#guyfieriii

[undercoverpena]

Just making sure you never escape this. 🙂🙂🙂

ohhhh, you’re a menace…. but I can be a menace too

javier peña x f!reader

warnings: smut, p in v, office sex, javi being a menace. written on phone so ignore errors. no y/n.

an: smut isn’t my strong suit, so pls be kind.

A hello doesn’t leave his lips, the file room door slamming into place just as his chest collides with your back.

“Put the file down, cariño.”

You’d expected him. Eyes meeting his across the desks, staring him up and down. Tension bubbling, all set to burst. It’s what he gets for wearing a shirt with the top three buttons undone, and it’s what you get for teasing.

Now his hand is sliding up your blouse-covered ribs, spreading across your front, before his fingers rest on the edge of your chin.

You drop the file with a light thud, it meeting the floor as your front is pressed more into the metal shelves, waist meeting a corner of a box.

“Javi, anyone could—”

His palm drops, fingers lightly squeeze your neck, nose roughly pressed against your cheek—lips so tantalising close to his. “You’ll have to be quiet, then.”

You taste the words on his breath before you hear them. The scent of coffee and his last smoke circling you, dancing together with the scent of amber and citrus of his aftershave.

The scent which gravitates to you, usually clinging when his skin is flush with yours—one you struggle to ever want to scrub from your flesh.

“Gonna be a good for me, hermosa?”

His free hand expertly dipping, hovering over the button on your trousers. You can feel how hard he is, almost moaning with him as you shift your hips back.

“Gonna let me fuck you here?”

Your throat dry—sight blurred with intoxicating brown you never wanna be spared from.

“Y-yeah,” you whisper, more hoarse than you mean. “I’ll be good, Javi.”

To your surprise, he smirks—before his lips crash against yours. A groan vibrating through him to you, feeling fabric slide down your thighs, pooling at your feet as he pulls his mouth from yours.

You don’t have long to miss him—

Because then, he snakes his fingers into your underwear, feeling how slick you are from want—your desperation—his moans against your neck.

“Been thinking about me, huh?”

You only think Yes, Javi. Yes. Not willing to give him the satisfaction, the game you both playing having no clear winners. Except for now, a draw in sight—his breath hot on your ear, sliding his fingers in and out, in and out.

“Fuck, hermosa…”

Your whimper, clenching around his fingers. Teeth needing to dig down on your lower lip, nostrils flared—breath hitched. Going from nothing to everything. Your mind emptying, senses close to be ruined each time he circles your throbbing clit.

“Javi.”

It escapes. Flutters through your teeth as he halts, your eyes flipping open—taking in the sea of brown boxes and cramped space.

And then it all happens at once. Belt buckle sounding, fabric falling, as you instinctively bend at the hip—just enough.

Then you feel all of him. Deep. His teeth biting through your blouse onto your shoulder. One of your hands clamped around the metal shelving for support as he sets a brutal pace.

Pounding into you—making the shelve shake and your toes curl as your teeth pierce your lip. You’re briefly aware of the way your skin ripples with each slam of his hips.

Because he’s so deep, all breath and grunts all over your neck. Your fingers knotting into his hair, sweat collecting around your collarbone—

“So good for me, hermosa. So good.”

“Javi, please—more.”

He grins, breath escaping as a laugh against your neck before his fingers bruise your hips—fucking into you, making it hard to choke back a moan, never mind his name.

#javier peña x reader smut #javier peña x reader #javi peña x reader #javi peña x f!reader #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x female reader #javier peña #javi peña #narcos x reader #javier peña smut #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal narcos #pedrostories #guyfieriii #asked and answered

[yeyinde]

My entire FYP is now all John Prince. And if I don’t share it, I will explode.

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMF9P8ETm/

HIS FUCKING SWAGGER MAKES ME WANT TO DIE (what a way to go tho).

his eyes when he smiles!! 😳 omggggggggg.

#saaaaame #my everything is all price rn #im okay just a little obsessed #captain john price #guyfieriii

[oldstateofmind]

Can’t wait for the next chapter! You have me HOOKED!

Hi!

I swear I've been trying to work on the next chapter but I just recently got a new job so everything is been quite erratic. To be really honest, I don't even know if people are still interested in my story, even though I would pretty much like to continue when I find the time.

But thank you for leaving a message, I appreciate it! 💕

#sometimes i talk #guyfieriii

[mehh141]

Professor Price | 1/10

Just my vision on how prof!Price from @guyfieriii’s series would have looked like

#i was kinda blushing while drawing this… #yes I plan to draw 10 drawings of him #yes longer graying hair with some classy hairstyle bc why not #it looks yummy on him #i don’t care that price is canonically 37 #hes 40-45 for me #hes an old sexy man #and that is exactly how i like to draw him #captain john price #captain price #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #john price #john price x reader #professor price #captain john price x reader #modern warfare #task force 141 #call of duty fanart #captain price fanart #barry sloane #barry #love him #mw2022 #call of duty mw2 #mw2 x reader #price x reader

[soapskneebrace]

playing the quiet game

Pairing: Price x f!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: 2.9k Warnings: Dominant/submissive dynamics, established relationship, implied kink pre-negotiation, a LOT of fingering (f!receiving), a lil Price angst Tagging: @dilfconisuer who I teased with this a while back, and fellow Price simps @yeyinde @guyfieriii @alittleposhtoad Author’s Notes: I shit you not, the clock struck midnight January 1st and fireworks started going off in the middle of writing the orgasm. Happy new year! Enjoy the smut.

Now on AO3!

The world is soft and cozy as you come back into it, a little fuzzy from over-washing and dyed in the cool tones of early morning. You’re in that delicious place at the edge of sleep, mind swaying between dreams and reality, body languid and draped on your side across the bed. Touch is the first sense that comes back to you—a warm weight at your back, hips flush with your rear and legs bent along the contours of your own. You shift a little, to give yourself an excuse to settle against it.

“Mm,” John murmurs as he notices you stir, mouth against your neck, nuzzling you slowly with the wiry brush of his facial hair. The hum of his voice is low enough to vibrate between your shoulder blades.

“Mm?” you respond, scent returning next. The new detergent he’s using, gentle and mildly floral, and the fresh pine of the shampoo he washed his hair with last night. The ever-present smokey molasses that’s permanently seeped into his skin. You keep your eyes closed, saving sight for later, imagining that as long as you see nothing, John and the sheets you’re both wrapped up in can be the only thing that exists.

His hand rests on your ribcage, and smooths its way down your hip and thigh. It travels back up again, then retreats—rhythmic, even, fingers dipping and spreading at the curves and valleys of your body. It’s at the same tempo as your breath, which is normalizing as more of your mind picks reality to set up in. You can feel him breathing, too, chest rising and falling against your back, warm exhales fanning across the bare expanse of skin he’s claimed with his mouth and mutton chops.

Down your ribcage, along your hip, and back up. His other arm, you discover as you shift again, is propping him up, forearm wormed into the wedge of empty space between your neck and shoulder and the bed. His knee nudges the back of your thigh.

He paints another soft, prickly kiss on your neck, and rubs his chin and cheek into your jaw. You don’t hide the moan it inspires.

“Keep it down,” he whispers. His hand splays on your thigh. “Thin walls, love.”

You make another noise, lower, somewhere in your throat. His hand is warm on your bare skin, soft and sturdy as it travels along your body, not quite kneading but giving enough pressure to sink in, to meld your flesh like clay with every pass.

“John,” you murmur. “Mm. John…”

“Shh,” he breathes into your ear.

You feel his lips on your neck again, feel his hand divert from its established path to smooth across your belly. The spread of his fingers is wide enough to graze the underside of one breast, and you can’t help the little inhale of anticipation you give. At the same, even rhythm, John drags the flat of his hand down your stomach to its lowest border, and you forget to breathe at all for that little minute before, once again, his touch retreats from whence it came.

His mouth parts on your neck. The hot graze of his tongue meets your skin before the press of his teeth claims the space, and his hand travels just a little lower with the next pass.

Some part of you wonders if you should figure out what John has in mind right now, compare it to what you actually have time for. Off-duty or not, you’re still on base. But then the top of his thigh aligns flush with the back of yours; and you realize, the thought settling into the soft place in your mind between sleep and waking, that he would be doing none of this if he had cause not to. He already knows that you love waking up like this. He knows what circumstances in which he should not wake you up like this. When it comes to you, John Price remains in comfortable, considerate control—and leaves you only with the task of saying yes, please or not now, thank you. He has never asked you to figure out the right place or the right time.

You don’t have to worry about anything. John has already worried about it for you. Your head feels light, airy; you’d think you were slipping back into sleep, if it didn’t suddenly feel like your skin was electrified. It’s a feeling that always comes with letting go and letting him be in charge.

“John,” you murmur again, the breath in your lungs escaping, the sigh mimicking the same one he always draws from you when you finally surrender.

The seal over your skin he has with his lips and teeth gives a sharp pull. “Someday I’ll figure out how to keep you quiet,” he says, low and amused as he disconnects.

The smile that rests against your skin sends sparks dancing across your scalp.

