Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The farmhouse is too quiet.

It shouldn't be—not with five people living within its walls. You're used to the rhythm of it: the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional groan of old pipes, the scratch of the tree in the front yard bumping its branches against the windows. Normal noises. Harmless.

Tonight, every sound has teeth.

Your heart thrashes in your chest as you press tighter against the living room wall, fingers curled uselessly against the plaster. Beneath your bare feet, the floorboards feel colder. The shadows look deeper. Every corner hides something, watching you, waiting to pounce—

He'd told you earlier, almost offhandedly, as if it were nothing.

"We're playin' tonight, bird."

Then he was gone—just like his namesake. No explanation. No rules. Just the mask, the quiet, the anticipation.

How long has it been? At least an hour, maybe more? Your breathing is shallow, ragged in your throat as the silence stretches until your ears literally buzz with it. You can't quite tell if the pounding in your chest is from panic or the sharp heat simmering low in your belly—the one you hate admitting always comes with this kind of fear.

"Scarerousal," Kyle chuckled one night, lounging on the bed with his phone held aloft. "Not surprising, luv. Think we've all got some wires crossed when it comes to that."

You hate that he's right.

And you also hate that you know it's him. That you're safe, that you could call this off at any second and he'd somehow hear you—but the human body doesn't give a fuck about logic. Your brain might whisper safety, but right now?

You're prey.

A little bird, fluttering her way through the trees—

—while a mighty panther stalks you though the night.

A floorboard groans above you.

Your head jerks up, eyes wide as you scan the ceiling. Every muscle in your body goes taut, trembling, waiting for the next sound, the next shift in the dark—

Nothing.

But the air feels thicker. Heavier. It presses down against your chest, crushing, pinning you in place as a whisper cuts through the stillness.

"Little bird…"

The voice coils around your ear like a serpent—low and smooth, close enough that every hair on your body stands straight on end—and when you spin around, gasping, ready to run, there's nothing.

Just empty air.

But you know better than to trust that. That instinct has kept you alive this long, at least.

Your pulse roars in your ears, but you don't dare move from this spot. Not yet—if you do, you'll make a sound. But if you stay, he'll find you anyway. You're firmly caught in that dreadful middle ground—frozen prey trembling under cover, trying to decide if it's better to run and die fast, or hide and die slow.

Fight? Or flight?

You have no hope of overpowering him.

It's been proven time and time again: where you can usually topple Gaz and Soap during sparring practice, and even on occasion Price… Ghost is both an unstoppable force and an immovable object.

A beat of silence.

Another.

Then the quiet drag of leather along wood.

Your breath stutters—where is he? Somewhere behind you? No, to the left—something shifts, heavy and certain, the kind of sound that only comes from someone unafraid of being heard.

He's letting you know he's there.

You bolt.

There's no thought. No plan. You just go, bare feet skidding on the hardwood, breath ripping from your chest in quick, panicked gasps. The dim shapes of the furniture barely register as you dodge the coffee table and dart through the kitchen doorway, heart in your throat—

There!

The second the table comes into sight, you're diving under it, hands slapping against one of the chairs as you shove it away and curl up in the tightest ball you can manage, trying not to shake. Everything feels louder now, brighter, too much stimuli for you to keep track of what's going on where. You clamp a hand over your mouth, desperate to quiet your breathing as the light in the hallway flickers, casting warped shadows that reach into the room.

You listen.

It's quiet again.

Until—

Creak…

Not behind. Not in front. Right next to you.

"Think I don't know where you are?"

His voice cuts straight through your spine. You bite your knuckles hard, enough to leave little indents, as you try not to scream.

Until something brushes your ankle.

And you lose it.

A shriek tears from your throat—real and loud and panicked—as you scramble backward so fast your head smacks against a table leg. The shock of the impact freezes you for the briefest of seconds, but you manage to regain control enough to scramble out of your hiding spot, shoving chairs out of the way, hair whipping around you like a tornado as you bolt.

He follows.

Slow.

Unhurried.

Stalking.

And right now, there's only two things you can feel: your hammering heart, and the wetness pooling between your legs.

You don't dare look back—he's gaining on you, you know he is, even though he's moving no faster than a walk. Your shoulder slams against the wall as you round the corner and launch yourself upstairs, taking the steps two at a time as you gasp out half-laughed, panicked sounds.

Fuck, left or right? You don't know—which way is gonna save you?

You pick the door closest and shove your way through, fumbling to slam it shut behind you before collapsing against the wood. You can't hear him anymore. That's the worst part. His boots have gone silent. Only your breath remains—too loud, too fast—did you outrun him? Did he get bored, give up? Maybe—

The doorknob shifts. Only a fraction, but the click is unmistakable. The door presses into your back, and you scramble away as it swings open, as he looms between the frames like a damn ghoul, a nightmare made of living shadow. Backlit by the hallway light, his shoulders are massive, stance wide and confident as he stares down at you. He says nothing.

Just steps forward. And closes the door behind himself.

The soft click as it latches might as well be a gunshot.

Your breath catches hard in your throat.

Eyes wide. Watering. Darting uselessly around, catching the corners and windows in a desperate attempt to find a spot to flee towards—

He doesn't move fast. Just one step forward. Another.

You stumble backwards, chest heaving as you fall onto your hands. "Simon—" you choke, voice cracking. "Please—"

His eyes glint behind the mask. "That what you're callin' me now?" There's a smirk in his voice, hidden behind the mask, but even without seeing it you know it screams danger, destruction, power—

You shake your head quickly, retreating until your back hits the far wall with a thud. Cornered. "Ghost," you whisper. "Ghost, I—"

You never get to finish your sentence.

Within a second, one hand slams against the wall beside your head—the other closing around your throat. Not tight, but there. A promise, in his own way. Almost instantly, your knees buckle and fall out beneath you while a strangled sound chokes past your lips. He pins you there, like a hunted thing, helpless and trembling and cornered.

"Ran so pretty for me," he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your throat and into your ears. "Screamed real nice, too. Bird remembered I like a good chase."

You can't speak. You just whimper—chest fluttering, heat pooling between your thighs like molten syrup as his mask draws closer. It's mere inches from your face, close enough that you can feel his breaths through the fabric, see every speck of molten gold swirling in his gaze as he cages you in with his massive form.

"You scared, little bird?" He asks.

You nod, frantic.

"Good."

His grip tightens. It's only for a moment, but you swear your vision goes spotty as your eyes flutter and you wheeze. He wouldn't—he's not gonna squeeze until you pass out, right? That wasn't something you agreed on, not—

Ghost lets go—only to haul you to your feet, spin you around, and shove you against the dresser with a grunt. The wood bites into your ribs, jarring your nervous system—even if you could flee, the shock of the moment has you frozen in place, too dazed to fight.

He doesn't give you a second to gather yourself, either. Rough fingers curl in the waistband of your sleep shorts and yank hard enough that you hear the fabric tear in places. You gasp as cold air hits your slick folds like a slap, shame burning in your cheeks at the sheer arousal of this—of being overpowered by this monster of a man, tossed around like a ragdoll.

"Fuckin' soaked," he grits out, roughly cupping your sex with a gloved hand, groaning at your pitiful squeak. "Knew you loved this."

You whimper, forehead dropping to the wood. Your fingers curl against the edge of the solid oak, body already shifting—legs spreading, back arching, needy and frantic and desperate to be filled.

Two thick fingers shove into you without warning, and you sob.

There's no kindness to it. Nothing gentle in the way the rough leather drags against your walls—only pure, raw possession and the obscene wet sound of your cunt gripping him tight.

"You want me?" He rasps, folding his torso over your back to keep you pinned in place. "Say it."

"Want you!" You cry out, nodding frantically as your hips reflexively rock back against his hand. "Want you, Ghost, please—"

The sound of his belt unfastening makes your breathing stutter. It's barely a second before the blunt head of his cock is pressing against your hole, probing, teasing, before—

SLAM!

"FUCK!" You scream, high and startled as he fucks into you—one stroke, no buildup, just that one brutal thrust that buries him to the hilt and punches the breath from your lungs.

There's no control left—just white-hot overload as your body tries to process the sudden stretch, the burn of being so quickly forced open, the way he fills every inch of your hole like he owns it—

—and he does.

"Quiet," he snaps, hand clamping over your mouth. "Or I'll fucking make you."

Your sobbing moans are swallowed by his palm as starts rutting into you—sharp, deep snaps of his hips, a punishing, brutal rhythm that leaves you feeling your arousal literally drip down your shaking thighs. Each thrust knocks your hips into the dresser, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room. There's no gentleness. He doesn't let you adjust, or even time to reach for his wrist, his hand, anything—

—he just takes.

Fuck, you're already too full, already aching—and he's just getting started. Each thrust is relentless, borderline cruel as every single drag of his cock punches another moan from your chest. Even with his hand clamped over your mouth, smothering you with your own drool, the high, pathetic noises spilling from your lips echo in the room.

"Fuck," he growls, pressing harder, deeper, forcing your legs wider with his hips until you're split open, exposed, trembling and helpless to do anything but take every thick, exquisite inch. "Fuck, Sparrow, fuckin'… such a good fuckin' slag, aren't you?"

The next time he speaks, it's to snarl in your ear—mask rolled up just enough that his lips graze the shell, hot and wet against your skin. "You love this. Love bein' hunted, don't you? Love runnin' from me just to get caught and fucked like a bitch."

You nod frantically, unable to form words, already bruising from how his hips keep pistoning you into the dresser. You sob against his palm, salty tears stinging your cheeks and landing on his gloves as he grinds in deep—so fucking deep—that you jolt forward, losing your grip on the wood.

"Say it."

Ghost releases your mouth just long enough for you to gasp in a desperate lungful of air.

"Love it," you manage, nodding, covered in sweat and drool and tears as your eyes roll back. "Love it, Ghost, please—oh, oh, oh—please don't stop—!"

His hand returns to your mouth in an instant, silencing you again. "I know you do," he growls, the fingers on his free hand digging into your hip. "My messy little bird. All that screamin', all that runnin'… and you were drippin' f'me the whole time. Little whore for us, aren't you?"

You're openly sobbing now. Can't stop it, can't even tell where the tears end and the drool begins, entire body shuddering as you're held on that precipice between exquisite pleasure and agony. It hurts, but it hurts so good—your entire body is shuddering now as your orgasm starts to build—

He knows. He feels it.

And if anything, it just makes him rougher. Meaner. More precise.

The next thrust slams against that sweet spot deep inside, and you shatter.

The scream you let out against Ghost's palm is garbled and wild, almost primal as your cunt clamps down on him and spasms in hard, helpless pulses that leave your knees buckling. It's only his grip holding you up as you gush around him, obscene, messy, soaking his trousers and the floor as the world shatters behind your eyes.

You can't breathe.

Can't think.

He doesn't stop.

All you manage are weak, helpless twitches beneath him as he fucks you through it, using your body like it's his right—

—it is.

You're his.

His kitten.

His fucktoy.

His whore.

Ghost's.

He groans low in his chest, rhythm stuttering ever so slightly, hips smacking against your reddened arse as he drives home one last time and grinds, burying himself so deep inside you it makes your vision white out again. You feel the heat of it—the flood of thick, heavy spend—as he fills you with a growl torn straight from the monster in his chest.

Then—

Silence.

Only the wrecked, wet sounds of your breath and the fading thud of your pulse remain.

In that moment… Ghost disappears, leaving Simon in his wake. His hand slides from your mouth, other arm catching you around the waist as you start to melt, nearly collapsing to the floor.

"Easy," he murmurs, gentler now—rough silk against your ear. "You're alright. Got you, kitten. I've got you."

"…S—Si…"

You slump fully against him now—boneless, used, and oh so satisfied. He catches you with ease, wrapping both arms around your chest now to hold you close, cock still sheathed deep in your womb as he huffs out a breathless half-laugh.

"Did so fuckin' well for me," he mutters. "Christ. Fuckin' perfect girl. Took it all—knew you could."

You nod—dazed, weak—barely able to lift your head. The world narrows in this moment: nothing but the warmth of his breath against your temple. The strength in his arms. The safety blooming where terror lurked only a scant few minutes ago.

Even in the aftermath of the hunt—especially after—you're safe. Not that you ever weren't—it's still a comfort, knowing you could've called the entire scene off with a single word, and it would've stopped right then and there.

Not that you wanted to—not when you needed this reminder, this strength, this claim.

Simon slips out slowly, carefully, humming in sympathy as you hiss at the sting. "We'll clean you up," he murmurs. "Get you water. Put you in bed. Earned it, kitten."

You barely manage a noise in return—too far gone, too full of him, too ruined. You don't even react when he spins you around, lifting you into a bridal carry with no effort as he carries you toward the hallway. Just chuckles as you curl against his chest instinctively, already half-asleep and boneless with trust and satisfaction.

"Mine," Simon whispers as he walks.

You don't know what exactly he means: the chase, the fuck, your body, your soul—but it doesn't matter.

You're his.

Always his.

Chapter Text

Ghost was already on his knees.

Not in uniform, not armed—just loose joggers, a worn tee, and that damned mask still pulled over his face. Still. Controlled. Perfectly posed in front of the hearth—the fire having long since burned down to embers, yet still radiating warmth forward—head bowed, hands on his thighs.

Waiting. Not demanding, not needy… but not quite ready to let go, either.

That was… okay. John could work with this. It'd be a slower night, that was all. More… deliberate. Less about force, less about pure dominance, more… grounding.

John closed the door behind him with a soft click. No one else would come down tonight—they all knew better. No, tonight was about one thing, one person—

—his Ghost.

His Simon.

He crossed the floor slowly, boots soundless against the rug as he rolled his sleeves, baring forearms still marked by the day—gun oil, dried sweat, creases from gloves. The scent of whiskey, leather, and spice still lingered in the air—something uniquely his, settling into the room like a cloak.

John came to stand before Simon, looking down at his lieutenant's bowed head. Silence stretched between them—not awkward, never out of place. Ritual. They both needed the extra few seconds to prepare, to slip into their roles: captain, lieutenant. Handler, pet. Dominant, submissive. Master, slave. Owner, possession.

But which one will we fall into tonight…

They'd find out soon enough. He'd become well-versed in allowing Simon to lead that part, to let subspace take him where it would, settle him where he needed to be. John could adapt.

"You could've gone to bed," he finally murmured, low and kind. An out, disguised as a statement—a reminder that Simon could stand and walk at any moment, and John would never begrudge him for it.

Simon's silent stillness was an answer in and of itself. Didn't move. Didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

John crouched in front of him—gloved hand bracing on Simon's clothed thigh in a gentle yet possessive gesture. He watched for a moment as those molasses brown eyes tracked the movement, unhurried and calm, almost expectant.

"You waited," John said next.

Simon nodded slowly.

That was what he needed.

John rose again, tall and deliberate, towering over the lad before him as his hand trailed up Simon's chest, guiding him up and to his feet before stepping forward, trading strides until Simon's shoulders hit the wall. He didn't resist—obediently allowing himself to be moved—gaze never straying from John's own even as the shorter man crowded him, pressing chest to chest.

He cupped the side of Simon's neck through the balaclava, feeling how his lad's pulse fluttered just beneath his thumb. Grazed his finger across the tension there, pressing against his carotid for a brief second before pulling back.

"Want to let go tonight, pet?"

Another nod. Slower. More sure.

John hummed. "Thought so."

His hand trailed back up, slow and soft as he let his knuckles brush beneath Simon's chin, fingers curling around the edge of the mask. Watched as the man's eyes fluttered, blond lashes glinting in the low light, and feeling the sharp inhale he tried to take with a smile.

"Let me see you, Simon."

No resistance. Not even the slightest bit of hesitation before Simon tipped his head back, offering the vulnerable skin of his neck without a word. John peeled the balaclava up and away, inch by inch, marveling at each freckle and scar revealed. He clocked the faint tremble in Simon's jaw, tension and vulnerability likely warring in his thoughts at the downright intimate action he'd just allowed.

John dropped the mask to the floor, barely pausing to watch the fabric flutter down and away before he grabbed Simon's chin again, cupping his jaw to hold him in place.

"There he is," John chuckled roughly. "Simon Riley."

His Simon.

Red in the cheeks. Lips slightly parted. Pale lashes drifting low, not from shame—he had none left with John, after nearly a decade—but with need.

"Good lad."

Simon's breath hitched.

John smiled. He'd never get sick of that little reaction, the way Simon's eyes went just a little wider for a split second every time John praised him like this, like he'd already been unraveled into ribbons on the floor. He leaned in, kissing the corner of Simon's mouth—nothing more than a soft peck, a reminder that he was here and that Simon was, and would always be, safe with him.

And then—

—his hand curled into the collar of Simon's shirt, twisting the fabric in his fist and drawing it snug until the pressure closed in against the blond's throat.

Not cutting. Yet.

Just enough to remind. Warn. Promise.

John held the tension there, letting it settle, watching Simon still beneath him as his throat bobbed once, twice—every inch of his body taut as he unconsciously held his breath. Still thinking he'll outlast me, John thought, a smirk twitching across his lips. We'll see.

His free hand came to cradle the side of Simon's face, thumb grazing over his scarred cheek in slow, possessive drags. "You're mine," John reminded him, quiet, near reverent. "Gonna take care of everything. Even your breath."

And with that, his grip tightened.

Gonna take care of everything. Even your breath.

And then, there was nothing.

No more air. No more light from the dying embers in the hearth. No more wall behind him, or rug beneath him, or the sound of Price's boots—just pressure, deep and perfect, right at his throat where it should be.

Simon felt his eyes flutter open, then shut. Not in panic—he knew what panic felt like. Panic was sharp and choking and hot, something he clawed through like the world had opened up to swallow him whole and he'd been left clinging to a ledge above a yawning abyss. This was something else—the slow, heavy drop into quiet.

Everything inside him stilled.

His hands went limp, hanging useless at his sides. Muscles buzzing in place like they couldn't decide to hold fast or give in. Price hadn't told him to do anything—so he didn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't?

Not unless—

The grip tightened.

And a strangled groan left Simon's parted lips.

Floating.

God—he was floating.

Like being underwater in full kit, sinking and not fighting it. Wanted to sink, wanted the weight to drag him down, to feel like he wasn't in his body anymore. Just… Simon felt warm. Wrapped. Held—pinned in place by him.

Price's hand lingered on his face—gloved, rough, steady—and fuck, that anchored him more than air ever could. Dots began to swim and blur at the edges of his vision, distorting the fine lines around Price's eyes when he managed to look again, but he wasn't scared. Not as Price's thumb stroked along his cheekbone like he belonged there, like his body was nothing more than Price's toy to handle, to shape, to quiet…

…god, he was.

All yours, Captain.

He'd let the man kill him, if he wanted. He'd go with a smile. Even if his eyes started to water uncontrollably, he wouldn't fight the grip. Might wrap his hands around Price's wrists, to anchor them both in place as his chest heaved, but not in desperation. In awe. In prayer, almost. If this was the last thing he saw… he'd go in peace.

The ache in Simon's chest started to bloom properly, then. Heat prickled behind his ribs, a tight curl of instinct begging him to breathe, to panic, to move—

you could overpower him easily, you're taller, heavier, faster

—he didn't.

Price would decide when.

That knowing… it wasn't just blind faith, but it made his knees wobble all the same. Could feel his legs begin to buckle, not from fear but relief, from how fucking safe it felt to give in.

His cock was hard. He noticed that almost absently, how it strained against the waistband of his sweats and twitched with each pulse of his heart. It didn't feel even remotely sexual anymore—more like… proof of obedience. Like his body responded the only way it knew how—by giving, and giving, and giving…

…his vision flickered harder. The spots grew, swimming closer, dimming at the edges—

The last thing he felt was the warmth of Price's breath against his ear.

