and you draw your shoulders to your ears.

“Stay where you are.” You order.

“So ahm nae gonna touch you,” He lies, taking another step, your eyes dart wildly around the claustrophobically small house, “but you stink.”

“I’ll scream.” You assure him, inching towards the door.

“As loud as you want,” He agrees, “you’re goin’ in the tub either way.”

Your eyes go for the door as quickly as Mactavish lunges for you. You scramble for the exit, tearing the door open and bolting. You take two steps before something huge and heavy collides with you. Your head is grabbed and pressed close to Mactavish’s chest before you hit the ground, pinned under a man who’s lucky you don’t have a knife on you. You scream and thrash under him. It makes little difference except to make Mactavish grunt with effort as he hauls you up into his arms and drags you back into the house.

You scream even when the door shuts, even when you’re set on your feet, it’s only when you’re spun to face Mactavish’s ruddy cheeks that you stop. You spend your silence to spit on his face. He bares his teeth at you with a growl and his hands grab at your earsaid. You flinch away, beating his hands off your clothes. “Don’t touch me.”

“Cannae go in with your clothes on,” He presses, grabbing for you again. He gets a hand around your waist to grab your back, strong arms holding you tight to his chest as he rips at the laces of your dress. You beat at his shoulders like a desperate flailing animal. It makes no difference.

“Let me go,” You shriek. His fingers unfasten your pin and you yelp when he sticks you with the sharp point. It feels like a punishment for your disobedience.

“Quit your squirmin’,” Mactavish grits, “You won’t take it off yerself, I gotta do it for you.” 

“I’ll do it!” You yell at him, his hands feel too big, too heavy, and shame is starting to burn over your skin. Your hips bump the hilt of his knife and he lets you go. You take several shaky steps away from him, holding your dress tightly closed. He’d nearly ripped the laces trying to get the knot open. Your fingers shake, your heart hammers in your chest. He takes a step towards you when you take too long standing there. “I said I’d do it,” You snap quickly, turning your back to him. 

You swallow the fear in your chest, the hatred that sours on your tongue. You don’t particularly want to undress in front of a man you hardly know, but you aren’t being given a choice. “Don’t look,” You call over your shoulder. You hear a hum in response and glance over your shoulder to see him turning around. You’re quick to divest yourself of the rest of your Earasaid, folding it neatly before your fingers are fumbling with the loosened ties on your dress. You get the knot open and tug at the lacing to open the dress enough to pull over your head, your underdress quickly follows. Another glance over your shoulder to make sure Mactavish isn’t watching and you step into the warm water.

It’s lukewarm, but not unpleasantly so. You sink into the tub, face the edge to give yourself some privacy from Mactavish’s wandering eyes. The warmth sinks into your bones against the chill of the room. You sink lower, trying to soak up as much of the warmth as you can before you force yourself to wash. You scrub your hand over your arm, watching the sweat and dirt slough off, you wish-

The water raises and shifts, splashes over the sides as Mactavish settles behind you with a groan. You glance over your shoulder at him startled, he’s facing you, leaned back against the other end. His head’s tipped back against the edge, throat bared and long legs caging you in as he relaxes in the warm water. You don’t see how he can share so easily, look so at ease, when it feels like your heart is about to pound its way out of your chest. Fear, it must be fear that seizes you when he opens his eyes to look at you.

His gaze feels like hands the way it drags over you, hot and heavy. You look away, face the wall again and decide you can’t do this. You move to pull yourself out of the bath and quickly sit back down when you feel the chill of the air on skin you’d rather keep to yourself. Especially when you feel Mactavish’s hands hovering on either side of you, as if he’d pull you back in himself.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me,” You remind him, your voice quieter than you want it to be.

“Ahm nae,” He tells you, voice thick as he settles back again, “Just looking.” He huffs, tipping his head back again as he relaxes again. “Cannae leave you alone, might try tae run again.”

You do your best not to curl in on yourself at his words, the rumble of his voice, the weight of his eyes. He’s not wrong, but that doesn’t stop the heat that burns over your skin at sharing a bath with him. Acting shy has never suited you, but it’s a hard thing to ignore. You busy yourself with cleaning up, snagging a cloth from the nearby stool and wetting it.

There’s another splash in the water, a disturbance of the delicate surface tension. You peek back at Mactavish and watch him drag the hot cauldron closer to dump the heated contents into the basin. The flood of heat makes you shiver. It’s mere moments before it soaks into your muscles and you have to stop the moan that threatens to escape. Gods that feels good. You could stay in this cradle of warmth for hours.