“Don’t stop,” you say, the quiet tone of your voice laced with a yearning you can’t conceal. “Please, John…”

His palm crests the jut of your hip and glides back inward, downward, fingertips skimming the crease of your thighs. The nerves there jump to meet him, buzzing suddenly with too much energy for your still half-asleep mind to moderate. He seals his mouth over a new spot on your neck, dragging the flat of his tongue, blistering hot, along your skin.

“You’re going to leave marks,” you breathe.

“The gear covers them up,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety purr. “Be good for me, love.”

Euphoria blooms hot across your face. “Yes, John.”

He growls a little, pleased with you, and his fingers dip into your panties and between your folds.

The jerk your leg gives is involuntary. John curls his leg further inward to meet it, to keep it pushed upward, as the heat of his broad hand cups your sex. You feel the tip of one finger trace along your perineum, and a whimper makes its way out of your throat before his other hand wraps around your jaw, tilts your head backward. His mouth finds your ear, the stubble pricking at delicate cartilage.

“Not going to tell you again,” he murmurs, just a little bit of the Captain leaking into his tone. “Quiet down. Aye?”

A shiver races down your spine, makes a home in your sacrum. You nod, as much as you can in his grip. You understand the shape of his control, the intention of it; he’s not looking for a verbal affirmation, and to give one would incur consequences. You’re not opposed to his consequences—often, they’re as sweet as his rewards. But right now you want to bask in this submission, want to earn what he’s already set on giving you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, tracing your lips with his index finger. His other hand kneads your pussy, that same up-and-down motion that he woke you up with, and his mouth returns to your neck, teeth sinking into another sliver of unmarked skin.

You settle into him, push your pelvis forward just a little, hoping he sees it for the offer it is rather than the demand it could be mistaken for. He chuckles against you, and teases one finger between your labia, brushes your entrance before flicking upward to surprise your clit. It makes your leg jerk again, and John only takes the opportunity to wrap around you more tightly. You feel him then, against your ass, in the cleft of it—he’s hard as iron, and ramrod-erect.

You suck your lips between your teeth, swallow, exhale a shaky breath from your nose. Pleasure radiates from the tips of his fingers, from the flex of his palm, as he traces the outlines of your sex at a pace too leisurely for early-morning sensitivity to handle. But you won’t make a sound. You’re going to be good for him. The ache between your legs begins to throb, and John must feel it, because finally he presses the pads of two fingers against your clit.

Your hips jerk against him. Sound almost makes it out of you. A gasp, a sharp inhale, but you swallow it down, and John smiles against you. He releases his teeth from you, presses a soft kiss beneath your ear, and takes up the same rhythm he’s been maintaining this whole time, a slow, steady caress that you want to whine at. His hand slides down to your throat, dwarfing the breadth of your neck—not squeezing, but monitoring. He’ll be able to feel any noise you make.

“I didn’t say you had to be silent, love,” he murmurs, fingers sliding down from your clit to swirl around your entrance—and squelching loud enough to let you both know that you’re drenched. “You just need to remember who that noise belongs to.”

You gasp when he slides a thick finger into you with not a moment of warning. “You—ah—you have to be specific, John,” you whisper, hyper-aware of your walls fluttering around him as he languidly pumps in and out of you. “I can’t be good for you if I don’t know the rules—ohh.”

He pushes in to the knuckle, curls his finger against the spot that has black spots dancing across your vision. Before they can blend together, overtake you, he withdraws, pulls out to circle your clit again, and you only wonder for a moment if this is the new rhythm before he gives the bundle a hard tap before pushing back in again.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, mouth open on your jaw, slipping a second finger into you. You have to clench your teeth to keep your mewl from becoming a moan. “And I did just wake you up, didn’t I?”

The stretch, the burn of new fullness, steals your ability to respond. The slow thrust of his hand picks up just a little, as if he wants to make it even harder for you to reply, but you’re determined. “Mm, John,” you breathe, “Let me be good for you.”

He goes still for a moment, fingers halting inside you, body tense as a drawn bowstring, and then his hand suddenly tightens around your neck—not cutting off your air, but utterly possessive, and he hooks his knee under yours to spread your thigh outward. Immediately he’s pistoning his fingers into you alarmingly quickly, and you only remember to stifle yourself at the last moment, turning a surprised shriek into a series of quick, high-pitched mewls. He thrusts against you, grinds his cock against your ass.

“You’re always good for me,” he growls into your ear, shoving in to the knuckle, flicking wildly against your g-spot. “Even when you’re not. I don’t fuckin’ deserve you, love, not a single thing you do for me.”

You want to refute him—want to tell him everything you give him is just a return on what he’s given you. But you can’t, and the only reason you can’t is that he’s fucking the breath out of your lungs with nothing but his goddamn fingers, meanwhile his cock tucked against your ass is so hard you can practically feel the throb of blood running through it.

And anyway, he doesn’t want you to tell him. This is no morning confessional, no whispered prayer to absolve his greed for you. He isn’t saying this because he thinks he’s taking advantage of you—it’s just the naked truth of what John believes, laid bare as if in offering. It’s the best way he knows how to tell you he adores you.

He’s explained all of this. You’ve told him he needs therapy. He’s laughed, and he’s agreed.

“Just don’t stop taking any of it,” you whisper, turning your head, finally opening your eyes to see his face, to drink in the muss of warm brown hair and the fray of uncombed beard. A gentle blue gaze, incongruous with the furor of his hand between your legs, meets yours. “Just don’t stop taking me.”

Dark brows draw together, etching a crease into his forehead. That blue becomes electric. “Never,” he growls, and takes your mouth with his.

His hand leaves your throat to join the other, and a third finger enters you as he resumes the massage on your clit that he’d left off. His tongue sweeps along the ridge of your teeth, probes inward to dance along your own, and at the same time he spreads his fingers inside of you, stretching you so far that you don’t think there isn’t a place in you that he isn’t touching. You think he’s filled your entire body with just his fingers, because there isn’t room in you anymore for your lungs to expand beyond shallow, whining breath. Your legs are shaking of their own accord, muscles twitching every time his fingers brush just the right spot on your clit, and you know he’s realized what he’s found when the flicker of his touch does not leave that spot.

You moan, low and breathy, keeping the sound in the back of your throat. You feel nothing but John, know nothing but the warmth of his arms caging you against his body, the searing burn of his fingers stretching you almost as wide as his cock can. His body is moving with yours, his hips pressing yours forward, shoving you farther into his hands and onto his fingers. The sheets are a mess of wrinkles around your moving bodies, and you finally remember your own arms, your own hands as they’re gripping the fabric without your input.

When your touch finds his forearms, when your nails dig into the broad muscle of them, you feel it coming fast. It’s fluttering around his fingers, pulling tight against the muscles in your thighs. Foreshocks have your body undulating against his, and you know, when his fingers thrust deep and stay there, that he can feel it coming, too.

“That’s it love,” he growls into your lips, kissing you between words. Three fingers curl into you, and you wonder if your body can break apart from the pleasure of their simple pressure behind your clit. “You’re being fucking perfect—I can feel it, fuck—come on, you’ve more than earned it, come for me—”

And all it takes for you then is his words, the rasp of his breath against your mouth, for ecstasy to explode in you from the tips of his fingers, pleasure bursting outward in a shockwave that wracks your entire body. Your breath comes short and quick as it takes you, and you whimper John’s name until he kisses you again, saving you from having to control your own volume as you lose control over everything else. He keeps fucking you as you shudder against his body, keeps up the frantic pace of his thrusting hand and the vice-like pressure he has around your clit, sending aftershocks across your body that keep you shaking and near-sobbing against his mouth. He does not let you get away from it, does not let you escape his hands, and does not stop until you go limp and boneless in his arms.

You come back to yourself, eons later, still breathing hard, panting in sync with John. His hold on you has slackened, arms still around you but loose enough that it’s easy—if not prompt, as it still feels like your muscles are jelly—to turn over to face him. He’s gazing at you, as if he wants to drink you in with his eyes alone, and that gaze is heavy-lidded and content. Neither of his hands have gone southward, searching for his cock or his own release. This is not unusual. He’s told you before that he knows he’ll get his eventually. And you know by now, too, that sometimes John finds more satisfaction in your orgasm than his own.

Every sense has come back to you now. His facial hair is softer than it looks, as you cup the side of his face, and the smell of detergent and shampoo is mingled now with the humid weight of the perspiration you two have worked up. The taste of him—you realized belatedly that he must have gotten up and brushed his teeth before this, because it’s lightly minty—is still on your tongue. His breath is heavy, but even and quieter than yours, obscured somewhat by your own pulse thrumming loud in your ears.

But the best experience is the sight of him—painted in the warming tones of a day starting to get on, t-shirt tight across his chest, skin a little flushed and shimmery with moisture. He smiles at you, blue eyes liquid with open affection, as you stroke his mustache. He’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I can’t believe you did that with your fucking fingers,” you laugh.

The smile spreads, creasing at the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad you let me.”