Then the pressure released. Air rushed back in, harsh and loud as his entire body spasmed once before sagging forward, right into Price's chest. A sound tore from his throat—raw, unguarded. Not quite a sob. Close, though.

Price caught him with ease. One arm looped around his back, the other still curled loosely at his throat—resting there now as a reminder. A collar of flesh and bone and ownership and comfort.

"Easy," Price breathed, deep and close, breath still warm against Simon's ear as his voice reverberated inside Simon's head. "Breathe. I've got you."

He did.

Didn't even try to hold back—just sucked in greedy lungfuls of air like it was the first time all over again, fingers digging into Price's shoulders like Price's body was the only thing keeping him from slipping straight out of his skin and onto the floor. His forehead pressed into rough cotton, nose filled with the scent of cigars and whiskey and aftershave and something so uniquely Captain that he wished he could live in this moment forever—

"Good lad," Price murmured.

And just like that—Simon shattered.

Not in fear. Not in pain.

But freedom.

Chapter Text

Soap wasn't quite sure when the tension between them had coiled this tight.

Could've been the last mission—Ghost's voice in his ear for five days straight, cold and direct, wrapped around him like a barbed wire leash that he never wanted to slip. Or maybe it was the way Ghost had touched his shoulder after that last shot—just a little pat pat that was both too soft and too firm. Deliberate. Measured. Knowing in a way that made Soap's skin itch in the best way.

And sometimes, he wondered if his lieutenant might've known him better than he knew himself.

When they got back to the safehouse, Ghost didn't say a word—not unusual in the least, but something electric crackled between them still as he stalked past with that slow, deliberate gait. Dried blood flaked off his kit and still-donned mask as he stopped, turned, and pointed toward the bedroom with one gloved finger.

"Inside."

A command, not a request.

And for a half a second, Soap considered pushing back. Saying no, just to be a right twat. Just to make the big man work for what he clearly wanted, if the extra bulge in his trousers was any indication.

But he didn't.

Didn't even speak. Just obeyed, thanks to that one word already beginning to unravel him. It didn't help that he still ran on fumes and instinct from the mission, too—already attuned to the rasp of instructions and guidance sprinkled with the occasional joke or jab from the man behind him.

The room was small. Sparse. Nothing more than an old bed, rickety dresser, and a tall mirror leaned against the wall gathering dust. Nothing special, nothing noteworthy—

Aside from the wall of heat crowding behind him, and the way Soap froze as a gloved hand settled on his shoulder. He didn't need to look to feel the weight of Ghost's gaze behind the mask—heavy, unrelenting, pinning him in place like a knife to the spine.

Ghost tapped him once with his thumb.

Then again.

Slow. Rhythmic. Steady.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"LT?"

"Easy now," Ghost murmured—low, firm, present. The tone in his voice shouldn't have been enough for Soap's knees to go weak, or for his fingers to twitch, but they did.

He swallowed thickly, lips parting on the inhale—already primed to speak, to sass, to push in the hopes that Ghost wouldn't notice just how vulnerable he was right now—

—but Ghost's hand slid from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, palm warm and steady through the fabric of his glove, and pushed.

Soap stepped forward on instinct. His thighs bumped the edge of the dresser as he caught himself with both hands, pressed flat against the wood. Off balance enough that he leaned forward a bit, eyes landing on the mirror across from him.

It was old. Crooked. The glass was coated in streaks of grime and dust, enough that it barely reflected cleanly back at him. Soap could still see himself, though—and more importantly, he could see the spectre looming over him.

Ghost stepped in closer. Pressed the full line of his body along Soap's back—chest against his shoulder blades, hips perfectly aligned as one thigh nudged Soap's own apart. Wasn't even a hard grind, but it already drove him crazy—proof that he was in charge, on and off the field, and there wasn't shit Soap could do about it.

…not that he would, in any case.

Soap's breath stuttered. His forehead dropped against the cool edge of the mirror, eyes half-lidded as heat flared low in his gut.

"Stay just like that," Ghost muttered, dragging his hand down, and down, and down—all the way along the ridge of Soap's spine before curling around his hip. The other followed—reaching around front, undoing his fly with deliberate slowness. Soap swore he could hear the metal teeth separating, and fuck did it sound almost obscene.

"LT—" he whispered again, voice cracking.

"Eyes front, Sergeant," Ghost said simply.

Soap's gaze fluttered back to the mirror—watching how his chest rose and fell a little too fast, how his face flushed and jaw clenched as Ghost's hands pulled his trousers down over his hips. The cool air hit his skin and left him twitching, cock already hanging hard and aching between his thighs.

Of course, Ghost didn't touch it. Not that he needed to, because Soap was convinced he'd cum right here, right now, with the way Ghost's eyes briefly met his through the glass.

One hand shifted to spread flat against Soap's belly, holding him in place as the other guided his hips back into the sizeable bulge Ghost sported. "Look at yourself," Ghost growled in his ear. "That's what you look like when you're mine."

Soap whimpered.

The words hit deeper than they should've—like a hook behind his ribs, tugging him around with puppet strings attached. His eyes locked on the mirror—just like Ghost ordered—on the image of himself with his mouth slack, arse bared, legs trembling.

Fuck.

He'd never seen himself like this before. Not really, not with Ghost behind him like a stormfront, so steady and coiled and in control he nearly folded right there. No, usually, he ended up on top… or on his back… or on his knees…

Soap tried to grind back—

"Patience."

The hand on his hip tightened, held firm. Pinned him there, desperate, leaking precum onto the floor—

—and then finally, the first real contact. Ghost leaned forward, dragging his pelvis slow against the curve of Soap's arse, just once. Enough to really press the thick outline of his still clothed cock along the cleft, enough for Soap to gasp and brace himself harder on the dresser—

The mirror fogged thanks to the sound he let out.

Ghost did it again—another slow, sinful roll of his hips, pressure and heat and friction through fabric like a fucking promise and threat rolled into one—

Soap's eyes fluttered shut.

Ghost's hand squeezed harder.

"Open," he growled.

And he did. Because there, in the mirror, Ghost was watching him fall apart.

Fuck, Ghost hadn't even taken his belt off yet, and already Soap couldn't stop himself from shaking. His fingers dug into the edges of the dresser as Ghost rolled his hips again—slower this time, like dragging the flat of a blade across his skin. Teasing.

Testing.

Like he wanted to study how deep he could sink before Soap broke.

And the mirror caught everything. How Soap's jaw ticked. The blush climbing up his throat and spreading down his still-clothed chest. His cock twitching desperately, still steadily leaking and untouched—

Ghost's masked face loomed behind him—dark eyes shadowed by the skull as he locked in on Soap's reflection like it was the only thing that mattered. Soap's heart beat a little quicker at the look, fingers flexing against the wood as Ghost leaned in close, covered lips brushing his ear yet never breaking eye contact.

"You're gorgeous like this," Ghost rumbled near reverently. "Would keep you like this, if I could. Cock drunk and satiated, and I haven't even fucked you."

Soap whimpered.

"Red in the face," Ghost continued. "Harder than fuckin' steel. Tryin' so hard to be my good boy, aren't you, love?"

"Yes!"

For a second, Ghost didn't speak—merely leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the side of Soap's jaw, right above the throat mic still constricting him. The mask rubbed against his skin as the heat of Ghost's breaths soaked straight through him—

"The mask. Take it off."

"Show my face?"

"Yes, sir."

"Negative."

"Are you ugly?"

"Quite the opposite."

What he wouldn't give for the mask to come off right now so he could watch that freckled face… see if he, too, made Ghost's mouth hang open on a needy moan, make his eyebrows twitch as those blond lashes fluttered against his cheeks—

"Let me see you," Ghost whispered, startling Soap from his daydream as he rutted forward again. "Really see you."

He obeyed instantly. Couldn't fucking help it—not that he ever wanted to. His eyes opened again, fixing on the mirror and his own blown-out pupils and spit-glossy lips. Ghost's fingers drifted between his trembling thighs, tracing the inside and brushing against his balls ever so lightly—

"Don't look away," Ghost warned. Soap hadn't even realized his gaze wandered as a full-body shudder wracked him, but he forced his eyes back to the mirror just in time for Ghost's hand to finally—finally—wrap around his cock.

"Fuuuuuck—" Soap groaned, the sound loud and raw and curling through the room only to echo back to his ears. Ghost chuckled, low and pleased.

"Pretty. Give me another."

Soap bucked into his hand, chasing the friction as he panted out a helpless moan, but Ghost immediately pulled back just enough to deny and leave him whimpering in desperation.

"Not like that." Another roll of Ghosts hips almost had Soap's eyes roll back in his head. "You're not getting off like some desperate rookie. You wanna cum for me, love?"

"Yes—fuck—yes."

"Then show me."

Ghost shoved his legs further apart, bending him harder over the dresser. The mirror was the only thing Soap could see now—no escape, no blind spot, nothing but the white skull looming above him and his own flushed face staring back. Too focused on how his pupils swallowed the blue of his eyes to feel Ghost unbuckle his belt—

Skin.

Heat.

Thickness.

The slide.

Ghost pressed in slow—no warning, no teasing—with a single, deliberate stroke. Cock thick and already wet, gliding between Soap's cheeks and teasing against the rim of his hole—

Soap sobbed as he tried to push himself back, desperate for the stretch and burn and ecstacy of being so thoroughly fucked—

"Look," Ghost coaxed, rubbing Soap's hip with his thumb. "Look what you do to me, Johnny."

Christ alive, he did. Saw Ghost behind him—shirt rucked up, belt open, cock in hand as he stroked against Soap like he was marking territory. So completely filthy yet breathtakingly intimate all at once. It was then Soap realized Ghost was watching his own reflection as much as Soap's—but more than that, he was watching them together, taking in how Soap's back arched, how he breathed, how he shook, how he begged—

"Touch yourself," Ghost ground out.

Soap whimpered again, fingers flexing against the dresser, almost frozen in place.

"You heard me. One hand on the dresser," Ghost reached up, grabbing his dominant wrist and tugging it backwards, "one on your cock. Want to see you do it."

Soap shuddered as his own callused fingers brushed against his throbbing length, so hard it hurt. A startled little whine escaped as he wrapped his fist around the base, nearly shooting off right then and there while Ghost groaned behind him. The sound was near guttural, deep in Ghost's throat and thick with pride and need as his cock slid against Soap's hole again before pressing just enough… not quite going in, but a promise.

"I'm gonna fuck you like this," Ghost explained, hiking his mask up so Soap could watch his scarred pink lips move. "Right here. Bent over. Watching yourself come undone for me."

"Yes, sir," Soap choked out. He couldn't look away—never wanted to. Not knowing it'd always be this hot, having Ghost dominate him, control him, own him… he never wanted to be anywhere else except beneath the man, pinned and helpless and so thoroughly used he'd never be left unsatisfied again.

"Good lad," Ghost rasped as he lined himself up.

There was no warning or false start this time. Just pressure—heavy, inevitable, exquisite pressure—as he pushed the blunt head of his cock past the rim of Soap's hole. Soap cried out, voice cracking like a fault line as he squeezed his fist tight around his cock, thighs trembling as his body stretched to accommodate the thick length sinking in inch by inch.

"Oh, fuck," he whimpered, eyes rolling back as Ghost moaned.

"Keep watching," Ghost ordered breathlessly, drawing out his entrance. "Eyes on the mirror. Be a good boy for me."

Soap tried.

Christ above, he tried—but he couldn't help the way his eyelids fluttered, how his lips trembled, how his knees nearly buckled as Ghost split him open and forced him to watch. Ghost didn't bottom out right away—he paused instead, buried halfway and bracing himself against Soap's hip with one hand while the other gripped the back of his neck.

"Look at you," Ghost crooned. "Takin' me so well. Look so pretty like this. See what I do to you?"

Soap managed a garbled noise in response—half a sob, half a gasp.

"I said, do you see what I do to you?"

"Y-yes sir!" Soap stammered out, blinking hard as he forced his gaze back to his own reflection. Fuck, he looked like a slag—cheeks red, eyes wide, sweat beading along his hairline as Ghost rocked forward once, deep enough that Soap shook.

And then again.

And again.

Until it wasn't just the slow drag of being stretched.

It was being fucked.

Hard. Slow. Precise. Each thrust carved into him like muscle memory, movement Ghost taught himself by endlessly studying everything that made Soap tick, whimper, clench, moan—and god, the sounds their bodies smacking together made, their low groans and gasps—

"Stroke it," Ghost commanded, and fuck if Soap wouldn't obey that order. He pumped himself with one hand, the other still digging into the wood so hard it started to splinter, but fuck if he cared. He couldn't look away, couldn't close his eyes as he watched Ghost fuck him raw, watched their gazes meet and Ghost's burn with possession, dominance, ownership.

Ghost was so fucking hot.

Christ, he was hot.

And he was all Soap's.

Just like Soap was all his.

He watched as Ghost's lips parted, teeth baring slightly as he grunted through the force of it, the skin along his jaw flushed and eyes narrowed behind the mask. A sniper's focus, but this time his target was Soap.

It was almost too much. Almost.

"Please," Soap choked out, hand nearly a blur as he stroked himself hard, fast, desperate. "Ghost—Simon—please—"

Ghost's hand left his hip to grab Soap's wrist and guide him—faster, tighter, thumb swiping over the head of his cock in the exact way that almost always made Soap collapse and cum on the spot.

"Cum for me," Ghost barked, thrusts never faltering even as he toyed with the sensitive, wet head of Soap's cock. "Now. Wanna see how fuckin' pretty you look when you break."

That was all it took.

Soap shattered.

He came with a cry, hips jerking helplessly as he spurted across the dresser and their joined hands, legs nearly giving out as Ghost fucked him through it. Fire danced behind his eyes as Ghost drove in deep with a low, near-feral growl, burying himself in one, two, three thrusts before warmth spread through Soap's hole like an inferno.

"Fuck!" Ghost ground out, rolling his hips even as he emptied himself fully. All Soap managed was a helpless sob as his spent cock was released, bobbing between his thighs as he trembled. Their combined breaths had managed to completely fog the mirror—breath and sweat and cum smeared across the surface until their forms blurred out.

Ghost didn’t pull out, or even speak for several long moments as they both fluttered down from their highs. Just kept them there, close, still pressed together—his hand slipping from Soap’s wrist to his chest, palm flat, holding him steady.

“Still with me?” he asked, quieter now, hoarse and exhausted.

Soap nodded.

“Good.” A beat passed. Then, more gently, “You did well, Johnny.”

Soap sagged at that, melting into the arms around him thanks to the tone of it—soft, real, Simon, beneath all the leather and shadow and control.

“…Yeah?” he whispered.

“Yeah.” Ghost nosed behind his ear. “Always do.”

Chapter Text

Kyle hadn't meant to say anything.

Really, he'd only planned on stopping by Price's office long enough to drop off the last mission briefing packet, maybe stay long enough to ask if they were still on for sparring in the morning. Absolutely not to linger for a little bit in the low hum of Price's voice before trying to coax the man back to his quarters for the evening.

But then he'd walked in and found the Captain still in uniform. Boots laced up tight. Shoulders hunched. Elbows braced on the desk like they were the only thing holding him upright as his forehead rested against his laced fingers.

The tension in the room was thick. Bitter, in a way—like the ghost of a fight Price hadn't let himself have still lingered, trying its damnedest to sink its claws in proper.

Kyle hovered in the doorway, the folder in his hand suddenly feeling out of place. Had Price even noticed that he'd come in? "…Sir?"

Price didn't move. Just breathed, slow and heavy—in through his nose, out on a long sigh. For a heartbeat, Kyle wondered—had he managed to fall asleep sitting up? It wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility, he supposed, they'd fallen asleep in worse places than just this, but…

He took a hesitant step forward, keeping his footfalls as light as he could, just in case—

Then those brilliant blue eyes lifted. Bloodshot. Tired. Dark circles framed the skin beneath his dark lashes like hadn't slept in weeks—knowing Price, he likely hadn't—gaze unreadable in that way only John motherfucking Price could manage.

"You should be off, Garrick," he rumbled, measured and soft like it tired him more to speak. "Not bringing me paperwork at this hour."

Kyle shrugged, trying for casual, though his throat was already tight. "Figured you'd want it sooner rather than later," he explained, stepping closer to set the file on the desk. He didn't step back right away, staying close but hopefully not crowding the exhausted Captain. "And you didn't answer my text earlier, about sparring. Figured I'd catch you before you vanished."

Silence reigned for a beat as Price's gaze drifted downward, lingering on the folder for a tick before shifting back up. Something in his eyes softened—tension easing a fraction as he sat back and rolled his shoulders with a low groan.

Kyle opened his mouth—ready to crack a joke at John's expense, tease him over the old man noises his joints made to lighten the air, maybe properly attempt to pry him loose from that damn desk. Instead, what came out was quieter, more careful. Worried, if he was being honest with himself.

"Want me to take over some of this for you, sir? You've been sat here long enough."

Price's mouth twitched beneath his beard—not quite a smile, but close as his eyes softened just a little further. "Managed this long, haven't I? Been doin' this since you were in nappies."

"Sir, you're not that old," Kyle rolled his eyes, stubborn despite himself. "And that's not the point, either. You keep ragging on us lot to rest like a mother hen—oughta take your own advice for once."

A low hum answered him—noncommittal, as Price offered him a measured, slightly unimpressed glance. "Mouthy shite," Price muttered, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "Could write you up for insubordination, Garrick."

"Could," Kyle agreed, a smirk growing on his lips. "But you wouldn't. Not a very good example you're setting, Sir."

"Bugger off," Price sighed, rolling his shoulders again, though this time it sounded off. More… defeated, almost. Exhausted, resigned…

Kyle exhaled, tried again. "Alright. What can I do to help, then? I don't mind grabbing my laptop from my bunk—"

That was enough to make Price look at him. Really look. Eyes sharp despite the exhaustion, mouth parting just slightly, like words themselves just… weighed too much. For a moment, Kyle thought he'd overstepped, that he'd earn the Captain's glare and a rebuke to mind his lane… but instead, Price's jaw worked for a moment, beard shifting with the motion.

"Not that," Price finally murmured, low and rough. "…let me."

"I… don't understand," Kyle faltered, brows drawing. "Not what?"

"Not being looked after. Not—" Price let out a hard, frustrated breath through his nose, hand flexing against the desk like he couldn't find the words. "Just… let me, please."

The plea caught Kyle off guard for a moment. Just long enough to realize something crucial, actually, and he mentally kicked himself for not clocking it earlier. He wasn't talking to Price, the Captain—

He was talking to John, his lover.

John stood slowly, uncoiling from his chair like his body carried decades more than its years—more weight than any one man should've ever had to shoulder. He stepped close—around the desk, past the edge—to be toe-to-toe with Kyle, the warmth of him radiating through Kyle's bones like the scent of tobacco still clinging to his fatigues.

And then he sank.

Knees bending. Heavy body lowering to the floor until he knelt before Kyle—steady, unshakable, like this was the only place he wanted to be. His hands rose, callused palms settling against Kyle's thighs as he breathed deep, thick lashes casting shadows over tired eyes.

"Tell me no," John rasped, leaning his head against Kyle's leg. "Tell me no, and we'll forget this ever happened."

Kyle froze. The words hit like a blow, low in his gut, enough to steal whatever half-formed thought still lingered on his tongue. Despite his confusion, his cock stirred to life in his own trousers thanks to the close proximity—but even so, this…

This wasn't what he'd expected.

John. Kneeling. Asking.

Not an order, not a command, not even a suggestion—nothing like their usual routine of falling into bed together, seduction whispered against kiss-bruised lips, rough praise muttered against an ear as they tangled together—

"John…" Kyle whispered, hands twitching uselessly at his sides.