If you were alone, that is. As is, you refuse to give this man a better look at you than he’s already gotten. After all, you have managed to hold onto some dignity. You scrub your arms harder with the cloth, wishing you had some-

“Don’t want you callin’ me Soap,” Mactavish breaks your thoughts after a moment’s silence. His fingers drag through the water, lazy, as you scrub yourself. You’re eager to get out of this tub, and he seems just as eager to stay in it. He leans forward, and for a moment you fear his legs will drag you back against him. Instead you feel the warmth of his breath over goosebumped skin as he offers you a tallow soap. The soft buttery color of it disappears in your hastily grabbing hands.

“Mactavish does me just fine,” You grit, rubbing the soap into the cloth. You scrub your cheeks, and work on lathering the lye scented stuff into a lather for your hair.

“John-” He corrects, “Johnny if you-” He cuts himself off. You don’t see the need for either name. They’re too familiar. Still, you file them away. 

“You hardly deserve the courtesy of Mactavish,” You bite, “what makes you think I have any desire to call you by a nickname?”

“Cannae be Mactavish forever,” he grunts, you feel a tug at your hair and swat his hand away, you collide with nothing but open air. You glare over your shoulder at him. He only smiles. “What if another one pops up?”

“And what if you stopped talking to me.” You grumble, since you’re naming things that are unlikely to happen. 

You scooch back from the edge of the tub to dunk your head under the water. You bump Mactavish’s knee when you pull your head up, ignoring the way his thick thighs bracket you as you try to wring some of the water from your hair. 

His fingers grip the edge of the tub like a vice, no longer dragging lazily through the water his knuckles are white from the strain. Your eyes travel up his wrist and over his arms to see the bulge of his flexed bicep. You can’t stare too much or he might get ideas, can’t even turn your head past what you need to scrub the wet soapy cloth over the side of your neck. 

“Move back where you were Vaenn,” Mactavish orders you. You huff out a laugh.

“Oh,” you tease, unable to stop yourself, “Am I in your space? Am I making you uncomfortable?” 

You look at him with a mirthful smile and his eyes bore holes into you, blue swallowed by the black of his pupils and his jaw tight. It startles you and in an effort to avoid meeting his gaze you turn yours down. 

Did you realize that there was so much of him under his clothes? He looks to be made entirely of that thick corded muscle that you’d only seen laboring men in your village with. Your pulse throbs in your throat as your eyes trace over him, following the swirling intricacies of paint. From the ram whos horns swirl over his heart, to the tribal markings that trace down his ribs towards-

You shriek as your eyes land on his hard cock where it bobs in the warm water. You scramble away, and when your back hits the edge of the tub you frantically press your foot to Mactavish’s chest to keep him from coming after you. His big body, already moving towards you, now rooted in place at your touch. His eyes rake over you, the soap suds doing little to hide your body under the clear water, and land on the tuft of hair between your legs. His brows pinch together and he lets out a pained noise. 

Your foot follows him as he settles back where he was. Your foot slips and he grits his teeth.

“Keep to your own space,” He swallows, “or get out.”

You grab onto the opportunity for freedom and nearly trip getting out of the tub. You don’t care anymore, he’s seen all there is to see, and you are humiliated. You snatch your underdress from the floor and scamper through the nearest doorway. 

Your hands shake from more than just the cold as you tug the linen garment over your head, your wet skin scraping under the fabric. You wrap your arms around yourself to ease through the worst of the shaking. Fear, you think. It must be. 

It’s darker in here, the wall separating this room from the main one also keeps the fires light from dipping its fingers into it. Still, your eyes aren’t so spoiled by the fire that they can’t tell the shape of a bed. It’s a boxy thing, tucked into the corner and lined with furs. It’s bigger than one man should require, and fleetingly you wonder if he has a wife tucked away somewhere. You quickly dismiss the thought, you doubt any woman would stomach Mactavish long enough for marriage. Besides, you’ve seen no signs of a woman anywhere in this small house. 

Just him then. 

You ignore the splashing from the other room and try to find something to occupy yourself with. There’s a candle beside the bed, a comb, a small wooden bear, a chair and a basket of cloth that you assume holds more clothing. You settle on the bed, feel the crunch of straw under your bottom before you feel yourself sink a short distance. At least he has a mattress in here. You fix your gaze on the wall and try not to think of anything.

But your mind is filled with painted markings, with stories of warriors that earn stripes and were driven north of your home. He really was made to be a viking then. 

And hair. You’d thought the patches on his arms were dark but the mass of it that wanders down the midline of his chest is so much thicker. They must have had to dye his skin to get the pain to stick through that.

You press your thighs together, discomfort burning warm in your flipping stomach. 

Not a piece of him you like then.

Your head jerks towards the room’s doorway when it darkens. Mactavish leans against the frame. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, can’t see his face from the shadows that he casts. 

“You can take the bed tonight,” He tells you, and you must perk up too much because he holds up a hand and crushes you with it, “just tonight, we’ll share after.”

Your heart falls.