It’s a softness that he always expresses after he’s done anything to you. Whatever he thinks he deserves from you, he never hides his gratitude for what you give him.

When you lean in to kiss him, he meets you halfway. It’s a kiss that he lingers in, lips moving softly against yours as one hand comes to rest lightly on the back of your neck. Your elbows don’t want to prop you up for much longer, though, and you have to break away to lay your head back down.

“Good morning, John,” you say, smiling softly.

He shifts, moves closer, eyes tender as they remain settled on you. “Good morning, love.”

#john price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #john price x you #cod x reader #cod x you #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #cod imagine #mw2 x reader #modern warfare 2 fanfic #mw2 smut #mw2 imagine #mw2 fanfic #price x reader #captain john price #john price #og post #call of duty mwii #cod mwii #cod mw22 #mw2 #mw2 2022 #UGH I fucked up the formatting and I can’t figure out how to fix it #wait nevermind fixed it. tumblr learn to code a website challenge

[outoftheseine]

- CARMEN BERZATTO FIC RECS -

yes chef!

main masterlist

SERIES - MULTI-CHAPTERS

new person, same old mistakes • carmen berzatto x reader

→ by @guyfieriii

make my heart surrender • carmen berzatto x pastry-chef!fem!reader

→ by @nolita-fairytale (this series is 🤌. there is smut, fluff, angst, slight enemies to acquaintances to lovers)

not wrong but not right • carmen berzatto x gn!reader part 2

→ by @aliensupastar (angst, fluff, hurt/comfort)

everything you've come to expect • carmen berzatto x fem!reader

→ by @delicrieux (smut, angst, age gap, i know this will break my heart so good. this series is also 🤌)

golden boy • carmen berzatto x reader part 2 part 3

→ by @neonovember (friends to lovers, angst, miscommunication, smut, fluff)

hurricane • carmen berzatto x fem!reader part 2

→ by @ticktokrobotsnot

all the quiet nights you bear • carmen berzatto x reader

→ by @nyheartbreak

nothing's gonna hurt you baby • carmen berzatto x fem!reader

→ by @preciouslandmermaid (enemies to lovers to exes to friends to lovers (whew) slowburn, smut)

about a girl • carmen berzatto x reader

→ by @emotionoitme (friends with benefits, age gap, smut)

nemesis • carmen berzatto x reader

→ by @astermath (enemies to lovers, angst)

sharpie pens • carmen berzatto x bookstore!reader part 2 part 3

→ by @miss-beep-beep (cursing, fluff)

sweet like you • carmen berzatto x fem!reader part 2

→ by @astermath (very sweet like the title)

ONE-SHOTS

non slip • carmen berzatto x reader

→ by @urfavemcustan (fluff)

painted face • carmen berzatto x fem!oc

→ by @f1nalboys (very angsty, toxic relationship dinamic, vomiting, ptsd)

we should love, not fall in love • carmen berzatto x fem!reader

→ by @thegreatestsandwich (very fluffy)

surprise visitor • carmen berzatto x fem!reader

→ by @carmybears (fluff, a little suggestive)

stay • carmen berzatto x fem!reader

→ by @carmybears (angst, hurt/comfort, panic attacks)

paradise is very fragile • carmen berzatto x fem!reader

→ by @anchoeritic (very fluffy)

cooking up speculations • carmen berzatto x fem!reader

→ by @ticktokrobotsnot (very much jealous!carmy, a little misunderstanding)

dating carmen berzatto • carmen berzatto x reader

→ by @fanboygarcia (sucker for fluffs like this)

syd's jeans • carmen berzatto x fem!reader

→ by @peppermint-toads (friends with benefits, angst)

where there's smoke • carmen berzatto x reader

→ by @thebearer (angst, slightly explicit)

the feeling • carmen berzatto x reader

→ by @thebearer (drunk!reader fluff)

finders keepers • carmen berzatto x fem!reader

→ by @violentdelightsandviolentends (roommates, smut)

carry you away with me • carmen berzatto x fem!reader

→ by @rassvetsky (smut!)

"you are so mean to me" • carmen berzatto x reader

→ by @writers-hes (angst, jealous!carmy, fighting, fluff)

#carmen berzatto #the bear fx #the bear #the bear season 1 #the bear season 2 #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x fem!reader #carmy berzatto #fic recommendation #carmen berzatto x yn #the bear x reader #carmen berzatto x gn!reader #carmen berzatto x oc #the bear hulu #carmy berzatto x you #carmy berzatto x reader

[sprout-fics]

Afterburn

(Everyone x F! Reader)

Rating: M Wordcount: 8k Tags: Aftercare, Post-nut clarity, Praise kink, Taking a bath together, Just 6 dudes taking care of their girl after completely and utterly wrecking her A/N: ...This was supposed to be a drabble. No few regrets. My personal take on the aftermath @yeyinde 's "Body electric". Special thank you to @guyfieriii @moondirti @zwiiicnziiix @ladiilokii and many others

Summary:

It’s over.

The world around you feels dense, cryptic, laden with mysteries and vagueness as you still try to process how you ended up here. Your eyes stare up at the creaking, wooden rafters of the safehouse, vision still swimming, dried tears flaking at the corner of your gaze. Every small motion seems to roil with a discomfort that’s heavy with the aftereffects of pleasure, bleached to the bone and dull, cracking at the edges. Splayed over the table where maps and gear had been hastily shoved aside you can’t deny the chafe, the rawness that manages to soak deep into your veins.

The boys are milling around you, speaking in tired, disbelieving tones at the events of the past few hours, at how you had managed to take them, all of them at once.

It had been a blur, your memories drowning in a cacophony of slickened skin and torrid, whispered praises, or grunted pleasures and hissed curses as they all took as much as they gave. You weren’t sure who’s idea it was at first, but in the course of fucking you, of ruining you, you had surrendered completely to them, let their hands and voices guide you as you floated on an endless sea of sensation and desire. Even as they had drunk their fill of you, of your salted moans and whimpered, pleasured cries, they had been ever attentive, listening to the roll and tide of your ebbing lust, knowing exactly when to push and pull you like the ever-changing undercurrent of the ocean itself.

Now, in the aftermath you feel like you’ve been washed ashore, left there by the churning waves as fluid drips across your skin and clings there like salt.

You don’t survive this long with the 141 without your fair share of injuries. Burns, cuts, and blisters are your war medals, decorating your skin with a silent story of pride. Grenades, IEDs, the ground shattering sensation of a missile launch or the back-kick of a rifle. These things were familiar to you. Not this.

When you blink, it’s to wince at the rough chafe between your legs, the tender touch of a love bite sucked into your throat. You ache all over, and while the afterburn of pleasure still roils low in your stomach, sated and simmering with fading euphoria, the dull, insistent stretch and soreness of handling five men at once feels at once too much, too sharp, too severe.

A whimper bubbles up your throat when you try to shift, try to roll over onto your stomach with your back still braced on the harsh metal table braced against your back. Someone had been kind enough to spread a towel under you, but it’s still not enough to ease the bite of discomfort clinging to you like rose thorns.

The chatter around you ceases instantly at the sound that pours from you when you try to move. The world around you seems more like hazy, indiscernible shapes with how overstimulated your senses are, an abstract of shades and shapes that make little sense to your pleasure-addled brain. Yet even so, it’s Rudy’s face that flickers into your vision, brow still slick with sweat but scrunched with concern.

“Shh.” He hushes you, and his hand is petting your hair from your face and your eyes flutter shut under his touch. “Easy, mi Corazón.”

“How is she?”

The voice is gruff, accented, and the question itself seems more like a demand than a question, spoken with an air of unquestioning authority. Price.

“Tired.” You manage, voice tacky and stick in your dry throat as you swallow and taste bitterness there. “Sore.”

Rudy clucks at you, and the sound feels for all the world like a worried mother hen. His thumb smears a drop of flaking cum against your cheek, and the touch is tender, careful with your over exhausted state.

Except then there’s another touch, one that grasps at your hand and raises it between two calloused palms, bitten with years of duty.

“Ya did good, hen.” Soap coos, and you twist your head to see him, his eyes still glazed over but bright, warm as they regard your lidded gaze. “Did so well for us.”

You can only hum, trying and failing to find the wherewithal inside you to summon a proper response. Soap smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling.

“What do you need, doll?” A different voice asks, and you tilt your head to see Gaz leaning on the table next to you, one hand planted next to your shoulder as he gazes down at you. His head is tilted, eyes tracing over the mess of fluids and grime caked on your skin. There’s something that flickers across his eyes, bitter and almost guilty, and had you not been so spent you would have reached for him, murmured reassurances against the curve of his jaw.

“Water.” You mutter instead, and instantly Gaz is gone from you. Before you can try and follow him with your eyes there’s hands bracing at your shoulders, fingers spreading against your bare skin. The world shifts around you, body bent and raised up to a sitting position.

“Easy, querida.” Alejandro soothes as you let out a little whimper of discomfort when he sits you up. “Con suavidad, mm? Gently now.”