John didn't lift his head. Just stayed there, pressed in close, like a man worshiping at the altar. Palms broad and steady on Kyle's thighs as he trembled—just barely, but enough that Kyle could feel the faint quiver.

"I can't… I can't carry it all," John's voice came ragged, beard rasping against heavy fabric as he spoke like admitting some deep, dark secret—like he assumed that this would somehow change things between them. "Not tonight. But this—" a breath shuddered out of him, "this, I can do."

Before Kyle could answer, to ask him to spell it out, because somewhere along the way one of them had to have completely lost the plot, John's fingers moved.

They worked at the button of Kyle's trousers first, slow and deliberate before the catch gave and they drifted down, tugging at the zip with the same steady precision Kyle had always admired.

It didn't stop his heart from stuttering, though. I should stop him. For a moment, Kyle almost panicked—did he say something? Push the man away and guide him to his feet? This wasn't him taking advantage of John's vulnerable state, was it? His thoughts reeled as his throat locked tight, every word trapped behind the sight of John Price—the captain, the legend—lowering himself further, tugging Kyle's fatigues down until he could press his face into the soft give of his briefs like it was a goddamn prayer.

Heat bled through the thin cotton as John breathed in deep, nose pressed against the curved outline of Kyle's hardening cock. He exhaled long and slow, almost at peace like it was the first time he'd let himself unclench all week.

Kyle shuddered. His hand found its way down, hesitant, until his fingers threaded into John's soft, short hair.

"Christ, John…"

That earned him the faintest sound in return—half hum, half sigh—as John nosed at him again. The waistband of Kyle's briefs slipped under his thumbs, tugged away just long enough for his cock to fall free as the cool air kissed the tip before the warmth of John's mouth followed.

No theatrics.

No rush.

Just plush lips parting, tongue easing him in, steady and sure until John's nose pressed against the dark curls framing the base. He didn't bob, didn't suck, didn't move—

Just… stayed.

Kyle let out a sharp, hoarse gasp—every nerve alight with pleasure even as confusion still warred in him. The wet heat was immediate, all-consuming even, but what really undid him was the stillness—the way John seemed to anchor himself around the weight, jaw set tight, breath slow and steady through his nose.

No performance. No seduction.

…penance.

Worship, almost.

Kyle swallowed hard, the hand in John's hair tightening for a moment before he swept downward to thumb at his temple. "I… this is what you needed? You're really gonna just… stay like this?"

A faint nod. A slight shift of his knees. But nothing else.

Just stillness.

Suddenly, it clicked. Kyle watched as John's shoulders finally, finally slumped, the subtle release of the tension he'd clung to since long before Kyle walked in the door. Like this… service wasn't a burden, but relief.

Kyle let out a shaky exhale, thumb still brushing across John's temple. He could feel it as he watched—John's jaw tensing under the weight of him, the faint tremor of his shoulders as he held himself steady, but the almost dazed look in John's eyes as he looked up really sold it.

"Bloody hell," Kyle murmured, mostly to himself. "This… this is what you needed. Someone to serve, yeah? Someone to just… give yourself over to."

Another nod. Subtle, almost shy in a way Kyle hadn't ever seen before—at least, not from John.

Something behind his ribs loosened at that. All the confusion, all the fear, the instinct to pull him up and make sense of it all… it bled away the longer he watched John stay there—quiet, still, breath slowing and deepening. It wasn't weakness, or surrender…

It was peace.

"Good man," Kyle whispered, letting the words slip out before he could stop himself. His fingers swept down into John's hair, stroking the short strands, grounding him in place. "You're alright. Just stay, yeah? As long as you need. I've got you."

John's eyes fluttered shut at that. A shiver passed through him a moment later, bleeding the rest of the tension down until Kyle was almost certain he could've scooped the man up in his own bucket hat.

For a brief moment, Kyle wondered whether or not to bring the man up anyway. His knees had to be killing him by now; he could hear the faint creak of John's joints every time he shifted his weight, he'd be so much more comfortable with a cushion or blanket… god, he just wanted to do something to fix it.

But then he looked down. Really looked. Watched the lines in John's face ease as the tension kept bleeding from him with every slow breath. His lashes lay heavy against his cheek, forehead pressed into Kyle's thigh like he was using it to prop himself up. For the first time in weeks—hell, maybe months—John looked at peace.

It made Kyle's chest ache with something tender and claiming all at once.

"Alright then," he chuckled, stroking through John's hair once more. "I'll let you. Stay as long as you need—I'm here. Tap my thigh if you need anything, yeah?"

John let out a low sigh against his skin—more gratitude than lust—and his shoulders slumped even further until he resembled a puddle closer than a man. As long as he was comfortable—which, he seemed to be—Kyle wouldn't move. There wasn't any need to, really, because in a strange way, this grounded him, too.

Kyle didn't often think in terms of 'dom' and 'sub' with any of the people he'd been with—John included. Giving, receiving, it didn't matter to him as long as the other person felt good at the end, but… he had to admit, it had a certain appeal…

He let his hand settle on John's head, thumb shifting to brush gently along the man's temple. The warmth enveloping his cock remained steady—cradling the weight of him like he was something precious. Servitude, in John's own way—Kyle cracked a slight grin at the thought. But he let the silence stretch between them, eyes soft as he watched John's gentle breaths stir the thatch of curls at the base of his length.

"You're not what they all think you are, are you?" Kyle finally murmured, barely above a breath. Not that he didn't already know the truth, what, with the proof kneeling right here for him.

There was a pause. Then a shift—just the slightest sucking noise, the barest tilt of John's head as his cheek pressed further into Kyle's thigh, nuzzling in almost without meaning to… god. Kyle's chest swelled with something warm and protective and tender and aching all at once. The sheer courage in just… letting go like this, trusting that he'd be caught… it was an odd reversal, but Kyle couldn't help but feel so damn proud of John in this moment.

"Not for me, you're not," he chuckled after a few more moments, stroking down towards the nape of John's neck. "Nah… you're my good boy, aren't you?"

John let out a low, content sigh—almost a hum as his grip eased just a fraction, no longer filled with the need to cling and keep Kyle from pulling away.

As if I would.

"Take what you need," Kyle continued, scratching at John's hairline just to see the man melt further. "I'm here, love."

Later, they'd talk. About this, about what John needed, about what Kyle wanted to provide… but for now, he stayed. One hand in John's hair, letting each measured breath keep the time as John finally let himself relax.

Chapter Text

Soap had that look in his eye again. The one that always, always preceded something incredibly bloody daft. Maybe even a little dangerous.

And—without a doubt—completely fucking unhinged.

This exact look had nearly gotten them both kicked out of multiple training seminars. And it'd also gotten him to pin Soap against the side of one of the motor pool trucks less than a month later.

Nothing but pure, predatory hunger. Smug as shite, too—promising bruises and hickeys and a lopsided smirk when Gaz inevitably winced as he sat the next morning.

This time? They were supposed to be sparring.

A bit of conditioning work after a long morning of running drills—kicks and punches, maybe some time with the practice knives or grappling if things got boring. Except it was hotter than bloody hell in the gym with the aircon busted, the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead doing fuck-all to stop the rising humidity.

Kyle had already peeled his shirt off—discarding it after the second round with sweat clinging to his chest like a second skin. Naturally, Johnny followed a few minutes after, grinning like the Scottish menace he was, as if he'd shed his restraint along with the fabric.

And now here they were.

Circling.

Barefoot on the mats. Hands loose at their sides, twitching as they sized each other up for the millionth time, waiting for the other to break the tension. Kyle's chest rose and fell in heavy, shallow breaths. The tang of sweat permeated the air, and his skin buzzed with exertion and leftover adrenaline—every nerve already primed for impact.

"C'mon then, mate," he goaded, rolling his neck till it popped. "Thought you were supposed to be tough, MacTavish. Gettin' soft on me?"

Johnny grinned—all teeth and feral excitement. "Soft?" He echoed, eyes flicking down to Kyle's hips like a smug fucker. "Ain't the word I'd use, laddie."

Kyle's eyebrows rose. He didn't think—just moved, palming Johnny square in the chest to shove him backwards as hard as he could, watching Johnny stagger, catch himself, and launch forward like a damn missile. Together, they hit the mat with a resounding thud, all limbs and heat and tangled snarls and muffled grunts—

Johnny landed square on top of Kyle—chest to chest, hips to hips, thighs spreading wide to straddle Kyle's as he knocked the air clean out of the Londoner's chest. Kyle hissed through his teeth at the solid mass, squirming, trying to force himself free of the thighs that bracketed him like iron bars.

"Gotcha," Johnny panted, breath hot against Kyle's cheek.

"Fuck you," Kyle spat, twisting harder—only for Johnny's hand to slam his wrists back into the mat, pinning them above his head in one fluid, practiced movement.

One hand.

Both wrists.

Held down in an iron grip like it was nothing.

Kyle's heart kicked hard in his chest—not out of fear, but in challenge. No way he was letting Johnny win this fight—not that easily.

"Make me," Johnny growled low in his throat, ice blue eyes flashing as he caught the expression on Kyle's face.

Kyle bucked hard beneath him, hips jerking up with all the force he could muster. It was a solid move, in his opinion at least—snappy, clean. Should've at least knocked Johnny off-balance, given him some space to twist around, scramble to his knees and reset—

But Johnny rode it out like he'd been expecting it, the twat. Had he gotten that good at anticipating Kyle's moves from years of sparring together? Or had the daft prick already mapped the next five moves in his head, leaving Kyle to catch up? Johnny's thighs locked tighter around Kyle's hips, squeezing just enough to grind down with his core dropped low, center of gravity impossibly steady—

—and pressed down until they were chest-to-chest, sweaty skin sliding across each other.

"Fuckin'—get off," Kyle spat, air punched from his lungs as he wriggled again.

The mat was hot beneath his back, too. Not soft, either—gritty with old rubber and sticky with the same sweat the room stank of. He could taste it in the back of his throat, sharp and heady like burnt salt and testosterone and the slow crawl of something far more dangerous than simple aggression.

Johnny didn't answer. Just breathed, deep and labored, mouth hovering so close to Kyle's cheek that he could feel the rasp of his stubble against his skin.

He was solid, that was the main problem. Stocky as hell, built like a brick shithouse, nothing but muscle on muscle. Kyle knew that—had trained alongside Johnny long enough to respect it, but not even sparring every day was enough to prepare him for how it felt—not with Johnny's thighs still bracketing his, cock stiff behind the cling of his shorts…

…which, naturally, sent Kyle's own stirring to life.

Kyle twisted again. Harder. So bloody close to getting a knee free—

Johnny adjusted. Shifted his hips, squeezed his thighs a little harder—

—and all of a sudden, Kyle was properly caged in.

Fuckin' prick, he thought to himself, panting heavily. No one built like a bloody tank should get to be this fast.

"Squirmy little bastard," Johnny cooed against his ear, a tease and endarment all wrapped into one. "Thought you were tough."

Kyle bit down on a groan, jaw clenched so tight it fucking ached.

He was trying to stay focused—on the fight, on the movement, on the stupid rules they'd put in place to 'spice things up', according to Johnny. Except Johnny was fucking grinding against him now, and he couldn't tell how intentional it was. Not that it mattered, not when his thought process boiled down to ridiculously fucking horny.

If you can't beat 'em… might as well join 'em…

He rolled his hips. Just a little. A test.

And Johnny froze.

Not for very long—half a second, if that—but Kyle felt it. Like his heart skipped a beat, and his head was still catching up—

Kyle swallowed hard and did it again. Slower, this time, as he pressed up and dragged the swell of his cock right along the line of Johnny's through their damp shorts, just to see what could happen.

Two can play at that game. Your move, Tav.

Johnny let out a shaky, stuttering breath and stilled, like he was trying to decide whether or not to slam Kyle down harder or grind back. "That what this is now?" he rasped, voice a mess of hoarse disbelief and the faintest thread of wrecked desire.

Kyle smirked, heart hammering so hard against his ribs he thought it might leave a bruise behind. "Wrestlin', mate," he grinned, light and teasing. "Think you're losin'."

Johnny blinked—

—and Kyle struck.

A sharp twist of his upper body, a well placed elbow to Johnny's ribs—not enough to break anything, but enough for a firm jolt—had Johnny thrown off within a second. He swore under his breath as Kyle slipped back into position, slick with sweat and spite, rolling, planting one hand and shoving up—

—until Johnny managed to clamber onto him again. Fast as hell, like a fucking wolf in the middle of a hunt—

—and Kyle was the prey.

They slammed together in a sweaty blur of motion, bare feet skidding across the mat, muscles straining, but Kyle braced and caught Johnny's weight. Turned it, using his momentum against him to drive him back and pounce atop him. He straddled Johnny's hips with a fierce kind of triumph, thighs shaking from the effort, arms braced to either side of his head. Their chests heaved in tandem—hot, slick, rising and falling with each staggered breath as every inch of them pressed together, and god, he could feel everything.

Johnny's cock, hard against his.

The flutter of his abs.

The tension in his jaw.

The way his hands trembled.

He didn't know when the fight turned into foreplay—nor did he care. Not with Johnny staring up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown and hungry.

"Well?" Kyle panted, voice rough with something raw and near feral. His thighs squeezed tighter around Johnny's hips, grinding down until their cocks slotted together again through the clinging cotton of their shorts. "Givin' up, then?"

Johnny's eyes flashed. His lips curled, teeth bared into a snarl that was half grin, half heat. “Fuck no.”

And then he grabbed him.

One hand fisted in the back of Kyle’s shorts, dragging him down as the other slid up to palm the sweat-slick curve of his lower back—fingertips digging hard, just shy of bruising. Nothing smooth or soft about it—it was clawing, clutching, teeth-bared possession. And Kyle—fucking hell, his whole body lit up like a live wire.

Their hips slammed together with a thud. A jolt of sensation punched through him—heat, friction, need all warring in equal measures. Kyle choked on a gasp—

"Jesus—fuck, Johnny—"

“Shut it,” Johnny rasped, dragging him down again. "Move."

Well. He wasn't about to say no…

Kyle started with a slow grind—a test, a tease, but Johnny rolled up to meet him, and the rhythm went feral fast. Desperation took over—pure rutting friction, hips chasing each other, shorts dragging sticky between them. Every shift, every thrust was soaked in sweat and need and the wet, messy slap of their bodies moving together— cotton on cotton, cock to cock.

And God, it felt so fucking good.

Kyle’s hands landed on Johnny’s chest, fingers curling against the Scot's tan skin to anchor himself, feel the thrum of his racing heart. His own body trembled from the effort—core flexing, thighs burning with every grind of his hips, the pleasure manifesting with sparks shooting down his spine.

Johnny wasn’t quiet, either. Not anymore. Little grunts and stuttered groans spilled out of him with every thrust, the way his head tipped back against the mat like it was all too much.

“Fuck,” Kyle groaned, forehead dropping to Johnny’s temple, skin to skin. “We’re still—hnn—fuckin’ sparring, right?”

Johnny let out this wrecked little huff. “Yeah?” he bit out. “Then I’m winning.”

He thrust up harder. Fast. Filthy. Mean.

Their cocks caught again—heads dragging with a shuddered twitch, wetness spreading fast between them. Kyle whimpered as his rhythm faltered for a beat—high and wrecked and pathetic—

“Ohh, you liked that,” Johnny growled, voice curling cruel and sweet in his ear.

“Fuckin’—shut your mouth—”

Kyle surged forward.

Crushed their mouths together in a kiss that was all teeth and spit and too much tongue. Biting, claiming, fucking messy as their noses bumped and their breaths tangled. He caught Johnny’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, hard enough to make him grunt again, just shy of drawing blood before soothing the sting with his tongue.

Their hands scrambled. Clutched—Kyle shoving his fingers under the waistband of Johnny’s shorts, Johnny's gripping his arse. He felt Johnny jerk—not pulling away, just arching up, chasing more. His knuckles brushed hot, damp skin, the sharp cut of hip bone, the tense line of muscle twitching with every rut of their bodies.

Johnny’s moved just as greedily, hauling him down with every grind like he couldn’t stand to lose a single second of friction. The fabric twisted, bunched, gave way to skin in patches—bare thigh to bare thigh, damp and tacky, every shift sending sparks up Kyle’s spine.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Johnny rasped, voice wrecked and shaking. “You gonna come like this? Fuckin’—grindin’ on me like some needy little—fuckin’—bastard—”

Kyle moaned against his mouth. Didn’t care how it sounded. His whole body ached with it now, his cock trapped in tight, sticky cotton, leaking like a fucking faucet.

“Shut up,” he gasped, breath hitching around the words as sparks danced behind his eyes. “Just—shut up—”

And then he came.

No warning. No finesse. Just a full-body clench, a groan that turned strangled as he slammed their hips together one last time, and the sharp, blinding rush of it—cock pulsing, hips shuddering, whole body going tight-tight-tight and then loose, trembling and shaking with the force of it.

Johnny tipped over the edge almost immediately after, choking out a helpless moan as he spilled into his briefs, body locked in pleasure even as Kyle collapsed atop him, gasping for air, face buried in his shoulder.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he panted.

Johnny laughed. It was hoarse, giddy, nearly unhinged. “Didn’t say you could finish first, Garrick.”

“You never said it was a race,” Kyle mumbled, too blissed-out to lift his head.

Johnny rolled them. Fast. Clean. Put Kyle on his back and ground down against him again, soaking wet and still fucking hard.

Kyle groaned. "Mate, are you fuckin' serious—?"

“Oh, love… we're just gettin' started.”

Chapter Text

She had him right where she wanted him.

And fuck, was it intoxicating.

Kyle lay sprawled beneath her—all bare chest and heat-slick skin, the planes of his body warm and gleaming in the low light. His curls were already stuck to his head with sweat, lashes fluttering every time her hips met his in a hard, rolling thrust. Sparrow watched his face for every flicker of reaction—from the way his mouth fell open when she ground down just right, the guttural sounds that slipped from his throat when she clenched around him, how desperately his hands twitched where they gripped the bedspread at his sides—

God, he sounded fucking perfect.

Sparrow braced a hand against his chest—admiring the smooth planes of his muscles intersected with the occasional scar—and rode him deeper, harder, thighs burning with the effort even as a feral grin split across her face.

"Fucking… look at you," she panted, low and breathless as she leaned over, letting her tits hover just before his face. "All that attitude, all that sass, and now you're moaning like a virgin?"

Kyle groaned—a real one, deep in his throat—as his hands twitched again. He didn't move them though—just like she'd told him. Probably wanted to touch her, maybe play with her nipples or grab her hips, but he wouldn't. Not when she'd told him no.

That was the deal, after all. He laid back, she fucked him, and he would be a good boy and keep his hands to himself.

So far, so good…

Even if he did look like he wanted to beg.

Sparrow shifted a little, changing the angle as she dragged a slow circle of her her hips against the base of his cock. That got a proper shudder from him—head tipped back, teeth sinking into his bottom lip—

"Oh, you like that, huh babe?" She cooed, grin only widening as he let out a tiny little whimper. "That little spot? Right there?"

"Fuck, Erin—"

She did it again. A little slower. A little meaner, pulling a helpless whine from him next as her slick walls fluttered around him. Tightened, squeezed, dragged herself down again—

"You're awful quiet," she teased. "What's wrong? Did I fuck all those smart-arse remarks right outta your head?"

He didn't reply. But that was okay—he was letting her work. Letting her take what she wanted for once, just like he promised, and fuck if she wasn't fucking thriving on it. Completely, helplessly drunk on the fire in her veins, the tension beneath her skin, the ache across her entire body as she fucked him like there was no tomorrow. Sparrow's nails—talons, as her boys teased—scraped lightly over his chest as she rode him, sweat-slick and flushed and electric.

She had him.