And some cowardly part of you tugs you back from going after him. He’ll just force you down as easily as he forced you into the tub.

"Metal plate, synthetic grey matter," Ghost lists, "couple wires-"

"The chip." Soap finishes. Ghost says nothing, but that's answer enough. "Christ." He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his cheek to feel the stubble. A couple days growth at least, but it's likely been longer.

"How was heaven?" Ghost asks, breaking the silence.

"Don't remember." He opens his eyes to look at Ghost, his face plate is open, and the soft click of cameras fills the room. There's something heavy in the air between them, some swallow of words unsaid.

"Me neither."

-

It takes a few days to get cleared for discharge. Longer to feel comfortable moving again. His fingers tingle and warm, moving like molasses whenever he tries to grab something. Every movement, really, feels compromisingly slow and unsteady. His physical therapist is quick to remind him that he did get shot in the head, but it doesn't help Soap's mood.

Irritability is a symptom, the doctors tell Price, one of the "undesirable" personality changes he's supposed to watch out for.

Soap watches Price snuff his cigar on the paper symptoms list in his office.

"New technology," Price tells him leaning back in his chair, "You doin' your job is all that matters, far as I'm concerned."

"Can barely hold pliers, sir." Soap tells him, his head bent. These meetings have begun to feel more like a confessional. Sins that only matter between him and his captain. Shortcomings that he needs the reassurance on.

"You'll get there," Price tells him gently, "the 141 isn't goin' anywhere without you."

-

It's night the first time he hears it, soft humming, he almost mistakes it for a dream.

His eye twitches, some frayed nerve ending sparking as heat shoots through his still pink scar. He jerks away from it, but it's in his head, burning pieces of him that have never seen fire.

"Oh," Something gentle echoes in his head with the cadence of someone seeing an unfamiliar cat, "what are you?"

A twitch in his side this time, his body jerking without his command, more movement quicker than he's had in months. It punches his breath out of him. His thighs squeeze, the muscles tensing and releasing before the humming returns. Tuneless but lulling.

Muscles twitch, moving up and down his body like a current. Each tenses and releases in turn. It's almost relaxing, his body cataloguing the different muscles and groups and easing the strain on them one by one. Until his cock twitches, and the humming turns to something throaty and pleased.

"That's a surprise." It sounds so... Another twitch and Soap wraps his fingers around his neglected length. A "symptom" they'd called it, weeks, months, since he'd gotten hard. That fucking thing they'd put in his head dulling his needs to make him a perfect, undistracted, soldier.

And fuck he'd forgotten how good it felt. His callused hand is a godsend as he strokes it up and down his cock. There's another pleased hum in his head.

"Yeah I bet that feels good." Cooing. God it just makes his cock ache, makes it harder to hold back the twist of his wrist around the mushroomed head of his cock. Christ a man can only go so long without before it starts driving him made.

"Talk to me again bonnie," He asks the air, whatever you are, you're doing more than the doctors could.

"Think I- oops-" The heat in his head shocks through him and he smacks his free hand against his scarred head with a clawed hiss, "-get you out of here-" it stops just as quickly as it appeared and a burst of laughter tears itself from Soap's chest, "-there we go. Just us now, beautiful."

Soap's hips jump off the bed, thrusting into his hand as he squeezes his cock to try and stop the way his balls had tightened at your voice. You mumble something and his brows twitch together, trying to hear. Something, anything, just keep talking to him.

"Gonna keep you," You mutter and Soap can't stop the come that shoots over his fingers. Keep you, he thinks. Whatever you are. You're his.

-

Ai, he decides in the morning, you're some sort of ai that's come with the chip. Not the most unwelcome surprise, and a reasonable explanation if he's ever come up with one.

So there's no reason to tell anyone about you.

The thought festers possessively in his chest. Keeping you, you'd said, and he'd agreed. He was going to keep you.

His fingers are stronger when he grabs his tray from Ghost in the mess hall. Maybe you coming online flipped the rest of the switches for his body. Must be. He hasn't felt like this since, well, since he got his brains blown out.

-

You stretch in your desk chair and feel your back pop with a satisfied moan. You scratch at your head under your headset and rub your eyes. Your computer screen flashes with a blue and white box of code. Files and folders, numbers and brackets, oh it's a jumbled fucking mess of slapshod code and blockades.

Military grade really is the lowest they've got.

Too many backdoors for you to slip into and poke around in, including a new bot they've rolled into special forces. Too much internal spyware for the thing not to be important, but you don't think anyone will notice that you've disabled it. Besides the poor thing was already operating at a handicap with half its systems running on rerouted power just to keep open whatever channel was designated "order bypass."

Unusual to find a bot with working genitals, but you suppose even the military has to get a little freaky eventually.

Yeah, you're gonna have fun with this thing.