You don’t have the strength to sit up by yourself, choosing to lean heavily on him instead, body slouching and trembling. From what you aren’t sure. You’re bare as the day you were born, and though the safehouse seems a touch chilled by the evening air, the shiver in your limbs runs deeper than that, wear and overspent.

“Soap.” Alejandro speaks, and his voice is muted, quiet so as to not startle you. “A blanket.”

Soap’s footsteps fade just as Gaz draws near once again, wrapping your hands around a canteen even as your grip shakes unsteadily. When he helps you tip the flask, the water soothes mercifully over your chaffed and cracked throat, and you gulp greedily. Yet it’s too much too fast, and it only takes two deep swallows before you cough and splutter, water trickling down the corner of your lips.

“Careful.” Gaz warns, voice low as he hovers in front of you, one hand still engulfing the hand holding the canteen. “Not too fast, doll.”

Yet then you feel him pause, shift and make room for a different figure that presses closer to you, a calloused hand gently gripping your chin and tipping your head back once you’ve caught your breath. When your eyes flutter open once more, it’s to meet the vision of Captain Price, eyes grim as he faces you head on, gaze never wavering.

“How bad?” He asks, and you know that tone, firm and demanding to know what you know, for you to not lie as you convey the depth of your awareness into his.

You swallow.

“I’m fine.” You tell him, and it’s the truth. You feel the ripple of suspense, of apprehension dissipate with a sigh from the men around you, relieved yet still precariously concerned with the sight of you, shivering, exposed, and exhausted from the inside out.

“I’m just…tired.” You emphasize again, incapable of conveying much more. “…and kinda gross.”

Price nods, the motion firm. You can see him digesting the information you’ve given him, letting it simmer and ruminate as he configures his next attack like a battle-hardened soldier.

“Rodolfo.” He states, and you hear the sergeant shift somewhere behind you, standing at attention on instinct at the solid, instructive tone of the captain’s voice. “Is there a bathtub here?”

“Si.”

“Good. Go run a warm bath. Not too hot. Gaz will help.”

“Rog.” Gaz affirms, and when his touch vanishes from you it’s Alejandro who keeps your hands steady, with your shoulder still pressed to his chest and head lolling onto his collarbone. He’s murmuring soft words at you that you hardly hear, fatigue dragging at you insistently like a riptide.

“Soap.” Price summons next, eyes turning to the Scotsman who still hovers close to the three of you with the blanket he’s retrieved. “Think you can find a clean set of clothes and fresh sheets?”

Through your wobbly gaze you see Soap perk up, eyes glinting with the look of a mission driven soldier.

“Aye, cap.” He confirms and takes two large steps before he’s again vanished from your sight.

It’s only once he’s gone that Price turns back to you, his calloused hand cupping your cheek and tilting your head up to face him once again. You whine at that, at the way the motion reminds your body of what’s already there, tender and raw and aching.

“Easy, love.” He gentles you, and his voice rumbles rough in his chest like cigar smoke, smoggy, acrid but warm all the same. “You did so well for us.”

His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, touch firm and insistent despite the little hiss of tenderness you summon in response. Yet then the captain’s eyes soften, drinking in your flushed face and clouded gaze, lips parted under the rough pad of his thumb.

“So well.” He repeats, eyes distant for a moment as they trace over your lips before at last flickering up to your eyes. “Now let us return the favor and take care of you.”

It takes a moment for your hazy thoughts to process his words but when you do, you ease into his touch, breathy exhale spilling across the flat of his palm and eyes rolling shut. With a single, blissful sigh, you surrender once more to these men, let them take care of you in the way only they can, with their soft, firm voices and calloused, tender touches that bouy you as if you're lost at sea.

Then, the soft touch of a fabric as Price helps Alejandro drape the blanket across your form, enveloping you in a soothing warmth. You go limp, more pliant than you already are, leaning into the warm embrace of Alejandro’s form. A single hand comes up to clutch the blanket, velvety and worn under your fingertips.

Price vanishes somewhere beyond you, and Alejandro tucks you further into his side, nose buried in your hair as you shiver against him. Your bare legs dangle from the edge of the table, feet barely skimming the ground. Price’s voice is somewhere nearby, murmuring to someone you can’t see. You think you hear the sound of running water somewhere, but your thoughts feel clouded, hazy and sated with the knowledge that these men are intent on your care as much as your pleasure. For a moment you feel the riptide of fatigue pull at you, lulling you under as sleep beckons with an insistent, raw promise.

Footsteps. A presence, omnipresent and heavy like the force of gravity itself. You don’t open your eyes, don’t need to, already knowing who’s shadow falls across your form.

“Give her here.” Simon asks, demands from the colonel, voice low like the rumble of distant thunder.

You feel Alejandro stiffen, hesitate at the thought of entrusting you to the hulking soldier, remembering the way you went blank-eyed and completely limp under him, under the weight and pressure and force that is Ghost.

“Let him.” Price encourages, voice careful between the two. “I’ll need your help in here, mate.”

That seems to do it, because Alejandro is pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head before he extricates himself from you, steadying you long enough for Simon to catch you by the crook of your knees and width of your shoulders, hauling you up against him. The blanket bunches around your form, legs dangling and head lolling into the breadth of Simon’s chest.

Yet the motion isn’t without punishment, not as you’re shifted and your body protests valiantly at the abruptness of it all. A choked, pleading moan frees itself from your throat as Simon begins to walk away from the common area, strides large and purposeful.

“S-Simon-“ You try, unsure exactly what you’re pleading for but wanting to be closer, huddled deeper into his massive form.

“Easy, love.” He murmurs in response, accent thick and cloying in your thoughts. You settle at that, at the illusive, strangely sympathetic tenor of his voice. You’re too tired to do much else than recline against him with a shivering sigh, limbs aching and caked in grime.

It’s the sound of his boots against tile that rouses you only moments later, the warm steam of the bathroom curling across your skin and licking against clammy, chilled flesh. Ghost hovers just inside the doorway, hands splayed against you as they cup you to his form. You wish you had the forethought to lift your arms, tangle them around his neck, but the thought is gone as another figure hovers at your side.

“I got it from here, LT.”

Simon gruffs a sound of affirmation, and with surprising care dumps you into Gaz’s waiting arms. The blanket wrapped around you gently pulls away, and when you shudder Gaz’s lips are pressed into your temple.

“It’s alright, pretty girl.” He hushes. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

He’s bare, you realize dimly, exposed flesh pressed against you. The thought is strangely mortifying, considering the man has been balls deep in your ass earlier. Yet you don’t realize why he’s naked until he’s stepping into the tub, lowering you down with him into the warm, soothing water.

It takes a few moments for you both to settle, some of the water sloshing out onto the tile with both your forms inside the tub. Yet Gaz’s chest is pressed against your back, legs on either side of you and arms caging yours as you sink lower into the water with a blissful sigh. You feel it when he rumbles a chuckle, a hand vanishing as he reaches for the supplies Rudy no doubt provided him.

You reach for them as well, but your hand is gently knocked aside by the sergeant you’re pressed against.

“Nuh-uh, love.” He chuckles. “This is all me.”

You find it difficult to protest, instead sinking further into the warm water.

He starts by gently pouring water over you, dunking your sweaty, matted hair and loosening the strands carefully with his fingers. The sergeant works systematically, lifting each limb and scrubbing it free of flaky cum and caked sweat, the soft bubbles of soap grazing across your arms and legs. You relax into him completely limp and utterly euphoric. Everything smells like coconut and aloe, aromatic and perfumed and warm as the water laps at your legs and chest.

Gaz takes careful attention to your face, gently cleansing it free of the tear trails and semen caked against your cheeks and the corners of your mouth. He’s murmuring gentle encouragements to you all the while, voice hushed and soft in your ear, full of “There we go, that'sa girl, sit up for me? Thank you, doll. Almost done, back next, shh, easy.”

When he gets to the apex of your thighs however, you flinch at his touch, just barely too firm against your chaffed, stretched holes.

“Take it easy.” A voice gruffs, and you blink your eyes open, vision adjusting to the dusty brown hues of the bathroom, seeking the cockney laden voice.

He’s there, in the corner, arms crossed and lurking, massive frame hunched into the otherwise too small space. Ghost’s eyes level at the both of you, gaze unblinking, blistering as he observes, watches, intent on observing and seeing through whatever mission he’s been tasked with.

Gaz only nods at him, his voice quiet in your ear as he speaks.

“You want to do this?” He asks, tone low, concerned at your reaction. You manage a nod over your shoulder, delicately taking the washcloth from his grip and letting it sink beneath the murky water.

It takes a moment, but you manage to hiss past the pain and arch up to scrub yourself, cleaning the mess of caked fluids that decorate your inner thighs and ass. You can feel Simon’s gaze on you all the while, the way he’s taking in every wince and jolt that flashes across your face.

“Deep breath.” Gaz encourages softly in your ear, and when you oblige there’s a slosh of water pouring over your head and dampening your locks.

You moan when Gaz works his fingers into your hair, massaging shampoo into your scalp and raking his fingers against the crown of your skull. You melt into the touch, all previous indications of soreness vanishing in the instant it takes him to chuckle warmly at your response.