And wasn't that something—he always got so fucking smug and dangerous when he was in charge. Quiet confidence, that low tone, the hand at the back of her neck as he spoke in those dulcet tones while railing her into the mattress—but now? Now she had him whining and panting and twitching under her, eyes heavy and jaw slack—

"You gonna keep lying there like a good boy?" Sparrow asked, rocking forward with a low moan as her breath puffed against his cheek. "Or should I fuck you stupid 'till you learn?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

Not that she needed one, really. Not when she could feel him throbbing with every grind, his throat working overtime as she pressed her palm against his pulse. She chased that friction with slow, devastating confidence, riding him harder, deeper, chasing that perfect angle that made her moan—

Fuck, he was beautiful like this. Heat-glazed and open, curls sticking to his forehead, chest heaving as her hand cradled his throat… "Didn't think you'd take it this well, babe."

God, he was taking her like such a good boy. Letting her set the pace, letting her tease and grind and fuck him exactly how she wanted—

Sparrow didn't notice her rhythm falter. Not when his eyes opened so soft and slow… no, she was too busy focusing on his hands twitching a little more insistently at his sides. She shifted her own to cover his wrists, ready to pin him in place…

…at least, until he fucking smiled.

"I don't think so."

The words landed like a gut punch. Soft. Smooth. Barely above a whisper, but harder than steel in their finality. Not a threat, but not a request, either. A verdict—one that left Sparrow freezing in place.

Her breath caught mid-exhale, hands still braced against Kyle's wrists like she could anchor herself there, hold the line a little longer—but everything beneath her shifted. His muscles twitched beneath her own sweat-slick skin, no longer just from want, but restraint. He wasn't unraveling… he'd been waiting.

"You think you've got me wrecked, yeah?" he murmured, and his voice was so damn quiet she unconsciously leaned in to catch it, to hear him proper—

—within a second, he moved.

One smooth roll of his hips—precise, upward, deep—and a moan punched straight from her lungs like it'd been waiting for his permission to do so. "Fuck—Kyle—"

"Mm," he groaned, like he hadn't just shattered her rhythm in one fucking thrust. "There she is."

Sparrow couldn't even steady herself. Her breath left her in another sharp, wrecked burst, and now she couldn't stop shaking—palms still flat against his wrists, thighs trembling, vision hazy from how deep he'd managed to get with a single thrust.

Kyle didn't move.

Just… held her there.

"I let you think you had me," he crooned, voice like smoke curling around her neck, down her spine, binding her in place, "because you needed to feel it. That rush. 'S powerful, yeah?"

One of his hands twitched under hers. Just enough pressure to test her hold—not enough to break, not yet. Just a reminder that he could absolutely overpower her.

"But you're not here to take," he continued, lazy and sweet and infuriatingly smug as his hips rolled again—slower this time, yet somehow deeper. Sparrow mewled in response, the movement dragging slick and perfect between her thighs. "You're here to give. Isn't that right, pretty girl? I think this just reminded you what you really crave… being controlled. Fucked. Owned."

Sparrow's fingers curled hard around his wrists, but there was no power left in her grip—just the insatiable urge to cling. She tried to shake her head—or maybe nod?—she didn't know anymore, just knew that everything was hot and tight and sending her thoughts fluttering away like tiny birds.

Kyle smiled. Not cruel, not mocking—just pleased.

"You're doing so well, love," he whispered, eyes soft and positively dripping with affection. "Still fuckin' me, just like I asked. Lettin' me feel this gorgeous cunt, yeah? Such a good girl."

His hands finally moved—sliding from beneath hers like she'd never held them to begin with—and smoothed up her thighs, thumbs pressing into her hips to guide her rhythm. "That's it. There we go… good girl, Erin. Such a good submissive girl…"

Sparrow gasped again, entire body flushing as heat rose in her throat. It wasn't fair, his stupid velvet tone and those fucking gentle, coaxing eyes—she was supposed to be in charge! She was on top, she was the one doing all the work, but—

God, he'd dominated her without even lifting a finger.

And she fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

"See, this is how it's supposed to be," he explained, voice slipping lower and darker yet never losing that honey-sweet edge. "Already knew that you're nothing but a sweet, subby girl. This just proves it, yeah?"

Sparrow let out an indignant whine. She wanted to argue, to sass back at him, to do something—but she couldn't help the way her hips ground down as he met her with each perfect, slow thrust.

"You're mine, yeah?"

Sparrow gave him a breathless nod.

"Say it."

"You—" she whispered, voice cracking. "F-Fuck… yours…"

"That's my good girl."

He sat up then, just barely—arms wrapping around her waist, keeping her close as he turned them, laid them on their sides and kissed at her neck. And god, all she could do was let him move her like that—like she weighed nothing, like this had been a normal night and all her boldness and bravado was just a dream. Her legs shifted around his waist as he nestled them together, cock never slipping free, still buried so deep inside her that she couldn't help but whimper against his collarbone.

"Shh," he soothed, nuzzling her softly before planting a kiss on her cheek. "S'too much?"

Sparrow shook her head against him, not quite trusting her voice. Didn't need it, anyway—not when he could feel all the little tremors still rolling through her body, the heat still smouldering under her skin…

Kyle rolled his hips again, slow and indulgent—the kind of movement that wasn't about fucking so much as claiming. He held her close as she gasped, one arm around her waist, the other stroking down her spine.

"Thought you were in control tonight," he murmured, almost teasing. "But now look at you. Ridin' me like a good girl, then lettin' me take over again… you just wanted to obey, huh?"

"Shut up," Sparrow breathed, even as her hips twitched towards him again, still chasing that unbearable, perfect friction.

"Can't," he chuckled against her skin. "You love when I talk you through it."

"I—" Sparrow choked on a gasp. "I hate you."

"You love me."

She made a noise that should've been more protesting than it actually was—instead of indignant, it came out more like a needy sob. Kyle kissed it off her cheek, soft and warm.

“You close, pet?”

Sparrow nodded frantically. There wasn't anything left in her head, not a single thought except closer, closer, please, and Kyle must’ve known it—probably felt it in the way she clenched around him, the way her breaths hitched and she tensed in his arms—

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice honey-thick and steady as he rolled into her again, impaling her on his cock with such delicious force. “Go on. Let go. Wanna feel you fall apart for me, yeah?”

She tried to hang on. Tried to keep her rhythm, to stay afloat, to keep the last little bit of control she still had—

—but he whispered, “That’s my girl,” and that was it.

She came with a wrecked little cry, trembling in his arms as the wave crashed over her—hard—body curling tight against him as he fucked her through it with slow, perfect thrusts. He held her through every aftershock, murmuring sweet things into her hair, steadying her breath with his.

“You did so good for me,” he whispered. “Always so good, love.”

When she finally went limp, breath hiccuping against his shoulder, Kyle just kissed her temple and pulled the blanket up over both of them.

“Y’can go to sleep, pet,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. “I’ve got you.”

Sparrow didn’t argue.

How could she? After all, her thighs were shaking and her chest still stuttered with aftershocks and her heart was…

…his.

God help her, she was all fucking his.

She'd never stood a chance.

Chapter Text

John knew he'd fucked up the second the word left Price's mouth.

"Enough."

It wasn't barked, or shouted, or even growled—just low, sharp, and clean. Like the crack of his sniper as he fired, quiet but final and completely, 100% lethal.

He froze mid-step, towel slung around his neck, grinning like a bloody twat while Ghost muttered something to himself and Gaz sucked in a sharp breath, shaking his head and mouthing the words 'you fucked up' at John.

Price didn't even look at him at first, which didn't help. Just loomed near the single exit, jaw set, radiating that calm but seething authority John had only seen directed at eejit recruits screwing about during training. Sure, Captain had been right pissed with him before—multiple times—but this?

Oh, he was so fucked.

"Sergeant MacTavish," Price ground out, eyes finally lifting to meet John's. The look froze him on the spot—his icy glare managing to ratchet the humid room down a few degrees. "With me. Now."

A lesser man might've hesitated. Or pissed his pants. And John wanted to do both, honestly, but he followed.

The walk down the barracks hallway felt as if it stretched for miles. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, droning in John's ears as his heart started to pound in his chest. He refused to believe it was nerves, though—it couldn't be. He'd just gotten done sparring with the lads, knocked Gaz flat on his arse again, so it had to just be residual adrenaline, right? This was Price—the man he'd followed into the depths of Hell time and time again. One of the only people in this world that he could ever truly let his guard down around—and besides, he couldn't be that angry, right?

He'd just been takin' the piss! Everyone knew to not take him seriously!

John kept his shoulders loose. Casual. Like he wasn't being led into a private room with a man who could read him like a book and rewrite the ending in a single look. He'd get a stern talking to, probably. A disappointed sigh and head shake—he could deal with that.

So why the fuck did his skin prickle so hard the moment the door shut behind them?

It's just Price, he tried to convince himself. Scary, sure, but… I'm one of his boys. He's all bark and no bite when it comes to us, because we're the only fuckers daft enough to put up with him.

The lock turned.

And the sound echoed.

John's heart beat a little quicker. Sweat broke out over his head—beading at his hairline, sliding down the back of his neck as he swallowed hard.

Price, meanwhile, merely sat down on the worn leather sofa crammed into his office. Reached for a pre-cut cigar and lit it with a low hum, still not bothering to acknowledge John standing there nearly squirming.

Fuck me…

He'd been too much. Again. The flirting, the jokes, how he kept practially draping himself against Price during drills… all just to see if he could get a reaction. A shove, an eye-roll, anything aside from just indifference… but of course Price noticed.

He always did.

He just didn't always act on it—like now, and then John started overcompensating, going harder funnier more annoying anything to get something in return—

John risked a glance.

Price still hadn't spoken.

Just sat there. Legs spread wide. Elbow braced on the arm of the couch. Cigar pinned between his fingers as smoke curled towards the ceiling. Watching. Waiting. Assessing.

John swallowed hard. He couldn't breathe right—it started to feel like something was crushing his chest, his lips were dry even licking them as he tried to find his voice—

"Cap, I—"

"Take off your belt."

The words landed like a slap. Shocked John out of his anxiety long enough to blink at Price, brows furrowing momentarily. "What?"

Price didn't move. "You heard me."

A cold ripple ran down John's spine. He hesitated for a few brief moments, heartbeat stuttering hard against his ribs. Surely this was a joke, right? Price takin' the piss, getting him well and proper rattled before clapping him on the shoulder and sending him on his way with a stern look hiding a smirk and a fond eye-roll?

There was no amusement on his Captain's face, though. Not even a blink. Nothing warm in those azure eyes as he waited.

John'sfingers trembled slightly as he reached for the buckle. The faint clink of metal and the shhkk of the leather sliding free of his trousers echoed in the small room—far louder than it had any right to be. It somehow felt… god, bloody obscene, really. Private. Intimate.

What are you plannin', old man?

The moment the belt hung from John's hand, Price stood. He walked over slow—no rush in his step, leisurely like he had all the bloody time in the world—and plucked the leather from John's grip with quiet, terrifying ease. Tossed it to the desk like it was nothing as he stepped in close, caging John's body with his own—

—fuck, the scent of cigar smoke still lingering on Price's lips made him dizzy—

—"You've been a brat all bloody day," Price muttered, low and unamused. "And absolutely dying for me to notice. What, you're lookin' for some kind of reward? A little treat?"

"I wasn't—" He tried. Failed. Breath hitching in his chest, a lump lodging firmly in his throat—

"Don't lie to me," A single, rough hand gripped the back of John's neck. Firm. Possessive. Calluses digging in just below his hairline, and fuck if the pressure didn't make his knees want to buckle, filling him with the urge to submit right here and now.

Price leaned in, voice nothing but gravel and command as their noses just barely brushed. "You want my attention? Congratulations. You've got it."

John sucked in a breath just as he was maneuvered—Price positioning him with all the precision of a weapons drill until his hands were planted on the desk, cheek hovering over cool wood, bent at the waist with his arse upturned.

A moment passed—long enough for him to realize how badly he was shaking. Not from fear, or discomfort, or anything like that, at least—from adrenaline. From realizing exactly what was about to happen, from knowing he deserved it, and from the brief question of exactly how many hits he could take before he gave in and moaned like a cheap whore.

"Don't move," Price warned, and then—

CRACK!

The first blow stole the air from his lungs. Open palm. Full bloody force. Echoing through the room like a goddamn gunshot.

John gasped, fists clenching on instinct. Every nerve lit up all at once—sting blossoming into hundreds of millions of tiny little explosions racing across his skin, thighs already trembling from the shock.

Steamin' Jesus—

"Count."

John gritted his teeth so hard his jaw cracked. He shook his head once, twice—trying to catch his breath, trying to get his voice to work—

"…One—"

"One, what?"

John's stomach flipped. For a second—a brief, blissful second—he debated snapping back. Giving a little more lip, a few less fucks, see how much deeper he could dig this hole he'd found himself in—

"Fuckin'—one, sir," he finally managed to bite out. Behind him, Price offered a low sound of approval, then—

CRACK!

The second blow landed sharper, lower—right across the underside of his arse where the skin was thinner. Didn't matter that it was still protected by his trousers—his hips jolted forward, the edge of the desk catching him just above the groin as heat burst behind his eyes like sparks.

"Two, sir," he gasped, voice shaking.

"Better." Price's voice was maddeningly calm in contrast. Composed, almost bored, like this was nothing to him. Like his touch wasn't lighting John's entire nervous system on bloody fire.

A third trike followed, just as hard—perfectly positioned over the same spot as the first, adding another layer to the sting. John let out a soft whimper, forcing a cough to cover it before he spoke. "Three… sir."

"You're already squirming," Price chuckled softly, and fuck—the prick sounded pleased. "And I'm not anywhere near done with you yet."

Sick bastard…

John clenched his jaw. He wouldn't beg. Wouldn't cry. Absolutely would not give Price the satifaction of seeing him f—

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

"Fuck!" John all but yelped as three swats landed in quick, brutal succession. The sting startled him forward again—enough that he didn't register the callused fingers dragging his trousers and pants down until cool air kissed the burning flesh. And his cock?

His cock fucking throbbed the moment it was free.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—

"I didn't hear a number, MacTavish," Price growled. "Do I need to start over? Maybe take you over my knee?"

Oh god, that image had no right being that fucking hot—

"N-no, sir," John managed to stammer. "S-six, sir."

Price exhaled slowly, smoke curling over the back of John's neck. His hand returned—warm and rough—pressing between his shoulder blades to pin him down, hold him in place—

"You're so bloody loud sometimes," Price chuckled, sliding his palm down the length of John's spine. "Never thought I'd need to have you speak up, hmm? Thought you were more bark than that."

John didn't answer. He couldn't—not when he was too busy trying to not arch his arse up to get more of that sinful touch. But he couldn't stop shaking, or stop the heat building between his legs as his cock properly started chubbing up—fuck, he needed more.

And worst of all?

He couldn't stop thinking about what Price would say when he finally broke.

Though… he hadn't expected the pause to prolong. Or the silence that followed. Price didn't speak. Didn't move—just kept his hand firmly in place, holding John down like an anchor. The smoke from his cigar hung in the air like fog, sending John's head spinning as the heat of it ghosted past his ear.

Price didn't speak again until John shifted—just a little squirm, a helpless little movement as he tried to chase the pressure of the touch against the small of his back—

—until Price slowly, deliberately ragged his fingers across John's arse. Light, lazy, almost clinical. Like he was inspecting his handiwork, running his hand over each welt and pink handprint to admire…

"Y'know," Price muttered, voice low and almost fond. "I think you're finally learning."

Instinctively, John braced himself for another smack. Sure, he knew it'd only make it worse, it'd hurt more and sting longer, he couldn't help himself—

—but instead of a palm striking his already reddened cheeks, it was Price's thumb pressing down into the supple flesh. Not enough to hurt, but it made him jolt anyway as he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. That same hand slipped lower still, and for a moment John thought he'd pull back, leave a stinging slap a little lower, closer to his hanging cock—

—until it caught him, and John gasped. High pitched, startled, shamed… with absolutely none of the control he'd been so desperately holding on to. Rough fingers wrapped around the base of his shaft like they had every right to be there. Warmth enveloped the skin in its possessive hold, and fuck, he couldn't help the way his hips automatically bucked forward, seeking, hoping for more.

"Fuckin' hell, look at you," Price rasped, his smirk evident in his tone. "Hard as a bloody rock from a little discipline. That what this was all about, lad? Needed someone to get you off so you could focus again? Or are you that much of a slag when it comes to bein' spanked?"

"I—nhh—"John bit down on the sound crawling up his throat. It wasn't a moan. It wasn't! It was just—

Price shifted his grip a little, and John swore he could see stars.

"Hold still."

The two words were enough for John to completely freeze—every muscle locking on command as if the words had been beamed straight to his nervous system.

"You're dripping, Sergeant," Price observed, clearly amused. His thumb brushed along the slit of John's cock—dragging through the slick mess while he massaged the glans—and John let out a tiny, tiny whimper in response. "Fuck's sake. You gonna come just from this? From a little touch and my hand smackin' that cocky arse of yours?"

Awful, awful man…

He wanted to argue. Maybe bark out something clever, claw back all the fraying threads of his self control as humiliation and arousal simmered in his gut, but all he managed was a choked, helpless, "Sir—!"

Was it a protest? Or a plea?

He couldn't tell.

And somehow… he didn't think knowing would help much.

Not when Price leaned in, voice hovering just above John's ear as his breath tickled the skin—

"Gonna let you come, sunshine. But only because I love the noises you make when you break."

He punctuated his words with a long, languid stroke—pulling from base to tip, nothing fancy. Just control and the promise of more.

John shuddered like he'd been struck. Again.

The sound that tore from him wasn't pretty or anywhere near composed or dignified—no, it was a strangled, needy moan that clawed up from his throat, raw with shame and want and desperate need… fuck, he'd never wanted to cum so fucking badly in his life—

Price didn't rush.

Another stroke. Then another—nothing but slow, devastating drags of his hand up and down the entire length of John's cock, rough calluses catching every sensitive ridge and squeezing him through every twitch and tremble… god, it was more than just a handjob, it was fucking ownership. A reminder that punishment didn't start or end with Price's hand across his arse—

And John was unraveling by the second.

He couldn't stop the noises now. Tiny gasps, punched-out moans, that quiet, embarrassing little whimper every time Price thumbed the head… his hips moved without permission—chasing friction, rutting weakly into that perfect rhythm even as Price landed another few blows to his upturned arse—god, he was leaking down his thighs now, slick with mess and filth because Price wanted him this way.

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

"That's it," Price murmured, breath hot against John's ear. "There's my good lad. All that mouthin' off, all that bratting… you just needed this, huh? Needed someone to use you proper?"

"Fuck—sir—please—" God, he didn't even know what he was begging for anymore. Just… needed. Needed more, harder, sooner, something, anything—

His legs trembled as that tight, electric snap built faster and higher in his gut, pressure curling deep like a wave about to break—

"OhgodsirI'mgonna—"

"Don't you dare," Price growled.

John choked, the muscles in his gut clenching like he'd just been zapped. It took everything he had to not let go, to not tip over the edge as a wrecked sob tore from his throat—

"Please," he gasped, voice high and shaking. "Please, Captain—please, please I—oh god I won't—I won't brat—fuck, please!"

A beat passed.

Then another slow stroke, but a faster one immediately after, building building building harder faster meaner as John kept letting out choked, helpless moans, so fucking close—

"Come. Now."

"FUCK!"

John broke with a wrecked sob—loud and raw and helpless—as pleasure detonated through him. Hard, fast, endless as his entire body clenched tight, white-hot release spilling across Price's hand, the desk, his own fucking thighs—

Fuck, he couldn't breathe couldn't think could barely hold himself upright as every nerve lit at once—all the while he sobbed through it. All the while Price held him steady, with a hand firm on his hip and the other still wrapped around him till the aftershocks began to fade.

Price didn't speak at first. Just stroked him through it until John was a shuddering, whimpering, twitching, overstimulated mess as he sagged like a rag doll. Sweat clung to every inch of skin on his body, dripping down his back and brow… god, he'd never felt more properly ruined in his life.

For a second, he floated there. Shaking. Panting. Barely aware of anything around him until Price finally pulled away, leaving him to whimper in confusion as cold flooded in where warmth had once resided.

Price's boots scuffed softly against the floor as he moved. A click—the lid of his cigar tin. Match scraping. Another exhale of smoke.

"Pull yourself together."

John blinked, still bent over, still leaking down his thighs, skin blotched red and flushed as his hands twitched on the desk. "Sir…?"

"Fix your face. Then go to my quarters. I'm not done with you yet, sunshine."

Chapter Text

He always took his time with it.

Ghost didn't think he even realized he was doing it—how he moved through the quiet of the barracks like a man half out of a dream, soft and golden in the fading light, bare feet brushing over cold tile floors like it simply didn't touch him. Shirtless. Low-slung joggers showing that faint trail of dark hair on deep umber brown skin. Fresh from the shower, moisture beading across his lean shoulders…

Fucking hell, Kyle was fucking radiant.

Simon didn't know how to look away from him. Or how to name the ache that stirred in his chest as he stared, like someone had cut him clean open but left the edges untouched.

He watched from his bunk, curled half in shadow overtop a too-thin blanket—christ, he really should've replaced it, considering he was about to invite Adonis himself into his bed, but… comfort still felt like a luxury he hadn't quite earned.

Kyle, meanwhile, stood by the cracked mirror over the utility sink, head tilted as a hand ghosted over his jawline. The click of the razor being set beside the sink echoed through the room far louder than it had any right to, followed by the hiss of shaving cream depositing into his palm and the thud of the can as he set it aside.

Another difference.

Kyle didn't rush.

Not like Simon—no dry shave under harsh fluorescents with a dull blade and no mirror, because it didn't matter if he nicked himself and bled. No one would see it. No one would care.

…until now.

He watched, almost hypnotized, as Kyle slowly rubbed the cream in with practiced fingers, tilting his chin this way and that, zeroed in on his reflection in the low light. His mouth quirked when the razor dragged beneath his cheekbone—not a smile, just… satisfaction.

Fuck, he's beautiful.

The thought came unbidden. Loud. Honest.

Simon swallowed hard, jaw ticking beneath the fabric clinging to his face. The air in the room thickened suddenly, pressing down on his ribs and trying to crawl into the empty places he'd hidden for too long. It wasn't like this was the first time—he'd known Garrick for years. Watched those steady hands at work—such a startling contrast to now, no blood clinging to his fingertips, no ash smeared across his jaw—and crammed into far worse spaces than this while sweat and musk permeated the space.

But it was the first time he'd actually… voiced his feelings.

Kind of.

It wasn't like he'd made a proper move, in any case. Just… lingered. Smiled. Stayed when everyone else left. Called him 'Si' like it meant something—not just Ghost, not just LT…

Kyle rinsed the blade and moved on to his throat, fingers feather-light as he held the skin taut. Every motion was ritualistic—in a way, it actually reminded Simon of cleaning a gun. But instead of simple maintenance, instead of muscle memory leading the way… each pass of the razor looked like a quiet affirmation. Like Kyle was whispering I'm worth this with each pass, and that was the part that wrecked Simon the most.

The certainty of it all. The easy confidence. The way Kyle never, ever shrunk himself down or apologized for taking up space.

He didn't even look vain. Just… content.

Simon's gaze didn't waver as Kyle rinsed the last of the cream from his skin, turning to unscrew the cap on a fancy little tub of moisturizer before dabbing it on each cheek, across his brow, down his nose.

Kyle rubbed it in with soft, easy motions, and Simon found himself straining for the scent—just a hint of it, warm and clean and a little spicy, like… sandalwood and something citrusy. Something that Simon wouldn't know what the fuck to do with, even if he tried. He didn't own lotion.

Didn't own anything, really. Not anything that made him feel better instead of useful.

And yet Kyle did this like it was second nature. Like it mattered.

Like he mattered enough to put the effort in.

God, Simon felt like a ghost in his own skin just watching it.

His eyes fluttered closed fora second—just a second—as he tried to ground himself, desperate to not feel so wretched in comparison. But even the darkness behind his eyelids glowed with the echo of Garrick in that light, golden and soft and real.

When he managed to look again, Kyle watched him in the mirror. Not startled. Not awkward in the way Simon always felt while being observed. Just a glance. A half-smile. That slight head tilt and the warmth in his eyes—

Simon's pulse kicked.

"Alright over there?" Kyle asked, low and curious and more than a little amused.

Simon swallowed hard. "Fine."

A little chuckle followed. "Yeah, mate?"

With that, Kyle turned fully, leaning back on the sink with both hands braced behind him—long lines of muscle catching the light, water still trailing lazy rivulets down his chest, disappearing beneath the waistband of those sinful gray joggers that highlighted the cut of his hips—

Simon blinked, glancing away as a blush rose on his cloth-covered cheeks.

A mistake—just one more in the long line of missteps he managed to make when it came to existing near Kyle—because a moment later, he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps crossing the floor.

Fuck me…

Simon tensed, but he didn't look up. Didn't need to—he could feel it. Like gravity managed to reroute itself as the bunk dipped beside him. Kyle's knee brushed lightly against Simon's thigh as his weight settled at the edge.

Simon's breath stuck in his throat. He didn't know how to do this—not with someone like Kyle. Warm, genuine, tender-hearted Kyle, who deserved so, so much more than anything Simon could ever hope to offer—fuck, was this a joke? Mercy? Something worse? Was he doomed to want too much an pay the price later?

"Hey," Kyle murmured gently. "Did I scare you?"

Simon blinked—he asked like it wasn't some… fucked up trick question. "No."

At least that was mostly the truth…

Kyle made a quiet little noise in response, an almost-laugh if he had to guess. "Oh yeah? Then why are you starin' like I'm gonna bite?"

"You are in my bed."

Kyle's grin curved, the corner of his mouth ticking up as he leaned a little closer. "Suppose I am."

Simon's throat worked around the next breath. Everything felt too loud—his heartbeat, the rustle of Kyle's weight on the bedframe, the fact that he was still fully dressed, mask and all, while Kyle looked… human. Something wonderful sculpted from a warmer world.

He tried to stay still. Rigid. Proper. Tried to not chase that little bit of closeness like some freak of a creature crawling towards its first ray of sunshine.

Kyle didn't press. Didn't even crowd him, really—he just sat there, legs folded loosely beneath him, elbow resting against his thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was, to him, being in Simon's bed again, like he wasn't driving him half mad with longing and panic in equal measures.

"You remember that first kiss?" Kyle asked softly, like he wasn't handing Simon a loaded gun of a question. "The one behind the range tower after all the other officers had turned in for the night?"

Simon managed a weak scoff, barely daring to breathe. "You slammed me into the wall. Nearly concussed me."

…what he didn't say was how fucking hot it was to be completely manhandled by the shorter man. Dominated in a way that… fuck, had it ever happened before? Or was that the first time he'd really managed to let his guard down?

Kyle's smile widened. "I was drunk on you, Si."

"Thought you were drunk on the flask you snuck outta Price's office." Thank god Kyle couldn't see the blush heating his cheeks beneath the mask right now. He'd managed to keep his tone neutral so far, but his face? Dead bloody giveaway.

"Might've been a little tipsy," Kyle chuckled, the words trailing off into a gentle silence for a beat. Kyle tilted his head again, studying Simon in the low light—not analyzing like he would a mark, not dissecting, just… looking. Gentle.

And fuck if Simon knew what to do with that.

Especially with his next words: "Didn't make it any less real."

Simon glanced away, the lump in his throat growing, blocking his windpipe, his voice— "Maybe it should," he finally managed, fists curling tight around the blanket over his lap as his shoulders hunched.

"Why?" Kyle, at the very least, didn't sound hurt so much as confused, like the idea just… didn't compute. Maybe it didn't, for him. Maybe life really was that simple—he saw what he wanted, he acted on it, and he got to be happy. Maybe that existed for good men like him.

Not for monsters like the Ghost.

When Simon's voice came next, it was hoarse. Timid, almost, in a way he hadn't been since he'd been forced to grow too fast into his lanky limbs. "Cause if I want it too much, I'll fuck it up."

A beat passed. Maybe two.

Kyle reached a hand out. Let his fingertips just barely graze the exposed skin of Simon's forearm, tracing swirls over the ink he wore. "Says who?"

He didn't have a good response for that.

"Wanting's not the problem," Kyle continued, low and kind and so bloody patient it almost made Simon want to scream. "Denying it, though? That's the bit that stings. I know it's not you, mate, I get it. But… you can't live half a life. You're allowed to be happy, too."

Happy.

Simon shifted slightly. He felt… cornered, in a weird way. Sure, he could bolt if he wanted to, or throw Kyle out, or hide, or anything, but…

He didn't want to.

"You're not afraid of this?" Of me?

Kyle didn't flinch. "Of you? Never."

Simon's breath hitched as the words hit him square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs as he tried to pull a shaky breath. "But I'm…" he trailed off, the words dying on his tongue. So many things fit, but which would be the right ending? Broken? Brutal? Too sharp at the edges to be held without someone bleeding for it?

"You're a lot of things, Simon. But none of them scare me."

He almost laughed at that.

But at the same time… he wanted to believe Kyle so badly it hurt.

Kyle leaned in again—not to kiss, much to Simon's disappointment—but to touch. His hand came to rest just beneath the hem of Simon's hoodie, fingers spreading slow across the fleece, tracing the stitching with warm patience.

"Can I?" he asked, voice low.

And for a moment… Simon's entire body locked.

He knew nothing bad would happen. Kyle wouldn't—couldn't—hurt him. If he said no, if he said stop, if he looked even the slightest bit uncertain, he knew it would end. And besides, it wasn't like they hadn't seen each other in various states of undress—showers, missions, battlefields where they'd had each others blood on their hands…

But he nodded. Heart hammering.

It wasn't any different, right?

Wrong.

Kyle, to his credit, moved carefully—so, so carefully—as he peeled the hoodie up inch by inch, like he was unveiling something sacred. Every nerve in Simon's body screamed at the touch, almost begging him to move, to shrink away and hide his hideously pale, scarred skin… something stopped him.

Kyle didn't gasp. Didn't freeze. Didn't even wince.

He just looked. Really looked.

It was so much. Too much. Simon turned his face to the side, shame burning in his chest like a live wire. Why the fuck had he thought this would be a good idea—putting himself out there like this for the most beautiful man he'd ever seen? God, he was fucking nothing compared to the warm umber tones of Kyle's beautifully smooth skin. Even his scars looked gorgeous, not ragged and red and angry like Simon's own.

A tiny, startled noise escaped him—nothing more than a hitch in his throat, barely audible—as Kyle's hands returned, this time sliding reverently over Simon's ribcage. He mapped the dip of his sternum, tracing along long Y-shaped incision stretching up to his collarbones, before trailing back down to the sharp flare of his hipbones and the layer of muscle beneath.

"You're so handsome," Kyle murmured, thumbing across a rough, angry red patch of burn scars.

Simon's breath caught.

The words felt like oil on water—they just… didn't mix. Didn't make sense. Yet at the same time, they hovered so impossibly soft around him, around the parts of himself that he'd long since given up on.

Kyle pressed a kiss just beneath his collarbone. Then another. Peppered them across each scar, each pockmark, each imperfection—

Simon flinched, but held himself still. His hands twitched—fuck, what did he do with his hands?—before he settled for knotting them into the sheets beneath himself to prevent them from hovering uselessly between them both.

He barely dared to breathe as Kyle busied himself, kissing along the curve of his chest, lips brushing old scars and half-healed bruises like they deserved some kind of honor. His hands stayed steady and warm, one sliding down to Simon's hip and brushing the line of muscle there as he crawled forward, pushing them both down until Kyle was draped over Simon.

"Christ," he whispered, almost awestruck. "You're fucking sculpted, Simon."

A noise escaped him at that—somewhere between disbelief and discomfort. What the fuck did he say to that? He wasn't anything… anything special. Certainly nothing to write home about! "Carved outta meat and misery," he managed, the self-deprecating joke landing like boulder in a pond.

Kyle scoffed. "Nah. You're a bloody work of art. Gonna prove that."

Before Simon could respond, Kyle's mouth trailed lower, tongue flicking across each and every mark before kissing them clean. He worked his way down like he wanted to memorize every single spot of Simon's torso—scars, freckles, ridges of bone and dips of muscle—claiming it for himself.

Each touch stole the thoughts from Simon's head—the warmth of his mouth, the worship in his hands, the weight of each kiss left him breathless, almost dizzy with it, cock stirring in his pants despite the tension in every other line of his body. No one had ever touched him like this—no violence, no need, just pure adoration.

It was so much. Too much.

Especially when Kyle murmured little bits of praise between kisses, things Simon never could've imagined being said to him—

"So strong."

"So gorgeous."

"Can't believe you let me see this."

Simon blinked hard, throat tight as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. His chest rose and fell in uneven hitches, like his body couldn't decide if it was aroused or panicking—

Kyle slowed, just a little. He glanced up from kissing along Simon's belly, pausing to let his breath stir Simon's skin as he smiled faintly. "Still with me?"

Simon nodded quickly. He… he was, kinda. Somehow. Just so out of his depth, that was all. He forced himself to breathe, sucking in a long breath and letting it out as slow as he could, forcing the pins and needles from his body as Kyle watched, eyes softening even further.

"You're doin' so good," Kyle breathed, so tenderly patient it made Simon want to sob.

"Don't deserve this," he finally managed, shaky and raw.

Kyle's gaze held steady. "That's not for you to decide," he murmured, quiet and firm but so, so tender all at once. And fuck if that didn't make Simon's throat close up. There was something in those words that rang through him like a church bell, loud and clear and holy—not a question, not even a suggestion. A fact.

It made Simon melt. And that made Kyle smile, all soft and warm as the tension leaked from Simon's body and he went pliant beneath the younger man. Kyle shifted, dragging his fingers back down the line of Simon's hips until they hooked into the waistband of his pants.

"Can I take these off?"

Simon nodded—no hesitation this time as he shivered beneath the contact. "Please," he managed to whisper after a moment.

Kyle exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, his smile only growing as he nodded, so damn pleased Simon melted all over again. And then—so gently it made Simon’s skin prickle—he peeled the last layer of fabric down Simon’s thighs.

The cool air kissed against his damp skin, enough that Simon twitched. The instinct to cover himself rose quick and hot, a stab of anxiety lancing between his ribs for a few moments—but Kyle was already there, kissing along the inside of his thigh, hand sliding up to cradle the sharp angle of his hip like it belonged to him.

He… he kinda wanted that to be true. But he wasn't sure he could survive witnessing it—Kyle on his knees, looking at him like he meant something. Like he was worth taking time with. Worth keeping.

God, he wanted to be kept…

“So fuckin’ perfect,” Kyle murmured. “Look at you, love…”

Simon let out a strangled sound, half-embarrassed, half-desperate. “Don’t—don’t say things you don’t mean.”

Kyle didn’t even pause. “Who said I don’t mean it?” he challenged, stroking slow down Simon’s thigh, then curling in to cup his cock—already half-hard, twitching under the weight of all this attention.

Simon gasped, hips twitching reflexively. The touch seared, sending his nerves sparking off like fireworks as Kyle leaned up again, crawling over him until their chests met, skin against skin, hot and flushed and too much. Simon sucked in a breath like he was surfacing from underwater, then let it out in a shudder when Kyle pressed their mouths together.

The kiss was not gentle. It was messy. Deep. Lingering.

Kyle kissed like he’d been waiting for this—like he’d dreamed about it and was finally getting his hands on something precious. His tongue stroked into Simon’s mouth with confidence, with claiming, and Simon let him—let him take, let him press their bodies together until their cocks bumped and slicked between them, sending lightning down Simon’s spine.

It was dizzying. Intoxicating. There was no chance that he'd ever, ever get enough as Kyle’s hands moved—palming over Simon’s chest, sliding down his ribs, gripping the meat of his thighs. Mapping him. Owning him. Claiming him.

And Simon—God, Simon didn’t know what to do. He whimpered into Kyle’s mouth, rutting up without meaning to, every line of his body tight and trembling. He hadn’t even been touched like this. Not really. Not… held like this, fucked without even being inside someone.

Kyle pulled back just enough to breathe against his lips.

“You close already?” he teased, but it wasn’t mocking. Just awed. Delighted. “Fuck, baby… you really need this, huh?”

Simon made a broken little sound—something between a laugh and a sob.

“Shh,” Kyle soothed. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

He reached down and wrapped both their cocks together in one hand—warm and steady, skin sliding against skin—and fuck, that was nearly enough on its own.

Simon gasped, his head tipping back against the pillow as his hips bucked helplessly into the contact. Kyle leaned in to mouth at his throat, kissing just below his jaw, whispering in between licks and nips:

“So soft under me.”

“Such a good boy, yeah? Letting me take care of you like this.”

“Wanna see you fall apart, Si. Wanna feel you come for me.”

Simon broke. His hands clenched in the sheets, body writhing beneath Kyle’s grip, gasps turning into moans as the pressure wound tighter and tighter in his gut.

Kyle stroked faster, the glide of their cocks together slippery now, friction building hot and hard between them. He rutted against Simon with slow, grinding thrusts, letting their chests press together, sweat beading at their skin, lips never far apart.

Simon’s eyes fluttered shut. His jaw clenched. He was right there—

“Kyle—fuck, fuck, I—”

“Come for me, love.”

That was it.

Simon shattered with a sound he didn’t recognize, hips jerking up as he spilled between them, warm and slick and messy, gasping and groaning through it as Kyle held him steady through every wave.

Kyle followed moments later, moaning low and deep into Simon’s mouth as he spilled over their stomachs, body trembling with it.

For a long time, they didn’t move. He sure as fuck couldn't, too busy clearing the stars from his eyes. They just laid there, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, sticky and flushed and boneless.

Then Kyle kissed his nose. “You alright?”

Simon nodded. Or maybe he shook his head. He wasn’t sure. “…Think I needed that,” he rasped.

“You needed someone to love you a little," Kyle murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth next. "‘Bout time you let me.”

Chapter Text

He'd already planted his hands on Sparrow's hips before he realized what was wrong.

Warm skin under his palms… soft omega curves… her gentle wildflower scent curling into his lungs like spun sugar—

But she didn't smell like him.

Not yet. Not enough.

Soap shoved his face into the side of her neck—ignoring her soft, gasping mewl—and inhaled hard, nose dragging across her scent gland, chest aching with need.

"Johnny—?"

His sweet wee bird sounded so confused. So sleep-rough and soft, like she'd just registered that he was home and had crawled into their nest.

Soap didn't answer—just pressed his weight down against her, caging her in beneath his bulk as he dragged his mouth down along the slope of her throat. One hand slid down low, possessive, fingers digging into the soft meat where her hip met her thigh.

"Was gone f'r three days," he muttered, voice so low it was nearly a growl. "Three fuckin' days, hen, an' ye smell like I've never touched ye."

Sparrow stiffened a little beneath him, breath hitching—no, that wasn't right, because she smelled upset now. His instincts snarled—not at her, but at himself for scaring his sweet lass—as she shifted, apologies already ready on her lips—

"I—I didn't mean—Alpha, I—"

"Didn't say you did," he rumbled, nuzzling the shell of her ear with his nose before he licked a slow, lazy stripe across the warm skin. "Not mad. 'Sides… ain't about that. Jus' need t'fix it, s'all."