“That’s nice, yeah?” He asks, and you can hear the touch of smugness in his voice, pleased with the way you grow limp and pliant against him, the way your eyes roll back into your head at the gentle, rolling motion of his fingers into your scalp. You can only hum a sleepy “Mmhmm.” In response, blissed out on the sensation.

He’s surprisingly good at this, you find out, making sure to go so far as to condition from the tips of your hair up, carefully combing your hair through his fingers. You relax fully into him, sink yourself up to your nose in the cooling water and let drowsiness take hold. Yet it’s only when you shift that you feel him, feel the hardening nudge at the small of your back that has you stiffening, sucking in a sharp gasp of air.

“Gaz…” You warn, casting a pleading look across your bare shoulder.

You’re not sure if it’s the warm water, the lingering haze of lust, or the blissful, relaxed sounds that spill past your lips, but you can feel him, can feel the blunt pressure of him against the nudge of your spine. It sends a lingering shower of sparks racing through your veins, but the heat of it is dulled, muted by exhaustion. You can’t, not again, not right now.

Gaz seems to read your mind, sees the way your eyes flicker with wariness. His hands still for a moment as he leans, entering your field of view with warm eyes that dance with a touch of mischief below the caramel surface.

“Don’t you worry about me, doll.” He replies softly, but there’s a sultriness there that isn’t fully extinguished. “This is all about you.”

And when his thumbs dig a dull, heavenly touch into the nape of your neck, you find it hard to complain.

All too soon, you hear the bathtub drain gurgle as Gaz pulls the plug, the water receding like the tide gone out to sea.

“They done?” A voice asks from the doorway, and your gaze blinks up to reveal Soap, present with what looks like two changes of clothes in hand.

“Just about.” Gaz replies, and you feel him shift as he detaches himself from you, scooting so he’s halfway out of the tub and can help you wobble your way to a stand to step out onto the cold tile.

Yet at the first step your legs tremble like an unsteady filly, and it takes both Soap and Gaz to steady you, sit you down on the edge of the tub. When you plop down on the edge, however, a remainder of soreness shoots across your hips and up your spine and you’re unable to bite back the moan that escapes you.

Gaz and Soap shoot each other a look, self-satisfied smirks tugging at the corners of each of their mouths.

“Shut up.” You grumble, feeling warmth threaten to flush across your face once more.

They spare you, thankfully, and as Gaz dries himself off it’s Soap who’s drying your hair, wiping the water from your shoulder and back. You trace the planes of his face as he does, watching the way his brow scrunches with concentration, the way his eyes linger over the swell of your tender, bruised breasts and the curve of your hips. The plumpness of his lip is sucked between his teeth, and you can tell he’s restraining himself, trying not to indulge with his touch on you, letting his fingers wander and press and summon whimpered pleas from your bones. His hands are assertive in the way only soldiers are, resolute with duty and yet still somehow gentle, considerate when he grazes over the soreness of you.

You attempt to help, feeling a trembling strength returning to you now that’s your hydrated and clean. Yet Soap merely grumbles at you, refusing to hand over the towel.

“Just sit back, hen.” He tells you, and his voice is firm despite the tenderness there.

You purse your lips at him, feeling a flash of guilt at letting yourself be so completely pampered like this, not allowed to do so much as properly dry yourself. Yet Soap notices, steely blue gaze flickering to yours when he notices your hesitation.

“Lass.” He begins, that cocksure smile tugging at his lips once more. His eyes are sparkling, and you can’t stifle the helpless flop of warmth that pools inside of you at the sight. “You just let us shag you seven ways to Sunday and were bloody perfect for it. Let us spoil you, aye?”

Yet you’re still unsure, and when the Scotsman sees you’re unconvinced he sighs.

“When else are you going to have five burly men at waitin’ on you hand and foot?” He asks almost impatiently, and that thought is intriguing to say the least, enough to make your hand fall limply back to your side.

Soap grins. The warmth thickens.

“That’s a good lass.” He murmurs, and there’s a touch of smugness in his voice, at the way he’s managed to school you into surrendering, letting yourself succumb to his touch once more. Yet that conciliation is enough to get him chattering now, tongue loose as he purrs little praises and encouragements at you all the while.

“So pretty.” He coos as he turns your face up in his palms, towel brushing hair from your brow, as he wrings water from your hair and carefully wipes at your still tender hips and thighs. “Perfect little bonnie for us.”

You’re pliant, docile under his touch, letting him do as he needs to and letting the familiar touch of hebetude pull at your senses. It would be easy to fall asleep right here, to lean against him and let rest take hold of you, drown you as it's meant to. Clean now, warm and undeniably sated, the promise of sleep creeps near with a touch that feels achingly familiar. The temptation is an enticing one, the promise of deep, velvety unconsciousness dragging at you even as Soap reaches for your change of clothes.

“Arms up.” He encourages, and you can’t help the drowsy little grumble that escapes you in protest.

“ ‘m tired, Johnny.” You slur at him, but the sergeant merely tuts at you.

“I know hen. I know. We’re almost done.”

You grumble even as you oblige, lifting your arms up and letting him slide a T-shirt that seems far too large for you over your bare torso. Pants follow, and you have to fumble with the drawstring of the sweatpants to cinch them around your waist so they don’t pool at your hips. Yet it’s the hoodie that Soap slips your arms through that makes you slouch into comfort, hum a note of appreciation at the back of your throat.

“Smells like you.” You mumble, eyes sleepy and warm at your sergeant, and you see Soap melt.

“Only the finest.” He grins back at you, eyes glinting with that tell-tale elation he has whenever he’s got your full attention.

There’s a call from down the hallway that you don’t catch, one that draws Soap’s attention and causes him to turn his head. You follow his gaze at first, but find yourself distracted by the shadowy figure still present in the corner, head tilted as he observes you, watches you watch him. You can see his eyes, see the way they’re slightly narrowed at your slouched form on the edge of the tub. It isn’t clear exactly what Simon is looking for, but he seems to find it nonetheless, gaze darting up from your pebbled nipples to your open, curious expression.

“Think you can stand?” Soap asks you, drawing your attention back to him. You nod, and with his help wobble to your feet, bare soles still sliding across the wet floor.

Yet again, when your legs shake with weakness it’s all you can do to remain standing, hand gripping Soap’s arm with a trembling, unsteady grip. Your gaze flicks upwards, once again finding the skull mask that haunts the edges of the room and the periphery of your thoughts. You don’t make a sound, barely alter your expression, but within moments Ghost is rolling his shoulders to push off from the wall, closing the distance between you both and wrapping an arm around your waist.

He doesn’t say a word as he scoops you up once more, and even Soap seems a bit surprised at the sudden gesture, eyebrows arched as the mammoth soldier cradles you into his broad chest.

“I-“ You try, but when Ghost’s eyes peer down at you your throat feels dry, tongue heavy, and the words are lost.

Soap trails you both as Ghost escorts you back in the direction of Price and the others. As you round the corner your nose instantly fills with the thick, scented spice of garlic and onions, and soon you find Rudy and Alejandro in the kitchen, turned to each other with smirking, tell-tale smiles as they bend over a pan of something that you think smells like heaven.

“Here.”

You turn at the sound of Price’s voice. He’s seated at the head of the table, and the chair creaks as he scoots away from the table, widening an arm in Simon’s direction. Simon follows the order without protest, gently depositing you into Price’s lap even as you whimper at the tender flesh of your ass coming into contact with him.

You should be embarrassed, you think. You should be a little bashful at this circumstance, perched in the lap of your captain who smells like cigar smoke and gun oil, at the way his arm closes around you and keeps you braced against his chest. Yet Price is warm, solid, his grip on you firm and reassuring, so you struggle to find yourself to care.

Price reaches for something on the table, a tube of what looks like ointment. You blink at it for a moment, brow furrowing even as he deposits a liberal smear on his calloused fingertips. When he catches your wary expression he merely huffs, the mutton chops of his beard twitching upward with his smile.

“Ointment.” He explains. “It’ll help with the tenderness.”

You arch an eyebrow at him, surprised but also a touch curious.

“You say that like you’ve been in this situation before, captain.” You remark carefully, but Price merely huffs at you, warm, smoky breath ghosting across the planes of your face.

“Years of experience, love.” Is all he gives you before his hand is snaking under the hem of your shirt, up to the tender, suckled flesh of your breasts. It’s a shock, you flinch under the cold touch of his slickened fingertips. Yet Price’s opposite hand digs into your thigh, steadying, guiding in the way only he is. You arch into him with a little protest as he smears the ointment across the rise of your chest, whimper caught in your throat.

“Easy.” Price gentles when you squirm, and the tickle of his beard whispers over the nape of your neck when he presses a kiss there. “I got you.”

You only nod, eyes scrunched shut and breath stuttering in your chest, hands gripping his arms and head tucked back against his shoulder. Your heart thrums louder, skin burning, yearning for the grip of him but knowing it’s too much, too soon, that you can only sit there and take it as his war-worn hands smooth the cream against your battered flesh.