Another soft noise escaped her—something halfway between a shy little whimper and a wanton moan.

Good.

He knew she felt it now—the shift in the air, instinct curling low between them, that sharp, electric pulse of need… god, and Soap could smell it, too, how she started slicking up, scent going even sweeter in response as heat bloomed beneath his touch.

"Nice sight t'come home to," he rasped, drinking her in like a parched bloke left in a desert. "Pretty lil' omega in her nest, wearin' her alpha's hoodie… jus' gotta fix that wee scent, aye? Can't have that."

Soap nuzzled lower. His mouth dragged across the column of her neck, now, teeth grazing skin as he panted, matching her almost breath for breath. Sparrow squirmed a bit beneath him… but it wasn't resistance. No, he knew his pretty little 'mega too well for that. This was instinct. Twitchy, needy, half-formed arousal starting to kick in now that her alpha was nearby.

"Gonna mark you up nice, kitten," he promised, voice nothing but a rough, hungry rasp. "Rub my scent into every inch of you. Won't be able to breathe without rememberin' who you belong to."

He pulled back just far enough to see her face—cheeks flushed, lips parted, mossy eyes wide and already glassy with need… fuck, she was fucking perfect like this. And all his. His to spoil. His to love.

His to claim, over and over again.

"Johnny," Sparrow whimpered—a desperate little plea wrapped in surrender.

He grinned. Slow. Dangerous. Took her in for another few moments, her heaving chest and the sweat beginning to glisten across her forehead—

—and surged forward to bite the base of her throat.

Not a bondbite—no, he already had one, right at the base of her neck, where it joined with her shoulder—or even a bruise, just enough pressure to make her squeal and twist and arch her back, wanton little thing.

He relased her with a hot exhale, then moved lower. Mouthed at her chest—dragging his hoodie up to bare her pale, freckled skin, lapping at the dip between her breasts while he dragged his stubbled cheek along her sternum just to hear her mewl.

"Scent glands here, too," he muttered, nosing under the swell of one round peak, "bet you didn't know that, huh?"

Sparrow whined. So he dragged his tongue across her skin, narrowly avoiding her nipple. C'mon, kitten, mewl for me again…

"Gonna scent every last one," he promised, practically panting now. "You'll be drippin' with it, kitten. Everyone's gonna know who you belong to."

As he spoke, his hand slid down. Across the softness of her belly, over her hip, across her thighs—fuck, fuck, fuck, she was already fucking wet—

The urge to take her right here, right now… it nearly overwhelmed him. Her tight wee cunt gripping his knot and milking him for all he was worth as he bred her full—

"God," Soap groaned, fingers sliding through the slick at her slit. "So wet… such a good girl…"

"O-oh!" Sparrow gasped out, hands knotting into the bedspread as he spread her legs and lips. "Johnny—!"

He didn't respond. Just shoved the hoodie higher. Dragged her knickers down properly, and settled between her legs. Soap's nose bumped against her mound as he dragged a deep breath in, practically fucking dizzy with it.

God. She smelled so good—so sweet, so warm, so needy for him… but his scent wasn't there yet. Not enough. Never enough.

A growl bloomed in his chest—low, rough, possessive. "Gonna fix that too, birdie."

He didn't give her time to answer—just buried his face between her pale, plush thighs and licked a long, sinfully slow stripe all the way up her slit. Grinned as she bucked beneath him, as he grabbed her hips and pinned her to the bed while she squealed—

"C'mon," he grunted between laps, alternating between burying his tongue between her folds and sucking at her clit. "Sing f'me, bird. Whole base nears t'hear this, yeah?"

"Y-yes!" Sparrow choked out, all breath and instinct as she squirmed and bucked beneath his touch. He groaned against her folds, nose brushing through the dark, curly hairs framing his girl's cunt—god, her scent hit him like a fucking drug now, closer by the second to being what he needed. So, so close.

And his poor, needy omega… she was already clenching around nothing.

"That's it," Soap rasped, lapping at her entrance now, collecting her slick on his tongue and reveling in the way it dripped through his beard and all the way down to the bed. "Sweet wee cunny's already flutterin' f'me. Missed me that bad, huh? Three whole days without gettin' a knot, poor baby."

Sparrow whimpered something incoherent. Lifted a hand to knot it into his mohawk as her thighs trembled—and he grinned.

"Think you're callin' the shots?" He chuckled, making no move to dislodge her hand. "What, 'm only done when you try pullin' me off?"

"N-no, Alpha!" She squeaked, all embarrassed and shy even as her thighs quaked around his head.

"Then hold on tight, baby," he crooned.

Soap dove back in with purpose—licking, nipping, mouthing, nuzzling, sucking her down like a man starved as he made a fucking mess of her. The slick sounds of his mouth on her pussy echoed through the room, wet and dirty and so, so disgustingly lewd he had to resist the urge to palm himself through his own pants.

Not till you're in her cunt, MacTavish, he thought to himself, despite his instincts screaming for him to take her now. Loosen her up first. Make her cum. Can't hurt your sweet omega. Not tonight.

No. As much as they both liked it rough… well. He didn't totally mean to brag, but he was a bit bigger than the average alpha. Thick, veiny, and long. She needed to be well prepped before he'd even make it halfway…

And besides.

This was his favorite spot, right here. Kneeling between his pretty 'mega's legs, lapping the nectar of the bloody gods straight from the source.

He kissed over her inner thighs after a few more pulls, giving her the briefest reprieve. Teeth scraping just enough to leave a faint red mark over her lily-white skin before licking back through her folds and sucking her clit into his mouth—

"Fuck!"

Sparrow sobbed the word out—high and needy, heels digging into the mattress as she pulled him closer by the hair, forcing his mouth closer, rocking into him with single-minded desperation as she approached her peak.

That's it… that's mine.

Soap released her hips, instead planting one hand on her thigh to keep it open while the other thrust two fingers up into her weeping hole. Groaned as she clenched hard, searching for that ridged spot as she keened and wailed and—

There!

—shattered.

Sparrow came with a scream, high and helpless as her entire body went rigid. Muscles frozen, limbs locked as he sucked harder on her clit, coaxing more and more slick from needy cunt—

—until she convulsed, falling back to the bed with quick, sharp gasps.

He pulled back, but fuck, it still wasn't enough. She'd started to smell like him, finally, but it wasn't enough—

Sparrow still wasn't marked the way she should've been.

When he got a proper look at her face, her eyes were half-lidded, glazed and glassy in the aftermath of her release. Limp, helpless, spent, and so bloody gorgeous it took his breath away.

Soap took a few moments to watch her as he stripped his own clothes off. Let her breathe. Let her come down from the high, because she was gonna need every last bit of stamina for what would come next.

His cock—already heavy and flushed and leaking—throbbed in the musky air, knot already beginning to swell as he let out a slow breath.

"Don't worry, kitten," he murmured, eyes fluttering as he sucked in more of her heady, needy scent. "Gonna make it all better. Knot ye proper, aye?"

Sparrow stared up at him—eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks rosy red and thighs still laying open. Welcoming him in with her soft, glistening cunt, drooling slick all the way down to the bed—

Fuck… what position did he take her in? On her back just like this so he could watch her face the whole time, pin her shoulders down and take her like a man possessed? Maybe he could throw her legs over his shoulders and bend her in half, really put her in a mating press…

…but the thought of getting her on her hands and knees to present like the sweet little omega she was for him—

Hm.

Maybe later.

Right now?

Soap needed to watch as she came apart.

He reached down, taking his cock in one hand as he looked out over the smooth, freckled expanse of pale skin beneath him. Soft and strong all at once, curvy hips and an adorable rosy flush spreading all the way down her shoulders…

"Mine," he growled.

Then he slid home.

Fuck, she's tight—

Sparrow gasped as he shoved in, bottoming out in one firm stroke as a deep groan tore from his chest. She arched beneath him, shuddering hard as she whimpered for him, hands flying up to grip his biceps.

"Alpha!"

"Fuck," he hissed, bracing himself above her, thighs trembling as he held himself still. "Fuckin'… shite, kitten—always so tight, so perfect, fuckin' best 'mega—"

"More," Sparrow moaned, dragging her nails down his arms. "Fuck, Alpha, please more, please breed me—!"

He couldn't help his chuckle as he started to rock into her—slow at first— with deep, dragging strokes that made her cry out, grip him tighter, slick gushing warm around the base of his cock and coating his thighs in her. Every thrust punched a low, stuttering moan from her throat, eyes wide and wild as he leaned over her, panting in time with her heaving breaths. Sparrow's hands crawled up to his shoulders, then higher—knotting into his mohawk like she needed to hold on for dear life.

God, she looked fucking perfect beneath him. The sound of her soaking cunt squelching with each roll of his hips only spurred Soap on harder—his girl was so bloody wet he could feel the mess dripping down his balls, heard it every time he bottomed out with a wet smack as her body sucked him in and gripped—

"Alpha, Alpha, Alpha—" Sparrow puffed, tugging his hair a little harder. "Please, please more, please—harder!"

"More?" Soap chuckled breathlessly. "You want more, kitten? Want Alpha to breed you? Knot you and fuck a few pups in this tight wee cunny?" The way she fluttered around him in response to his words nearly drove him to the edge. Each rhythmic, twitchy little pulse squeezed his cock tighter, like her cunt was trying to milk his knot before it'd even properly formed, the needy little thing.

Soap loved how fucking desperate Sparrow got. Begging for the stretch, the weight, the way he plugged her right every time he emptied another load deep in her womb—

He bent low over her, their chests rubbing, the peaks of her nipples already so sensitive just from arousal. Dragged his mouth up her throat and over to her shoulder, stubble scraping her flushed skin as he lapped and nipped at the faded scar of her bondbite. Soap didn't sink his teeth in proper—just wanted to remind her that he could. That he had.

Fuckin' own you, birdie, Soap chuckled to himself. Mind, body, and soul.

"Y'feel that, birdie?" he rasped instead, low and wrecked as he rolled his hips forward again, a little meaner this time. "S'me. Deep in tha' pretty cunt, right where I belong."

Sparrow keened—a thin, aching sound that made his cock throb inside her. Her chestnut hair splayed over the pillows in a fluffy halo, tipping hard against the softness as she bared her neck in complete surrender. Soap could feel her pulse fluttering beneath her skin like frantic wingbeats—so open to him now. Arms wide, legs wider, melting beneath him…

Her thighs twitched with every rough stroke of his hips, nails dragging helplessly down his back as her breath hitched harder.

"C-can't—" she gasped, voice cracking around the word. "Johnny—Alpha—it's too much…!"

"You can," he assured her with a low growl, picking up the pace just enough to make her sob for him again. "You're my good girl, remember? My good little mate? Built f'r this, t'take every fuckin' inch of your alpha's thick cock, yeah? Pretty little 'mega like you, bloody made t'be bred full, knotted up tight. Wee cunt's squeezin' so hard, needs this, doesn't she?"

Sparrow's hole squeezed again at his words, hot and greedy in unconscious agreement. Soap cursed under his breath—slamming his hips in now, grinding against her sweet spot until her entire body arched up into him like she couldn't bear to lose an inch.

He only paused for a second. Just long enough to pull out, push her legs up and back to practically fold her in half, spit on her cunt, and drive back in with his weight dropping fully onto her. "Gonna knot you just like this," he chuckled, watching her eyes roll back. "Plug you nice and full, breed you right. Needy little thing, aren't we?"

Soap pistoned into her, hard and mean and rough, snapping his hips against her thighs as Sparrow moaned and squealed and begged for more. His knot began to swell, catching on the abused, puffy rim of her hole as she babbled helpless nonsense—not that he was any more coherent. Soap grunted hard with every thrust, fucking her like an animal as he bucked as fast as he could, driving her closer and closer to the edge—

—his knot popped inside, locking snug against her walls—

—and Sparrow screamed.

Her entire body seized beneath him—thighs shaking, squirming with her mouth open on a sharp, sobbing cry that hit him straight in the fucking chest. Sparrow clenched around him with all her strength, locking him in tight, milking him for everything he had as he dropped his mouth to her throat and came hard.

"Fffffuck—" he growled, practically gnawing at her bondbite as he spilled into her, rope after rope of his release coating her walls, her womb, plugged safely inside thanks to his still-swelling knot sealing them together. "Take it, take it—fuckin' take it, kitten, take it all—"

"Alpha!" Sparrow wailed, taut like a live wire beneath his touch as she shook and sobbed through it all. Her body took it—every drop, every pulse flooding her as he rolled his hips slow and cruel, fucking his spend deeper. Soap still felt her cunt fluttering with little aftershocks, soft and greedy as her body tried to hold him there.

"Christ," Soap muttered, dazed as he released her neck to nose under her chin. "Takin' me so well, love."

Sparrow didn't answer. Not properly. Her lips moved, he could feel her throat working, but all that escaped was a soft little whine, her body slowly falling limp beneath his. She barely reacted as he adjusted them—still locked together, and they would be for a while—getting her legs back down and gathering her close in his arms.

His scent clung to her now—not just between her thighs, but everywhere. Her neck. Chest. Stomach, hair, legs, arms… she smelled right again, and he couldn't help the low, rasping purr that rumbled through his entire torso and radiated through the nest.

"Mine," he murmured, kissing her forhead. "Such a good girl, Sparrow… best girl. My girl."

She made a small noise. Less of a word, more of a contented little chirp, and he smiled, pressing another kiss to her temple as he shifted, still careful not to move too fast with the knot still locked in tight. Soap's hand slid to her belly—round and flushed and soft, rubbing little circles there with the pads of his fingers.

“You feel full, baby?”

She nodded. Just barely.

He hummed.

“Good. Wanna keep you like this a while.”

Another quiet sound, almost a sleepy “please.”

“Aye,” he whispered. “Figured you might.”

Chapter Text

"She's not even touchin' herself an' she's already fuckin' drippin'. Jesus, bird."

Soap's voice is half-laugh, half-growl from somewhere behind you… but it's Ghost who's got his hands wrapped firm around your hips, dragging you back onto his cock like he's trying to split you in half with the force of his thrusts. You're trying to keep your helpless little mewls contained, your mouth clamped shut tight—

"Feel that?" Gaz murmurs from in front of you, two fingers gently parting your lips as he strokes the pad of your tongue. "Practically gaggin' for it, lads."

Your breath hitches. Not because you're feeling particularly shy—not anymore—but because you're so fucking full. Ghost behind you, grinding deeper with every slap of his hips… Price somewhere to… your left, maybe? You can feel his eyes on you, his hungry gaze watching your chest heave, sweat dripping down your spine, and Kyle teasing your bottom lip with his thumb while your eyes roll.

"That's it, love," Ghost grunts, low and rough as his mask brushes your ear. "Fuckin' cunt's squeezin' me so tight, you'll fuckin' milk me if you don't calm down."

You don't calm down.

You can't. Not with Ghost fucking you like he's trying to imprint your fucking cervix with the blunt head, not with Gaz's length bobbing before your eyes as he brushes the tip against your lips, not with Soap groaning somewhere behind you like he's seconds away from staking his own claim—

Oh god.

There's no way you could take three of them at once.

But the thought…

You moan around Gaz's cock as the salty tip bullies its way over your tongue, swallowing as best you can around the intrusion. The musky tang of his precome practically drips down your throat, and the combination of scent and taste leaves you dizzy with want, need, desperation…

"She likes it," Gaz croons, voice lilting into a tease. "All messy and full and needy. Isn't that right, babe?"

You nod—barely—letting out a muffled yelp as Ghost slams back in, rhythm stuttering as he chases his high. You practically stumble forward from the force, only held by the bruising grip of his gloved hands on your hips.

"Fuckin' hell," Soap mutters, breathless. "She's gone, boys. Pure done in. Look at her eyes—no thoughts left, just cock."

Price finally speaks, low and hoarse like his patience has finally snapped as he steps forward, his commanding presence leaving you shivering as it envelops the room. "She wanted this. Wanted to be made ours. Belong to all of us. Begged for it, promised she could take it all."

A hand winds into your hair, pulling you back until Gaz's cock just barely sits over your tongue, forcing your gaze up into the steady blues of your Captain's. "Isn't that right, little bird?"

You whine deep in your throat. You did. You do. You want nothing more than to belong to them—begged for it, even. Begged to be used, filled, pinned down and pulled apart, made to forget everything but their hands, their voices, the weight of them inside you and around you—

"Eyes on me," Price orders, releasing your hair to grab your throat instead. You didn't realize your gaze drifted until he spoke, and you blink back into focus as Gaz rocks back into your waiting mouth. "That's it. Good girl. I can feel his cock in your throat, little one. Feels so good, doesn't it?"

Your entire body jolts when Ghost shifts his angle ever so slightly—dragging across that spot deep inside that makes your vision white out in pleasure. You keen around Kyle's cock, drool slicking your chin, thighs trembling and cunt dripping as pleasure rolls over you in waves.

"Fuck, she just came again," Ghost mutters, panting harsh against your skin as his movements stutter. "Tight little thing—fuck—"

Gaz swears under his breath. "Price, I swear to god if you don't let me—"

"I will," Price growls, standing to shove his sweats down. "Just want her to know who she belongs to."

You try to respond to Price's words—to tell him yes, you do know who you belong to, it's always been the four of them—but your mouth is full and your brain's gone too soft and stupid from the way Ghost's cock keeps hitting something so devastatingly perfect inside you.

"She wanted this," he'd said.

Fuck, it wasn't just want anymore—you need it.

You need Ghost to slam his cock into you as hard as he can. Need Soap to lap his spend from your hole after he's done. Need Price to keep orchestrating these moments. Need Gaz to keep fucking your mouth with those slow, deliberate rolls.

His thumb strokes the corner of your lips like he's soothing you through it.

"Sweet thing," Gaz chuckles. "Takin' me so well. Takin' all of us so well. Must've been made for it, huh?"

Behind you, Ghost's grip tightens, fingers digging deep bruises into your hips as he ruts harder, sloppier, grunting with every breath. The wet slap of skin on skin is nothing short of obscene, echoing through the room between broken groans and muttered praise.

"Feel that, bird?" Johnny's voice is closer, thick with arousal as his hand lands on your sweaty back, stroking down your spine. "Feel how deep he is? Look's bloody perfect—him breedin' you open, your cunt splittin' around his cock like she's gaggin' for it—"

You jerk at his words, clenching instinctively. Ghost growls.

"Don't start with that," he grits out—but it's barely a warning, more a promise of what's to come. He doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. Just fucks you harder, punishing, relentless, until your thighs start to tremble beneath you.

Gaz pulls out with a soft hiss, stroking himself harder and faster as he watches your spit-slick lips part, chest heaving with each ragged breath as he nears his edge.

"Need her up a bit," Price says, and you almost don't register what he means until hands lift you—strong and sure—to shift you forward. "Let me see that pretty face when she breaks."

Your lips part further on a question—and Price slides home in one easy stroke, groaning as you instinctively latch around his girth.

"Fuckin' hell," Soap whispers, like he's watching an artist compose a masterpiece.

Maybe he is. You're too far gone to tell. Sandwiched between the two strongest men you've ever known, fucked from both ends, moaning around your Captain's cock as your Lieutenant slams into you like his only mission is to fuck the breath from your lungs.

And when you come again—because of course you do—it hits like a tidal wave. Vision swimming, body locking tight, everything clenching as pleasure rips through you. You choke on a gasp, swallowing hard around Price's cock, setting off a chain reaction in seconds.

"Christ," he curses, hips stuttering as he spills down your throat, holding your head in place to ensure you take every last drop. "Good girl. Fuckin' perfect girl."

Ghost follows a moment later with a growl and a brutal thrust, hips jerking as he fills you, practically spilling into your womb.

"Not done with you yet," Ghost grunts in your ear as he pulls out.

And oh, you can't wait.

Chapter Text

He should be dead.

The thought looped over and over in Soap's mind as he slammed the door shut behind them, shoving all of Ghost's towering bulk against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame. Dust drifted through the air as Soap dropped his vest and kit to the ground.

Ghost barely reacted.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't fight.

Didn't even fucking blink.

"You stupid, reckless fucking bastard—" Soap snarled, voice fraying at the edges as he reached up to grip Ghost's shoulders, barely two seconds away from ripping that stupid mask off his stupid head to smack his stupid face before kissing his stupid lips and begging the stupid fucking prick to never scare him like that again—

"I saw an opening," Ghost rasped, low and tired and so completely unremorseful Soap seethed.

"Saw an openin'?! You ran into a fuckin' firestorm with no cover and no backup, Simon—!"

Ghost regarded him calmly. Stood like a statue and just stared, completely unrepentant with that maddening, numb detatchment that made Soap want to shake some bloody sense into his dumb fuckin' arse—

"Thought I could draw fire away from you," he said, entirely too calm and too even for the way Soap's heart hammered in his chest. Like hearing him tell Soap and the others to leave him behind like he meant nothing, like they'd be fine without him, like Soap would be okay without him—

"You weren't gonna come back," Soap hissed the accusation out, gripping the taller man harder. "You told us to leave ye there! You fuckin'—fuck!"

Ghost didn't argue. Didn't offer excuses, either. Just… looked at him. Like he didn't understand what the big deal was. Like he hadn't just waltzed up to death ready to offer it a firm handshake because he wanted to be the bloody hero or some shite—Soap didn't even know what to make of it.

Just that he'd almost lost the other half of his bloody soul. That he'd almost carried the blond man back to rest him in a casket instead of their bed, to have Price hand him Simon's tags with tears in both their gazes and a muttered 'I'm sorry for your loss, John.'

And somehow… that flat look, the neutrality in Simon's eyes—that was worse than the blood still smeared across Johnny's cheek.

"You don't get to do that," he finally said, voice dropping lower. Urgent and dangerous in the same breath. "You don't get to throw yourself away like that."

"I wasn't," Simon murmured. "It just made sense."

Johnny's breath hitched, tears flooding his eyes all over again. "Made sense?!" He scoffed. "D'you hear yourself? Actin' like a fuckin' pawn to be sacrificed?"

"I am your commanding officer," Simon pointed out, and oh Johnny was going to kill Simon himself if he finished that sentence— "and it kept you safe—"

"You don't get to make that call!" Johnny's voice cracked like a whip, raw and frantic and helpless all at once as his hand slipped, clenching into a weak fist to pound against Simon's shoulder instead. "Don't you dare pull rank on me like that—you don't get to bloody decide that your life is worth less than mine! You don't—you don't get to leave me behind!"

That finally made Simon glance away. Johnny's hand slipped lower, fisting the front of his undershirt, hauling Simon closer until their torsos pressed together and Simon had no choice but to take it.

"You don't get to die on me just because you don't think you deserve anything better."

Simon stiffened. His lips parted, but Johnny wasn't about to let him speak. Not after this. Not now. If he heard one more word that sounded like surrender, like some self-sacrificing bullshite that'd make him a bloody martyr or some dumb shite like that, he'd bloody snap.

Instead, he leaned in. Knocked his forehead against the mask, breath coming in ragged pants as he spoke next.

"You belong to me, Simon," Johnny growled. "And I'm not fuckin' lettin' you go."

For a moment, the only sound echoing through the room was their rough, ragged breaths, clashing in the miniscule air between them.

Then Johnny moved.

He caught the side of the mask, dragging it up to bare Simon's mouth as he pulled the blond's head down. Kissed him like he wanted to bite the life back into him, no finnese or kindness. Just teeth, tongue, and fury. Simon grunted into his mouth, startled, hands twitching like he wanted to push Johnny off before Johnny's fingers tangled in the rest of the fabric and ripped the cloth from his face.

A startled noise left Simon, his breath coming sharp and human and bare—lips already swollen from the first impact. Johnny didn't give him time to hide behind words or walls—just grabbed a fistful of his undershirt and dragged Simon forward, all the way to the bed.

"Sit the fuck down," Johnny hissed.

Simon did. Automatically. Arse hitting the mattress, knees spread, chest heaving, eyes wide and vulnerable in the low light. Clearly still trying to process the shift from shouting to this… and if Johnny had to guess, likely still trying to breathe through the ache in his bruised ribs.

Lucky that's all that happened, Johnny thought grimly, towering over him. Not that he was about to make it any better—by the time he was done tonight? Simon wouldn't be walking.

He knew he looked a sight—wild-eyed, rain-soaked mohawk plastered to the shaved sides of his head, blood and dirt streaking his jaw while his fists trembled with the leftover adrenaline he'd been running on.

Christ, he'd crash hard after this.

Not as hard as Simon will…

He'd make sure of that.

Quick as lightning, Johnny's hand flashed out, catching Simon by the throat. Not to choke, not to squeeze—just holding, pressing his thumb against the unsteady flutter of Simon's pulse.

"That," Johnny explained quietly, "is proof you're still fuckin' here. That's mine, Simon. All of this, all of you, is. Every bloody inch. From your daft, brilliant mind all the way down to the soles of your damn feet."

Simon's lips parted, but whatever he meant to say dissolved when Johnny pushed him back to kiss him again. Slower this time, mouths dragging together. Their teeth clicked; Johnny swallowed the small, broken sound that slipped from Simon's throat.

"Christ," Johnny panted against his tongue, "you taste alive. Can't believe I almost lost you. Daft fuckin' cunt. I love you so bloody much it hurts."

Simon's hands finally came up at that, fingers brushing Johnny's sides like he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch. That hesitation—that little flicker of obedience—sent a bolt of heat straight through him.

"Oh, aye, now you remember how t'listen," Johnny's laugh was hoarse and half mad as he climbed onto the bed proper, straddling Simon's thighs and crowding him back until his shoulders hit the mattress. "You wanna play the good soldier now, do ye? After nearly gettin' yerself blown t'bloody bits?"

He caught Simon's chin, forcing him to look up. All that carefully constructed neutrality was gone—replaced instead by something raw and uncertain and hopeful. Near worshipful, too, like Johnny was his god and he was just a filthy sinner.

"Say it," Johnny breathed, mouth brushing the corner of Simon's lips. "Say you're mine."

"Yours," Simon managed, barely audible.

Not good enough. "Louder."

"Yours!"

Johnny kissed him again in reward—messy, open-mouthed, tongues colliding—until both of them gasped for air. He ground down against Simon, the friction rough and mean through their combat trousers, but still enough to make Simon choke on a surprised moan.

"That's right, love," Johnny whispered again, voice gone low and dangerous. "You're mine. I take care of what's mine. I bloody own you, Simon Riley."

He didn't wait. Didn't give Simon a single moment to catch his breath or find his footing—not when every part of Johnny's body drove him to kiss Simon again. Sloppier this time, rough and consuming, all tongue and teeth and desperate need. They both tipped into it like starving men finding an oasis, Simon clutching Johnny's hips as the weight of him bore down harder.

"Christ, listen to you," Johnny raked his teeth along the curve of Simon's jaw, almost hard enough to break the skin. "Fallin' apart under me already. Not even touched you proper yet, love."

Simon whimpered.

And the sound—oh, that sound—shot straight through Johnny's spine. A deep, animalistic spark of possessive heat curled in his belly as he sat up, working at Simon's belt with frantic purpose. Combat clothing scrapped, shifted, torn away until they were both bare, flushed, and sweaty.

Johnny didn't miss the tremble in Simon's hands. Or the way he lifted his hips instinctively. Didn't miss the way those brown eyes fluttered half-lidded, glazed over in pure obedience.

"You want me to stop?" Johnny asked, voice barely a whisper as he paused. One chance. A single out.

Simon swallowed hard.

Then…

Shook his head.

"No. Please."

Please.

Please.

Johnny let out a low, vicious laugh, practically baring his teeth as he grinned at the blond pinned beneath him. "Atta boy."

And fuck, if Simon wasn't a bloody vision like this. Even bloodied and bruised he looked like a god—chest heaving, eyes locked on Johnny as the Scot spat in his hand, waiting for his next orders.

"Look at you," Johnny chuckled, sliding his other hand up Simon's torso, across every scar and scrape like he was mapping it to memory. "Bloody gorgeous mess. All of you mine. Ain't that right, Lieutenant?"

Simon's lips parted. "Yes, sir."

Oh.

Oh.

Johnny froze.

Smirked.

"So you do remember who's in charge," he crooned finally, watching with a wicked heat curling in his gut as Simon's pale skin flushed—cheeks all the way down to his pecs.

Johnny planted a hand on Simon's sternum, right against the frantic drum of his heart as he wrapped a hand around Simon's throbbing cock. Reveled in the whine Simon let down—guttural and nearly broken as his head tipped back and he exposed his damn throat—

Christ, this man was gonna be the death of him.

"Yeah," Johnny snarled, setting a brutal pace as he jerked Simon's cock hard and fast and mean. "Yeah, that's what I fuckin' thought. I own you, Simon. You're mine. You take what I give you, and you don't do dumb shite like that stunt you pulled back there. Got that?"

"Yes—yes, Johnny—" Simon gasped, hips already lifting to chase the painful friction, cock oozing pre like a bloody faucet. "I—I do—!"

"You better."

Johnny kissed him again, teeth sinking into Simon's bottom lip just hard enough to mark. He squeezed Simon's cock as he slowed his pace, pulling another groan from the man beneath him.

"Love you like this," he murmured. "All helpless, needy, mine. Gonna remind you exactly why you obey me, aye?"

He stroked Simon again, this one slow and firm, just to watch Simon buck up under him like he'd been jolted to life. Simon panted through his teeth, helpless groans swallowed down as his hands fisted in the sheets—

"That's it," Johnny murmured, eyes locked on Simon's heaving chest. "That's what I wanna see. None of that dead-eyed martyr shite. I want you here. Want you mine."

Simon moaned.

And Johnny snapped.

He only let go of Simon's cock to shove his thighs further apart, spitting between his legs and over his fingers to work his hole open, fast and dirty. No time for sweet, or slow, or any pretense of real prep or foreplay. Not when Simon trembled beneath him like he wanted to be broken open. Not when he was already halfway bloody there.

"Gonna take you raw," Johnny warned, spitting over his own cock next before giving it a few rough pulls. "Gonna fuck it into you till you remember you're mine."

Simon nodded frantically, clawing at the sheets now as he practically sobbed his response. "Please, sir, please—"

No time for sweet. No time for slow.

Johnny shoved in all at once—a brutal, claiming thrust—and Simon broke.

A hoarse yell tore from his throat as Johnny bottomed out, and fuck, he nearly blew his load right then and there.

"Jesus," Johnny gasped, bracing both hands on Simon's hips. "Fuckin' tighter than a virgin—good thing I'm the only one you're ever takin' up the arse again, aye? This is my hole. My cock. My Lieutenant."

Simon couldn't answer between desperate moans. Just arched up beneath him, every muscle pulled taut, mouth hanging open and eyes wide and wet. Like it hurt and healed all in the same breath—maybe it did.

Johnny didn't stop.

He took the chance to start moving—hard, deep, grinding thrusts that shoved Simon further up the bed with every slam of his hips. No room for escape. No room for doubt. He'd bury himself so deep Simon would feel him for weeks.

"I fuckin' told you," Johnny panted, leaning over him, "I take care of what's mine. And you, Simon—you're mine. You don't get to die on me. You don't get to disappear. You stay. With me. Always."

Finally, Simon's hands managed to find purchase—wrapped around Johnny's arms, fingers digging in like claws as he held on for dear bloody life. "I'm here," he mewled. "I'm—I'm here, Johnny, I'm not—fuck—"

"You better be."

Johnny drove in harder, dragging a sob from Simon's throat with each shove forward.

"Take it," he snarled. "Take all of it. I don't care how fuckin' hollow you feel—I'll fill you up till there's no room for any bullshite in you, just me. Just us. You're my everything, Simon. Fuckin' everything."

Simon choked on another moan, entire body trembling.

"Say it!" Johnny barked, desperate as tears gathered in his own eyes. "Daft fuckin' prick—say it!"

"I'm yours!" Simon howled, head thrown back and sweat soaking the sheets. "I'm yours, Johnny—only yours, always yours—!"

Johnny reached down, wrapping his hand around Simon's cock again, stroking in time with every brutal, messy, uncoordinated thrust—

—and Simon shattered.

He came with a strangled cry. Back arched, legs locked around Johnny's waist like he could somehow draw him in deeper, cock pulsing between them and spilling hot and wet over their stomachs—

"Fuck, that's it," Johnny grunted, his thrusts losing all semblance of rhythm as he bucked in again and again. "Take me, love—take me, take me—"

Johnny buried himself to the hilt and came with a groan torn from deep in his chest, shaking uncontrollably as he pitched forward to cage Simon beneath him. His hips twitched as he ground in, fucking every last drop into the blond's hole as they both panted out rough, exhausted breaths.

For a long moment, the world went quiet. Still.

Just their breaths.

Just their heartbeats.

Just them.

"You're mine," Johnny whispered one last time. "I'm not losin' you, Simon. I can't, okay? I… fuck, I don't know what I'd do without you."

Simon let out a broken little noise—half-sob, half-laugh—and turned his face just enough to press his lips to Johnny's cheek.

"I'm here," Simon whispered, and oh, Johnny believed it. Felt it in his heart, in his head, in every fiber of his being— "I swear it, Johnny. I'm not goin' anywhere."

Chapter Text

"Lie back."

You do before the words even register. There's no need to think about it or question—not really. His voice is too calm, too steady, too final to be disobeyed even if you wanted to. There's no edge to it, no impatience, no force… just that quiet certainty that wraps around you like a shield before settling beneath your skin. It makes you feel safe. Small.

Kept.

The mat beneath you is thick, specifically picked out for this with its professional-grade foam and canvas top. Honestly, it reminds you of a nicer version of the ones you use for close-quarters drills, but instead of sweaty musty crustiness, this one gives slightly under your weight like it was designed to cradle you close. A sigh escapes as you let yourself sink down, before your arms lift above your head.

"Good girl, Sparrow."

He's already moving, the pads of his fingers brushing your wrists before snapping the padded cuffs around them, adjusting the buckles with quiet efficiency. It's not sensual yet, more measured, but even so you have to hold your breath as you try not to squirm.

Not that he doesn't catch it.

"Too tight, little love?" Price asks, his steady blue gaze landing on yours and practically pinning you in place.

You shake your head before you can catch yourself. "No, they're okay. It feels good."

"Say it properly, then."

You swallow hard, a flush creeping up your cheeks as his voice drops—honey smooth but no less weighted with dominance. "They feel good, Daddy."

Heat coils in your gut as he moves down to your legs, attaching cuffs at each ankle before pressing them into place. You're like a doll beneath his hands, pliant and soft, and by the time he finishes… your skin's prickling with the weight of being so completely, helplessly exposed. Arms above your head, lifting your breasts ever so slightly. Legs bent and parted to reveal the wetness clinging to your folds.

With anyone else, you'd feel vulnerable. Not with Price. No, this is just… you're accessible. Bare. Helpless, sure, but exactly where he wants you—and exactly where you want to be.

You hear the shift of fabric next—his hand scratching through his beard, maybe, or reaching for the next piece, but he doesn't speak. Doesn't rush, either—content to let you relax in the stillness before he continues. It used to make you nervous, being forced to wait. Not knowing what would happen next, not being in control…

…with him, though? There's nothing to fear. No reason to worry, or even think. He'll do it for you, and you'll thank him every damn time.

"I'm gonna blindfold you, love," he rumbles out, leaning over your face. "Red to stop. Yellow to slow down."

It's not a question, but you nod anyway—and the first kiss of silk against your cheek feels like water poured slow from a glass. Cool, smooth, almost slippery as he drags it across your face before draping it over your eyes and across the bridge of your nose. His knuckles graze your ear as he ties it off behind your head—

—and just like that, you're blind.

No light. No form. Just black.

Your heart skips a beat.

Sound sharpens, and your own breathing is suddenly unbearably loud. Your pulse thuds in your ears and throbs in your fingertips as your hands twitch, chest rising and falling with shallow little pants. You trust John—with your life, your body, your heart, everything—that's never been a question, but panic still creeps forward like a panther in the dark, preying on the fact that it's the person you trust above all who's robbed you of one of your senses—

"Easy. I'm here." A hand rests on your belly, right above your diaphragm, and the warm pressure forces a shaky breath from your lips. His lips brush the shell of your ear, breath warm and soft where it kisses your skin. "You just focus on the feeling. That's all I want from you tonight, little one."

You nod.

"No nodding." Price's voice lowers, not quite angry but bordering on cross, certainly. "Say it."

"Yes, Daddy. I'll focus."

"That's my good girl."

His hand brushes against your hair, knuckle dragging gently behind your ear before he pulls away… then silence for several long, long moments before a single touch.

You flinch—not because it hurts, but because it's so soft you almost don't register it. Something brushes the inside of your wrist, a whisper of pressure as it moves down slowly, curving along the underside of your arm like a breath of wind. Teasing. Wandering. Not warm, not cold, just… faint.

You hold perfectly still. Try to chase it with your mind. Trace the shape of it as it flows past your elbow, the crook of your arm, then—

You jump as it brushes your side, tracing up beneath the curve of your breast—so light you barely register it, but enough that you feel your nipples perk up at the sensation before you even realize they've been grazed.

"What is it?" Price's voice cuts through the darkness.

You lick your lips. "Feather," you breathe. "It's… a feather, Daddy."

"Where?"

"My arm. Ribs. My… my chest, Daddy."

The moment the last word leaves your mouth, the feather disappears. You whimper softly, already missing it, but he doesn't speak again. Not before you feel it, and the next touch—

it's cold.

Not just chilly cold, either—it's biting. A sudden, sharp streak across your collarbone that shocks the breath out of you, pulling a gasp from your parted lips as you try to flinch back from the freezing sensation. It melts as it goes, though, there's no relief. Water slicks across your skin, following the press of the ice down the center of your sternum even as you writhe, uncertain if you're trying to pull away or press closer.

It pauses over your belly, crossing a small loop around your navel. That's when you feel it—his hand, anchoring your thigh, holding you still by the weight of his presence alone. You can't see him, or hear anything but your own panting breath, but he's there—studying every reaction.

"What's this one?"

You swallow hard, trembling from the chill and the helplessness. "Ice, Daddy," you manage. "It's… it's ice."

"Mhm. Where?"

Your lips part. You're trying to remember—to focus like he told you— "Collarbone. My… my belly. It's—cold, fuck—"

"Good girl."

Those two words strike like a match to the tension in your gut. You whimper, small and cracked at the edges, body throbbing with need as he pulls away. You're already soaked, a warm slickness spreading between your thighs, clinging to your folds, catching cool air as it drips down to the mat beneath you…

but you're left in silence again. You don't even realize your hips are rocking slightly, seeking friction as you hump at the air until his hand slides up and stills them with one firm press, just above your mound.

"No."

That one word is enough to stop you cold.

"You'll wait," Price murmurs, the edge of command back in his voice now. "You'll take what I give you, and not a drop more. Is that clear?"

"Y-yes, Daddy."

A moment of quiet passes.

Then heat.

It almost doesn't register—too subtle with the slow rise of warmth near your ribs, the way the air seems thicker, almost. But then the first drop lands on your stomach—

—and you scream.

Not out of pain, not really—more because of the sheer shock of it. The contrast of hot wax after the chill of ice feels like fire—not dangerous, but scalding enough to force your back into a helpless arch as you yank at the cuffs, eyes wide and wet behind the mask.