Yet it’s when his touch vanishes from you, when you sigh that you hear him huff, chest jolting with the motion as you brace against it. Except then he’s shifting, and you feel a hand pull at the hem of the sweatpants you’re wearing -black, you notice- as his fingers descend past them, along your belly and towards the core of you.

“C-captain-!” You shudder when Price smoothes lotion across your folds, and suddenly the world is too hot, too bright, and you’re shivering under his touch, body growing taut. Yet Price’s touch is purely medicinal, purposeful and clinical even as you gasp and writhe weakly against him.

“You can take it.” He encourages, voice grumbling and firm, ever the leader, anchoring you from the discomfort and the rapid, uncertain flutter of your heartbeat.

You try to stay still, you do, but Price’s and feel like a warming brand against your skin, reigniting a coiling flame there, one that you can’t indulge in despite the wish that you could. It’s all you can do to tuck your head back against him, shiver under his hand cupping the core of you, your hands digging into him as you seek gravity. When you whimper, Price’s touch softens, soothing circles into your hips, your thighs, your ribs.

“There we go, love.” He rasps when you sink against him, caressed into docility as you perch on his lap. “That’s a good girl.”

You whimper, and the sound is enough to summon a grumbling groan, caught like the grind of gravel deep in his chest.

“So fuckin’ beautiful.” And it’s Soap’s voice nearby, lilted low with desire as he watches you writhe and whimper on the lap of his captain, eyes scrunched shut and hands clutching at him to ground yourself from Price’s perseverant hand slid under the waistband of your pants. You look at him, gaze half-lidded and hazy, and when you do his eyes flash darkly at you, a curse bitten off in a language you wish you understood. It summons a weak, distant burst of arousal in you, one that has you squirm back against Price, seeking ground on which to retreat.

Yet all you find there is a grunt, a hand digging into your thigh with a warning as you recognize the bulge that presses up against the swell of your ass.

“Careful now.” Price mutters darkly, and you shiver at the desire there, even with his hand flat against the front of you, his beard tickling the nape of your neck as he at last withdraws his hand. “I don’t think you're quite ready for us again, sweetheart.”

For a brief, dizzying moment, you wish you were.

Footsteps, and when you turn your head Alejandro is approaching from the all too distant realm of the kitchen with a plate that has steam curling into delicious, mouth-watering whisps. When you catch his eyes you see him grin, and it feels for all the world like a promise of things to come, blooming like cumulus clouds against a far-off horizon.

“Arroz rojo.” He announces as he sets the plate in front of you, the red rice blooming with the scent of cumin at the back of your throat. “Rudy said you might appreciate something easy on your stomach.”

You twist in Price’s lap towards the direction of the kitchen, catching Rudy’s dark head of hair as he turns to meet your gaze. Contentedness blossoms across his expression, deeply satisfied and almost glowing with the hazy aftereffects of a man completely and utterly sated.

“Let me know if you like it, mi Corazón.” He replies, and his voice is almost shy, a touch bashful despite the fact that he’s the same man who spilled down your throat earlier.

Price’s fingers tap on your thigh, drawing your attention back to him. You crane your head to look at him, and then shiver at the darkness there, restrained but still ominously present.

“You’re going to have to move, love.” He gruffs at you. “Unless you want me to spoil your appetite.”

You gulp.

“Here.” Alejandro offers, arms open. You don’t have a chance to protest before you’re being moved between them, transferred from one set of arms to the other, adjusted until you balance on Alejandro’s lap.

“I-I can feed myself.” You try, feeling the ripe blister of embarrassment creep up your face as Alejandro reaches for the plate before you.

Yet the colonel ignores you, fork clinking as an arm keeps you braced against him, even as you try to appeal to him with half-lidded, weary eyes.

“Can you?” He asks, and that damned smugness that’s present in all of them is there in him too, as his eyes gleam down at you, a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth.

Still, you nod valiantly, grappling the fork away from his hand even as your own grip shakes lightly, spilling grains back onto the plate. When Alejandro chuckles the sound is warm, like the blaze of sun-kissed skin and spices curling on your tongue. His hand engulfs yours, steadies it as you raise the fork to your lips, letting the warm, cloying spices curl across your tongue.

When you give a little hum of enjoyment Alejandro practically purrs in your ear, and you realize that this must be doing something to him. With your tender and sore figure perched in his lap, the object of his desires smelling like musk and aloe and just a touch of him-

“Me estás volviendo loco con esos ruidos.” Alejandro murmurs, and the sound is more of a groan than anything else, spoken into your damp hair, arms hauling you tighter against him as you savor the food, a happy little noise hummed high in your throat. “The sounds you’re making are almost as pretty as you, bonita.”

“I take it that means you like it?” Rudy asks as he sets down a glass of water in front of you beside the plate, and you grin up at him, pleased.

“Mm.” Is all you manage around a mouthful of rice, and you see Rudy’s eyes melt, glaze over at the sight of you, fed and happy and satisfied. His hand flicks out, and you still as he brushes a stray grain from the corner of your mouth, drawing his thumb back to let his tongue run across the tip of his thumb. You still, tracing the motion with your eyes as a different heat flicker within you.

“Agua.” Alejandro encourages, reaching for the glass and tipping it up towards your waiting lips. You follow the command, the motion is easier now than it was before, when you were fresh out of a warzone that left you blistered and bruised but sated.

The two men before you seem entranced by you, damp and warm and docile in Alejandro’s arms. There’s a sense of pride there, you know, something about keeping you warm and fed and clean and protected that makes something primal pace against the confines of their thoughts. It’s the thought that they’ve rendered you to this much, carved gasping, lecherous words into your flesh and pushed you over into the abyss, time and time again, only to haul you back into their waiting arms.

It's not just them. When you cast a glance about there’s chairs pulled up to the table you were defiled upon, the men around you quiet but observant, gazes looking over your slouched, cuddled form with your drowsy, pleased expression and damp hair sticking to the corners of your face. Price, with his smoldering stare like the glowing burn of tobacco; Soap with his bright, keen gaze that glints at you from the distance between; Gaz with his softer, warmer eyes that still hold the hazy dying dusk of desire.

Ghost, who lingers against the wall just beyond. His eyes haven’t left you this entire time. It feels almost wolfish, the way he doesn’t shift, doesn’t blink when you look at him, arms crossed and gaze still dark, hungry for you in a way he doesn’t bother to conceal. You can still feel him, feel the way he split you open and left a piece of himself there, branding you with the heat of him nestled against your womb and his teeth grazing possessively over the underside of your jaw.

Alejandro’s fingers trace there instead, drawing you back to him, and your lips part around another forkful of arroz as he’s murmuring words into your skin that taste like cloves and paprika, aromatic and piquant.

“Wish we could keep you here, carina.” He mutters as you swallow, as his thumb smoothes over the still-trembling hand in his grasp. “We could keep you happy here.”

You are happy. Blissfully so. Despite the tenderness and fatigue, you’re undeniably comfortable, clean, fed, warm, satiated from the attention of the men around you. These men, who you’ve fought beside, who you’ve entrusted your life and body to, the ones who took their own pleasure from you as much as they gave you yours.

Maybe it’s the simmering coolness of your nerves, the way you’re so exposed and vulnerable like this, or the way Rudy’s hand pets your hair, the way Alejandro is murmuring to you, or the way Gaz looks at you with something that feels suddenly like longing-

You feel tears swell against the corner of your eyes, fat and heavy and too hot for your blistered skin. There’s a tightness that clogs your throat when you tilt your head back, trying to keep them from spilling like a cup over filled.

“Hey, hey, hey-“ Rudy coos, and his finger smears the growing wetness from your gaze, clearing it so you see his face flicker into view, brown-eyed gaze tenderly soft and worried at this sudden change in you. “Mi vida, what’s wrong?”

You swallow, and the capsicum taste of cumin lingers there. It does nothing to quell the tightness there, something skin to a sob threatening to bubble up when you speak. It dissolves as a sigh instead, one that falls across Rudy’s fingers cupping your face as you gently shake your head.

“Nothing.” You say, but your voice cracks in betrayal as you try to find the words needed to explain this strangeness in you, overwhelmed and burning at the edges but undeniably happy in a way you’re unfamiliar with. You feel like you’ve been dragged from hypothermia and into a sauna, body and mind reeling at the adjustment but grateful all the same, trying and failing to express the rawness of the sensations that threaten the crux of you.

“I’m just…happy.” You tell him at last-

And begin to cry.

Now they crowd around you, hush you with gentle words even as mortification and contempt flood your veins. When you try and wipe your tears, hide your face as you sniffle, there's a hand that pulls it away, wipes your face. Hands smooth along your shoulders and sides, rubbing gentle reassurances there that echo into the air around you.

“I’m sorry.” You manage between stifled hiccups. “I-it was good, really good, I-I don’t know why-“

“You’re exhausted, love.” And it’s Price who’s talking now. You think it’s his hand that cups your chin, over your quivering lip as you try to contain yourself. “You’re overwhelmed and tired. ‘s not your fault.”