Another few drops land over your nipples and the curve of your breasts. Then over your hipbone. Your shaved mound—is this why he asked you to shave last night?—and then over your thighs in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

There's a noise coming from somewhere. A low, desperate, keening moan.

It takes a few seconds before it registers—it's coming from you.

"What is it, love?" Price asks, his hand coasting just along the inside of your thigh, artfully avoiding the place you need him the most. "Tell me."

"Wax!" You gasp. "Hot wax, Daddy—it's… fuck, it's on my stomach, my chest, m-my legs—!"

"Attagirl."

You shake, from your head to your toes. From the pressure, the temperature, the trust… it's not just stimulation, it's the lack of it. The not knowing what'll come next after everything you rely on has been stripped back until all that's left is your body and him.

You're wrecked.

And he hasn't even touched your cunt yet.

Time… time turns strange. You don't know how long you lie there, wax cooling against your skin and cracking with your helpless breaths. It's armor and decor all at once, like he's painted you with heat to claim every inch he's touched. It's enough that you're floating, lightheaded—so wet you can feel it pool beneath you as your thighs shake—

Then you hear it.

A faint, mechanical hum. One you know all too well.

Your body tenses and your hips twitch, cunt clenching around nothing, aching at the mere suggestion of it.

He chuckles softly—low and proud and so fucking smug.

“Recognize that sound, little one?”

Your mouth goes dry. “Yes, Daddy,” you breathe.

You don’t get it yet. You know you don’t. Because he’s not cruel, not in the way others might be. But he is methodical. He’ll build you up and keep you there, trembling on the edge until you’ve earned every second of what comes next.

The hum gets closer.

You feel the vibration through the air before you feel it on your skin—static building around your knees, the inside of your thighs, the delicate place where your body wants. Desperately.

It brushes the inside of your left thigh, and you jolt.

Of course, the toy doesn’t stay. Just lingers. Grazes. Price drags it higher, slow and cruel, never pressing. Never landing exactly where you need it. Just enough to make you weep.

Your head tips back as you groan, half-begging already.

“You gonna tell me what I’m using?” he murmurs.

You nod—then flinch. “S-sorry, Daddy—yes. Yes, I will.”

“I’m waiting.”

“V-vibrator,” you stammer. “It’s—fuck—it’s the wand, isn’t it?”

He hums again. You think that’s approval. Maybe. He still doesn’t reward you.

Instead, it coasts to your other thigh. Presses there, right along the crease where your hip meets your leg. Close enough that you feel it through your pelvis. Far enough that it hurts.

You let out a sob.

“What’s wrong, little love?”

“Please,” you gasp. “Please, I—”

“You’re not giving me what I asked for,” he says, still calm. Still composed. “You’re supposed to tell me what it is. And where I’m touching you.”

“I did,” you cry out, voice cracking on a sob.

“You gave me a guess. Not an answer.”

He pulls it away.

“NO—!”

The sound tears out of you like it wasn’t meant to be spoken. Like it belonged in your chest forever. Your body fights the restraints without thinking, every muscle pulling tight in protest. The ache between your legs burns now. Not just arousal. Need. White-hot and unrelenting.

“Try again,” he says, firm but not unkind. “Breathe. Focus. Tell Daddy what it is.”

You gasp like you’ve surfaced from underwater.

“It’s a vibrator, Daddy,” you say again, slower this time but no less shaky. “The wand—the black one with the silicone cover. I—I don’t know where it is now, please—”

A pause.

Then the hum returns.

Not to your thigh this time.

To your cunt.

You scream.

He doesn’t press it flush, not yet. Just lets the edge of it rest over your clit—barely there, featherlight, exactly enough to undo you.

Your body snaps. Every part of you lifts, bows, shakes. You cry out again, this time desperate and broken.

“Where is it now?”

“Clit—Daddy—fuck—it’s—fuck—!”

“Say it properly or I’ll take it away.”

“It's on my clit! Please, Daddy!”

It stops.

You make a wounded noise—like something’s been stolen. Ripped from you. You’re breathing like you’ve been running, mouth open, gasping around dry air and spit, your whole body twitching.

“You don’t get to come,” Price says simply. “Not yet.”

You sob. You don’t care how it sounds. You need him. Need it. Need something.

“Please, Daddy—please—I’ll do anything, I’ll—you can do whatever you want, Daddy, promise, just—please—”

“You’ll wait.”

He leans close again. You feel his breath against your cheek, the vibration of his chest as he speaks.

“You’ll earn it.”

He doesn’t touch you again for a long time.

Maybe it’s only seconds? It could be an hour. You don’t know anymore. There’s nothing to mark time but your own ragged breathing and the frantic thrum of your heart in your ears.

He took the vibrator away. Left you slick and pulsing, body vibrating with its own tension. You ache. You throb. Your clit pulses with every breath you take, every twitch of your thighs. You can feel it—feel yourself dripping. It’s obscene. Messy. You don’t care.

You’d beg. You have begged.

It didn’t matter.

Instead, you stay still. Stay good. Just like he told you. Even as your body begs to move, to squirm, to rut against something—anything—you don’t. You won’t. Not unless he tells you to.

“Look at you,” he murmurs.

You shudder, swallowing back a shy little moan.

“You’re trembling, love. So close to the edge it hurts, doesn’t it?”

You whimper, throat raw. “Yes. Yes, Daddy.”

“But you’re still holding on.”

You nod—and correct yourself immediately. “Yes, Daddy. I’m holding on.”

“Good girl.”

The toy starts again.

You almost sob with relief just at the sound of it. But it doesn’t touch your cunt. Not yet.

It circles your thighs again. Then your belly. You gasp when it brushes the wax, cooled and cracked against your skin, the contrast sending tiny jolts through your nerves. You’d forgotten how sensitive you are everywhere.

But nothing compares to the sensation when it returns to your clit.

He doesn't press. Not fully. Just places it there. Soft. Barely enough to feel at first—but your body reacts like you’ve been set alight.

You cry out. Hips lift. Muscles lock tight as you try to hold yourself back from rocking against it.

“Easy,” Price says. “Keep breathing.”

You try. You really, really do—but it's so hard when your chest keeps seizing up around each breath, gasping like you’re drowning in him, in this.

“You can come,” he says quietly. “When you’re ready. Only then. Not before. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

You’re already gone. The toy vibrates harder now. He presses it in, just slightly. Just enough. Your clit is so swollen, so sensitive, that even that small increase is devastating.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, thumb stroking over your thigh. “Let it take you. Let me take you.”

Your body breaks.

It’s not just your orgasm—it’s everything. Every withheld breath. Every trembling second you were kept waiting. Every ounce of trust you poured into his hands, blind and bound and helpless.

It crests hard and fast—violent almost. You sob through it, loud and broken, hips jerking as you come undone under him, tears spilling behind the blindfold as you cry out again and again. Your cunt clenches so tight it aches, pulsing around emptiness, and still he holds you there. Just long enough. Just right.

The toy stops.

And just like that… his hands are on you immediately. One unbuckles your wrists. The other cups the back of your head. The blindfold slips away and the room swims back into vision—dim, warm, safe. Price’s face fills your view, his expression soft and focused.

“Breathe,” he says again, and this time you do. Sucking in desperate gasps like you've been starved for it, collapsing into him the second you're free to move.

He catches you easily. Pulls you into his lap like you weigh nothing. Wraps your wrists in his palms and kisses your temple as you shake through the aftershocks, rocking you back and forth like a precious toy.

“Good girl. My good girl.”

You whimper. Curl in tighter. You feel ruined. Wrecked. Loved.

“Too much?”

You shake your head, finally letting the tears fall now that it’s over. “No, Daddy,” you whisper. “It was perfect.”

He holds you there as long as it takes for your breathing to slow. For your body to soften against him. For the last tremor to leave your thighs. He doesn't let go, doesn't stop swaying with you, not even as he reaches over to pull a blanket around your shoulders.

Only when you’re calm—really calm—does he speak again.

“You wanna go again sometime, little one?” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your eye to catch a tear.

You can’t help it. You laugh—wrecked and hoarse and blissfully undone.

“Yes,” you whisper. “But not tonight.”

"Perhaps next time we'll try some new toys, hmm?"

Chapter Text

God, he bloody hated these ridiculous military galas.

Not because he couldn't handle them—he could. Fucks sake, if he could get through RTI without cracking, he could handle bloody small talk—make the rounds, smile, shake hands and answer ridiculous, inane questions about his medals and "do you plan on taking over the task force someday?" as if Price were on his death bed—

God. Fucking. Damn.

It wasn't like he couldn't carry himself properly. Could hold his spine straight and his face neutral and let the entire room gawk without giving up a single piece of himself.

He just… didn't like it.

Didn't like the weight of expectation. Hated how donning his dress blues felt more like being a doll for someone to play with—but instead of having his hair pulled and limbs flung around the room like his sisters used to do with theirs, he might as well have been trapped in a display case.

Every inch of Kyle's body dissolved into tailored edges and stiff seams and shine. Collar sitting a little too high on his throat like always, heat trapped under the fabric and the tiny clinkclinkclink of his medals when he dared pull a breath in.

Christ, there wasn't even anything good to get tipsy on. Just flat red wine and barely sparkling champagne. So much for a bloody gala…

Kyle set the glass down as he looked up.

Price stood across the room, standing near… one of the generals, maybe? Their lips moved in some soft conversation, heads tipped together like they didn't want another soul to overhear. He hadn't moved in minutes, Kyle realized—just stood there all statuesque and unreadable, gloves still on and crimson sash running across his chest like a brand.

It was… unfair, for starters. He looked sharp. Untouchable. The epitome of everything events like these asked of them… and so bloody good while doing it.

He wasn't smiling, either. Not really, Kyle noted, not like he did when they were alone and his cheeks would lift to highlight those handsome crows feet framing arctic blue eyes, when his lips would curve beneath the bristles of his beard and he'd let out a low, rumbling chuckle…

Their eyes met like they always did. Like a moth to a flame, though… he couldn't tell who the flame was tonight. Just knew that, the moment Price's brow lifted, he'd been thrown a lifeline.

Kyle let the line of his posture slip ever so slightly, offering a twitch of a nod before he turned and walked towards the doors, not even bothering to see if the captain had tailed him. He knew Price would.

. . . — — — . . .

The corridor was colder. Quieter, too—just the faint hum from the overhead lights accompanied the muted press of music through the doors at his back. Kyle rolled his shoulders, shaking off the feeling of just… too many. Too many people in that room. Too many eyes. Too many expectations as they all celebrated… what, exactly, the fact that they were all half-mad considering their career choices?

Not that he wasn't proud of the work he'd done—the lives he'd saved, the reigns of terror he'd helped end—but… he knew that he wasn't exactly an innocent man. Not anymore.

Out here, at least, he could finally breathe.

Or… well, could've, if he could unbutton this stupid bloody collar—

Kyle exhaled hard through his nose, dragging a gloved hand down his face. The wool scratched faintly against his skin, dabbing at the sweat beading from his brow… his pulse hadn't even slowed yet. For a second, he worried—was he having a panic attack or something? He'd stepped away, no one was watching him—

But that was the kicker, wasn't it? He was still on display. Buttoned up, stiff in the sleves, still vibrating with the weight of the look Price fixed him with from across the room…

Hell, he could feel it still. And with that came… more. The memory of fingertips pressing to the base of his neck, warm breath fluttering across his cheeks as a callused hand cupped his jaw to tip his chin up, slow and deliberate—

Kyle jumped when the door opened, momentarily startled.

He didn't turn to look right away—he knew that gait. The low, solid rhythm of polished boots on tile was more familiar than his own heartbeat at this point.

When he did eventually turn, his eyes first caught on the familiar glint of Price's own medals before tracing the familiar fall of his sash… and then finally—finally—on the man's face.

Christ… it was worse up close.

Well… 'worse' as in much, much better…

Price had trimmed is beard close for the event, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw. Gloves still on, eyes steady and cool yet unwavering as he stepped closer.

Neither spoke.

Kyle swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry as he tried for words—for something clever, or deflecting…

"You followed me," he finally managed.

Price's brow lifted, almost amused. "You left," the captain pointed out.

"Just… needed some air, sir."

"Hm."

Price turned on his heel and strode away. Paused, then beckoned Kyle to follow. "Come on, then. No one's out on the balcony—they're all too busy getting drunk on cheap wine and trying to one-up each other."

Kyle only hesitated for a second before following after his captain, boots quieter on the tile than Price's but no less sure. He caught up just as Price pushed open the heavy side door—likely meant for staff and security instead of guests sneaking away from a gala partly in their honor—and stepped out onto the narrow stone balcony that overlooked the compound's garden.

Cool night air hit his face like a blessing. Kyle sucked it in greedily, reveling in a breath that didn't reek of cologne and champagne and overdone charcuterie boards as the sounds of the event dulled to a faint, distant buzz. Price stood closer to the balustrade, one gloved hand resting against the edge of the stone, the other tucked in his pocket. Just as composed as he'd been inside, except now the line of his shoulders relaxed, too.

Neither broke the silence for a few long moments.

Kyle stepped up beside Price, sleeves brushing. Close enough to bask in the warmth radiating off the older man before he studied him from the corner of his eye.

"You looked good tonight," Price said softly, still staring out over the manicured lawn and stone paths of the garden. "Sharp. All those medals suit you."

He couldn't help the huffed laugh that escaped at Price's words. "Yeah? Felt more like a glass doll in a museum case. Should've grabbed a sign that said look, don't touch."

"Mm." A faint smile ghosted across Price's lips. "Might be a worthwhile investment. Not sure I'd take too kindly to someone touching what's mine."

Heat blossomed in Kyle's chest at the words.

Not sure I'd take too kindly to someone touching what's mine.

Fucking hell. It wasn't the first time Price had said something possessive and hotter than it had any right to be, but…

Kyle spared a glance over his shoulder, staring at the still closed door before his gaze drifted back to Price. Would they…? He wasn't sure he was feeling bold enough to make the first move, but it wasn't likely that anyone would come out here… they were all too busy getting drunk in the ballroom.

But Price turned. Looked at him—properly this time—and oh. The hunger in his gaze…

It made Kyle's lungs stutter.

Was he—

He didn't remember moving, not exactly. Or saying 'fuck it' and throwing all caution to the wind. Just remembered how Price's body met his like it was meant to, how they suddenly pressed chest to chest with hands grasping at stiff fabric and mouths meeting in a kiss that had no room for grace, only heat and need.

It started like breathing—an exhale against an exhale—except Kyle was already gasping, already gripping the front of Price's jacket with both hands like it was the only thing keeping him upright as Price's hands framed his face to hold him steady. The medals between them clinked softly, shifting with every movement as mouths opened and teeth clicked and—

Fuck, it was messy. Desperate. Their noses bumped—not that either seemed to care—and Kyle tilted his head, chasing the kiss deeper, reveling in the wet, hot need after a night spent pretending they weren't hopelessly infatuated with each other.

Plus… the dress uniform looked good on John—highlighting the sharp lines of his shoulders, showing how effortlessly he moved to command an entire room. So bloody sue him—his boyfriend was hot and he deserved to snog the fuck outta him.

John groaned against his lips, hand shifting to cup the back of Kyle's head as Kyle's hands grabbed John's waist and pulled, pulled until there wasn't a sliver of space between them. Let his own palm slide around to John's back, the other gripping his hip hard enough to bruise as they met with a dull, rough grind.

Kyle broke the kiss on a choked gasp, lips slick and swollen. "Fuck, sir—"

"Still need air?" John rasped, pressing his forehead to Kyle's.

"Need you," he managed in reply.

That was all it took.

John kissed him again—deeper, filthier, like he could claim him with his lips alone. One hand stayed One hand stayed cupped behind Kyle’s head while the other slid down the line of his back, gloved fingers trailing the curve of the seam and then lower, lower, until he gripped the swell of Kyle’s arse and dragged him forward again, grinding their hips together with bruising force.

Kyle moaned into his mouth, hips bucking instinctively—god, it was almost too much already. The texture of John's jacket under his palms, the metallic rasp of their medals clinking, the heat trapped between their bodies despite the chill of the night—

"Jesus," Kyle panted, pulling away and resting his forehead against John's cheek, eyes squeezed shut as he fought to catch his breath. "Fucking—this uniform’s going to kill me—"

John chuckled, low and rough, and nipped at the corner of his mouth. "Then let me give you a good reason to wear it again."

Kyle laughed, breathless, but the sound morphed into a whimper when John’s hand slid between them, cupping him over the front of his trousers. His whole body jolted at the contact, hips rocking helplessly into the pressure.

"Sir—fuck—"

"That’s it," John murmured, voice dark and pleased. "Come on, love. Been watchin’ you all bloody night. Walkin’ around like temptation itself, lettin’ every bastard in that room stare at what’s mine."

Kyle whimpered again, trying to shake his head in denial. "Wasn’t—wasn’t tryna—"

"Doesn’t matter." John pressed harder, grinding his palm slow and steady, rhythmic. "You’re here now. With me. Let ‘em wonder where you went."

Kyle’s head dropped to John’s shoulder, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he writhed under the touch, humping into the pressure like he was fucking desperate for it—because he was. God, he’d been hard since they made eye contact across the ballroom and he’d just stood there, pinned in place like a specimen on a board while John dissected him with a glance like only he could do.

John kissed his temple, then his cheekbone. Slid his other hand down to unfasten his own belt, breath hitching just slightly as he did. "Hand in," he muttered, and Kyle barely registered it before gloved fingers were pressing his palm flat against the heat straining inside John’s trousers.

"Oh—fuck—"

"Go on," John rasped, panting a little himself. "Make me feel it."

Kyle moved instinctively, jerking him off through the layers of fabric. They were both too tightly dressed to get any real motion—no room for finesse or even properly wrapping a fist around each other's lengths—but it didn’t matter. It was filthy. Intimate. Their hips ground together like they couldn’t decide whose rhythm to chase, breath catching between every half-kiss, every brush of lips that missed more than they landed.

Kyle’s hand moved harder, hips rocking forward on every stroke as he chased his high. "Need to—fuck, gonna come—"

"Do it," John breathed, fucking into his hand once, twice, then grabbing him again—tight, urgent, clutching him like a beloved doll to keep him close. "Come for me, Sergeant. Right here, in your handsome fuckin' blues—"

Kyle broke.

He choked on the sound, stars flashing behind his eyes as he rutted forward once, twice more, orgasm hitting him so hard it left him swaying on his feet. Hot, sticky release spilled into his boxers, spreading through the fabric in a slow bloom. His knees nearly gave out with the aftershocks wracking through his form.

"Good lad," John whispered, dragging him in for one more kiss—slow, reverent, open-mouthed and messy as Kyle’s hand still gripped him tight.

"I didn’t—" Kyle tried to speak, breath hitching. His head swam—he needed, no, wanted to return the favor— "Didn’t get you—"

"You’re getting there," John growled, dragging Kyle’s hand harder over his cock. "Don’t worry. I’ll catch up."

It didn’t take long. Just a few more strokes—Kyle’s hand inside his jacket now, working fast and filthy while John grunted against his neck—before he was coming too, spilling in his trousers with a muffled groan, biting down on Kyle’s shoulder to muffle the worst of it.

They stood there a long moment, leaning on each other like their bones might collapse. Breathless. Disheveled. Stained.

…and still in their dress blues.

John was the first to break the silence, hand smoothing over Kyle’s back before he shifted to meet Kyle's gaze. "Still hate galas?"

"A little less," Kyle chuckled breathlessly, shaking his head. "Thanks to you."

John huffed. Kissed his hair before smoothing his coat back into place. "Good. Because you’re wearing this again next time."

"You’re buying the dry cleaning."

"I’ll buy you another fucking medal instead, Sergeant. One for services rendered."