“ ‘M sorry.” You try again, but he merely tuts at you, and there’s hands in your hair and Alejandro’s voice against your shoulders and someone’s holding your hand and rubbing circles into your hips and-

“Don’t you worry about that now.” The captain tells you, and his voice is softer now, almost ginger in the way he’s regarding you, you who’s taken bullet wounds and shrapnel and yet have become undone by the simple, irreplaceable act of being cared for.

You nod, feeling your shuddering gasps begin to wane, the shiver in your limbs subside as they once again drag you ashore, out from the blazing sun and into the cool shade of their embraces.

“Think you can handle a few more bites, Querida?” Alejandro asks, and you nod, let him lift the fork to your mouth even as salt obscures the taste.

“Next time I’ll have you come to the ranch and make you elote e carne asada.” Alejandro rumbles, and you feel the smile of him against your shoulder.

“ ‘Next time’?” Soap chuffs, and that’s enough to draw the attention away from you and to the sergeant, who crosses his arms in Alejandro’s direction. “What makes you think there will be a next time, mate?”

“Yeah.” Gaz chimes in, and he’s leaning forward so one arm rests against the table. “Besides, your ranch? Next time will be back at Beacon base in the UK.”

“You’re both wrong.” Price grumbles, fingers tapping on the width of his arm. “We’re staying in Lancashire at my place.”

“Now hold on, captain-“ Rudy objects. “Do you know how expensive it is across the Atlantic? Tickets these days are-“

They’re bickering, the previous, united camaraderie of soldiers evaporating as they discuss the group’s future endeavors like mapping out battle plans, pinpointing targets and 0600’s and supplies. You don’t bother to listen, not even as Alejandro’s tumbling voice echoes over your head and his arm wraps around your middle in a gesture that seems more possessive than it does stabilizing, the warmth of his hand burrowing against your ribs with nothing but the cotton of your too-large shirt to separate him from your skin.

Full now, belly warm and senses cloudy with contentment, you lean your head back against Alejandro’s shoulder, body slumping as you feel the familiar drag of fatigue wind around you, pulling you downwards. There’s nothing left. You don’t think you could walk even if you wanted to, limbs heavy and immobile. There’s fuzz between your ears, like cotton balls soft to the touch, obscuring sound and sight as the heavy weight of drowsiness washes over you.

“A few more bites, carino.” Rudy encourages, and you whine at him, too far gone to summon a real protest. The sound is enough to make Alejandro brace his head into your shoulder and groan at the little pleading whimper in your voice, too full and tired to bother with much else.

“Chica bonita.” Rudy purrs at you. “Are you tired? Need to sleep?”

You nod up at him, feeling a small flush of self-awareness at how you must look right now, bedraggled and tired and damp, draped in clothes far too big for you, eyes lidded and heavy with the promise of sleep. Yet Rudy’s eyes are affectionate when they catch yours, and you can taste the melted chocolate that oozes from them, dark and sweet.

“Let’s get you tucked in then.” He murmurs, looking over your shoulder at Alejandro. They exchange in Spanish you don’t understand, and it gives you the opportunity you need to let your head drop, eyes fluttering shut even as you’re lifted, moved. The world tilts around you, yet this time it feels less like the daring free fall of a skydive and more like the gentle, reminiscent swing of a hammock on a sunny afternoon, dappled sunlight streaming through a forest canopy. The world is warm, cloaked in color and birdsong, the air around you like a salted ocean breeze that licks at the folds on your clothes and tangles in your hair.

“Shh, shh, gently now.” Soap murmurs, and you can smell him as he helps you down into the bed he’s helped make, military corners tucked in with precision. You sink into it, knowing it’s nothing more than a cot but thankful to the gods to at last be horizontal, laying on your side as a hand lifts your skull to slide a pillow there. You curl in on yourself even as a blanket falls across your form, shivering.

Yet when Soap tries to leave you catch him, fingers tugging on his pants even as he tries to step away.

“It’s cold.” You manage, voice small despite your bold, unspoken request. Little do you know that when you ask like that, when you blink your pretty lashes up at him, nose hidden under the sheets and fingers hooked on his pants leg, that there’s no way he can refuse.

“Steamin’ fuckin’ Jesus.” He breathes, voice thick with wonder. Yet then he’s moving, tugging off his boots with a curse. The cot shakes as he braces on it, shudders when he manages to slip into the sheets next to you. A thick, brawny hand comes up to cup your skull, dragging you into his chest and pressing you there, and when you breathe in it’s him, cedarwood and ashes of the fire, thick and musky across your senses.

When you think it’s finally, blissfully over, however, there’s a hand petting your hair, and a younger, British voice on your other side.

“Room for three?” Gaz asks, and you manage to free a hand enough to wordlessly reach for him, wanting, needing him at your back. It’s not long before he’s settled in as well, spooning you from behind on the bed that is almost definitely too small for three people, two of them being built, sinewy soldiers.

You don’t care. You’re warm on all sides, warm from pleasure and affection and treatment from all of them. It feels like you’re suspended, floating on something beyond yourself, spirit lifting from your corporeal form and into the darkening sky above yet anchored by the touches of the men beside you. You’re too far gone to notice Rudy come, place a kiss atop your hair; to notice Alejandro drape another blanket over you, of Price and Ghost discussing in low tones by the doorway. The others stay, linger, on chairs or nearby. You think you see Rudy and Alejandro on the cot beside yours when your eyes flutter open.

Your vision shifts, gazing over the slope of Soap’s neck to the lit doorway. Ghost mutters something, a goodbye perhaps, and turns.

It’s to be expected. The man is a lone wolf, he works alone. For him to even be here is a miracle, and to have even participated at all a divine sign from the gods themselves. Now, however, he retreats to where he belongs, to the shadows that engulf the breadth of him, the kingdom where he was born and where he shall remain.

“Simon.”

The name escapes before you can stop it, and Ghost freezes, his head jerking upwards as he hesitates, turning to you, hidden within the embraces of his comrades.

You swallow, trying to conjure the spell to keep him here, within arm’s reach, forever now and always.

“Don’t get lost.” You mutter at last, and you think maybe your vision wavers when his shoulders droop, when his eyes blink at you, reflecting light.

His shadow falls across you on his approach, the width of him bulked by the tac gear he still hasn’t entirely gotten rid of. Ghost- Simon- blots light from the doorway like the shadow he is, absorbing brightness and drowning it in the essence of him. A hand reaches, smoothes the hair from your face.

“Never.” He mutters enigmatically, and even so you feel the edges of him splinter, crack like obsidian.

Your eyes flutter shut under his touch, cloak the world in mystic darkness as you surrender to him, to these men, to at last the inexorable, inescapable comfort of them, of sleep.

#cod #mw2 #simon ghost riley #captain john price #johnny soap mactavish #alejandro vargas #rodolfo parra #call of duty modern warfare #kyle gaz garrick #my fic #my writing #reader insert #if you see typos in this no you don't i don't care anymore

[moondirti]

i found this darling little picrew by @hellosunnycore and if it isn’t just the cutest thing i’ve ever seen!!

no pressure tagging some mutuals who’d i’d love to see! @pettyprocrastination @sprout-fics @soapskneebrace @yeyinde @mvtthewmurdvck @charnelhouse @inklore @guyfieriii @vaderstherapist @honeydjarin @haylzcyon & anybody else who’d wanna have a go <3

#i spent all morning on my silly lil character #picrew #tag games #im sure i forgot some people djjddj

[halfmoth-halfman]

nine people i would like to know better <3

thank you so much for the tag @thanksbutno98!!! 💜

last song: clandestina - besomorph

favorite color: lavender

currently watching: one piece live action (netflix) for the tenth time

last movie: ella enchanted

sweet/spicy/savory: spicy!!!!!!

current obsession: baldur's gate, specifically dammon the tiefling blacksmith larian studios won't let me romance

relationship status: in a relationship

last thing you googled: "tomb raider remastered release date switch"

np tags: @guyfieriii, @generalbluebirdphantomc, @waltzthegenderfluidpan, @lovelymaneskindays, @sam-id, @homicidal-slvt, @octopiys, @ramadiiiisme, @queenquazar, @halcyone-of-the-sea

#tag game #tag games

[undercoverpena]

You sexy autumnal bitch ❤️

#rooftops and sharpies #guyfieriii #asked and answered #kind souls

[yeyinde]

I need jealous Simon Riley like I need air in my lungs.

All thanks to you.

Alexa, play “Who is he (and what is he to you)?”

jealous Ghost is phenom. i love toying with the idea that he KNOWS how you feel about him, and is now trying to distance himself from it because not out here, soldier. too dangerous. but then someone (MACTAVISH) comes along as tries to catch the person he's purposefully ignoring and keeping himself away from?? that's illegal. you can't do that. now you forced his hand. look what you made him do. now he's yours. congrats. you really did it to yourself this time, didn't you.

#asks #guyfieriii

[thatone-brightstar]

hi!!! I love your the bear and the fox series I'm OBSESSED!!! can't wait to see how you continue the story. I was wondering, do you have any carmy fic recs to share?

Your question is my command, friend, because I've been WAITING for someone to ask me this so I can spew all my Carmy obsession onto another soul. So sorry it had to be you, but also thank you 🩵

Also FYI, my attention span is very short, so many of these are one shots cause I just like when they get right to the point y'know?

Anyway, here's:

Amy's toe-curling, feet-kicking, silent- screaming list of recs!

(...In no particular order)

PS. Don't hate me if you've already read many of these...

j is for james beard... and for jealousy by @nolita-fairytale (cause she makes me feel thingsss)

Cigarette smoke & Spices by me (Shameless promo)

New Person, Same Old Mistakes by @guyfieriii (you probably read it but 🔥🔥)

Crown of Gold by @hlkwrites (sweet sweet fluff)

On AO3:

Consumé by hustle_rosee

We fell in love on Thursday by somewhatstories

Blossom Dearie by nymphlamp

nothing's gonna hurt you baby by tinybluewitch (who i think is on here as @preciouslandmermaid)

A welcome distraction by BrabraYaga

That is all, thank you for coming to my TedTalk, happy reading!

PS. Please let me know if you've read any as well as your own recs so we can all hiperfixate together!

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto #carmy the bear #carmy x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmy smut #the bear fx #carmen 'carmy' berzatto #carmen berzatto smut #the bear tv

[dotcie]

Thanks for the tags @kastlequill @50cal-fullauto @lunarvicar ❤️‍🔥

Lock screen, home screen, pinterest board, and last listened song

No pressure tags: @siriusleee @guyfieriii @mvtthewmurdvck @salstray :)

#if you saw me posting all my phone screens #no you didn’t

[mehh141]

Im going to hell for this one

Professor Price 2/10

credit to @guyfieriii as usual

#i… im really sorry about this hahahahahaha #the ingame text yeah #the deleted cutscene from mw2 #lmao #captain price #call of duty modern warfare 2 #captain john price #call of duty modern warfare #john price #call of duty #modern warfare #call of duty fanart #task force 141 #captain price fanart #john price x reader #call of duty mw2 #professor price #barry sloane #barry

[soapskneebrace]

in the early morning

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Rating: All Ages Word Count: 1.4k Warnings: none Author's Notes: I am dedicating this specifically to @yeyinde who is so graciously assisting my poor American ass with basic UK knowledge, and to @guyfieriii who I've had so much fun talking about Professor Price with and has thus inspired me to play with my own AU. Thus, I present: Neighbors AU! MASTERLIST Now on Ao3!

You’re about to knock again when your neighbor finally answers the door.

It’s the last place, time, and chore you want to be involved in—nearly 6am, looking to register a noise complaint with a man you’ve never met, shivering in flannel pajamas and bundled into two coats on his stoop.

The landlady Mrs. Walmsley had pitched for your flat hard on the basis of this mystery neighbor being absent for months at a time.

“He’s SAS, dear,” she’d said in that little nasally voice. Her eyes had been excitedly wide behind thick, round glasses. “A captain. They have him going all over the world, so it’ll be quiet as the countryside here at home.”

Evidently not.

The world is still swaying a little, indignant on behalf of your interrupted REM, as the door swings open before your knuckles can connect. Then you’re sure you’ve fallen back to sleep, because in the doorway stands a tall, handsome, shirtless man with a bowl of cereal cupped in one very large hand.

You’re not sure where to look, but your gaze has not waited for your brain’s directive, because you take in a trim, sturdy waist, full pectorals, and thick, strong arms all dusted in a pretty composition of dark hair before thinking to actually look the man in the eye.

Oh. Equally disconcerting. He has a kind, lined face, a dark beard and soft blue eyes that are focused directly on you.

Whatever words you had half-planned to say flee like birds startled away from a park bench. You think, SAS. Captain. Couldn’t Mrs. Walmsley have mentioned even once that he looks like an honest-to-god movie star?

You must look like you’re staring into the headlights of an oncoming car, because the SAS Captain’s dark brows crease in the middle. “You alright, love?”

You blink. “Um.” Goodness, no man’s voice deserved to sound that sultry so early. Or did it sound that way because it’s so early? “I, um.”

He tilts his head, listening. You have to rub your eyes so you can stop looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” you say, noting the dumb, drowsy slur of your thus-unused voice. “I don’t mean to bother you.”

“Not a bother at all,” says the Captain. “What can I do for you?”

This is going somehow far better, and simultaneously much worse, than you could have imagined.

“It’s,” you try, peeking at him as you reluctantly lower your hands from your face, “it’s the telly. Or the music. I—you’ve got something playing, and I don’t mean to be a pest, but it woke me up, and—”

His brows shoot up his forehead, and you can see realization bloom across his expression. “And it’s loud, isn’t it?”

Before you can nod, he steps away from the door, and you can see him retreat into the living area to retrieve a remote. He points it at something, his long, muscled arm outstretched, and the noise, which you had failed to even notice once he’d opened the door, instantly silences.

He comes back to the door. “Better?”

You blink. You try very hard not to stare at his chest, which is pebbling with goosebumps in the morning cold. “Uh—yes, that should be alright. Thank you.”

“No trouble,” says the Captain, stirring his cereal without looking at it, blue eyes once again directly on you. “I’m sorry, didn’t know someone had moved in.”

“Just a month ago,” you admit. And you introduce yourself, because even half-asleep your manners haven’t completely fled you.

The Captain nods. “That explains it. I’ve been out of the country. I’m John Price. You can just call me John.”

Out of the country. SAS. Captain. Strong arms, and soft blue eyes. Suddenly you feel very small, shivering on this man’s—John Price’s—front doorstep, bundled up like you’ve never experienced a cold day in your life, while he stands there half-naked and not even blinking at the bite of 4C.

“Well,” you say, trying to remember how conversation worked, “welcome home?”

John Price smiles at you, then, and you’re struck even in your drowsy state by it. It’s a sad smile trying its best to be happy.

“Thank you,” he says. And by the way he’s looking at you, blue eyes gone even softer than before, you think he’s appreciated your half-hearted pleasantry far more than it deserves.

“Well, um.” You flounder. When you stepped up to the door, your only intention had been to make this as quick as possible, wanting to return to the warmth of your bed underneath six blankets as fast as you could manage.

Now—okay, you still want to get back into bed. But Captain John Price (still shirtless) seems in no rush to hurry you away, and it isn’t every day that a mysterious, dashing soldier trains his attention solely upon you.

The still-asleep part of your brain wonders shamelessly if he’d be as warm as those blankets if you touched his bare skin. You strangle the thought immediately.

“I don’t know if you know Mrs. Walmsley,” you say, “but she had some quite nice things to say about you.”

Captain John Price smiles again, and it’s a little less sad and a little more amused. “Did they have to do specifically with my absence?”

SAS. It’s only six in the morning. The lying part of your brain is still asleep, if it would even be any use here. “It came up? Sorry?”

He doesn’t laugh, but the huff that comes out of him resembles it enough that you know he’s not offended. “Don’t be. Seems like she has trouble keeping the place lived in as it is. Think you’re the first one who’s actually talked to me.”

“That’s a shame!” you say in earnest.

But John Price shrugs. “I can’t imagine they would’ve enjoyed talking to me too much. Career soldiers aren’t all that interesting—I should know, I spend most of my time around them.”

“Well, I think you seem very nice,” you insist, and despite the morning’s rude awakening, you’re being entirely truthful.

John opens his mouth to reply, but a cold wind chooses that exact moment to blow, and you are not able to suppress a full body shiver as it hits. You tug your coats more tightly around your body, tucking your hands into your sleeves.

John frowns. “Not nice enough to send you back inside where it’s warm, clearly.” He sets the cereal bowl out of view and crosses his arms loosely across his bare chest. “Aren’t you freezing?”

“Me?!” you exclaim, astonished, face warming. “You’re wearing less than I am!”

“I’ll be fine,” says John. “I hate to think I’ve kept you out here suffering. Please, I appreciate the conversation, but you don’t need to indulge me.”

But you want to, you find, and very badly. You want to stay in this man’s soft blue gaze, listen to his rumbling voice, even if you stop being able to feel your own body from the cold. There’s something about Captain John Price that’s unusually compelling (helped by the absence of a shirt), and you feel in that moment a little like you’re brushing up against someone more important than someone like you will ever be.

But you recognize a polite dismissal when you hear it, too.

“If anything, I’ve been the one keeping you,” you say, smiling apologetically. “But it’s been very nice to meet you, John.”

He smiles at you again, and it’s the same one from before—sad, trying to be happy. He says your name, and it sounds better than it has ever sounded, wrapped in the rough baritone of his voice. “Pleasure to meet you too. Truly.”

You smile back, and leave his doorstep. You’re not sure now how you’re going to fall back to sleep now.

You’re twisting the handle of your front door when suddenly John calls your name. When you turn to look at him, he’s leaning a little out of his doorway, balancing himself with a hand on the inside of its frame.

“If I ever get to noisy for your liking,” he says, “just knock on the wall, and I’ll bring it down, aye?”

“Okay!” you reply. “And you too, yeah? I don’t want to bother you, either!”

“I don’t imagine you could,” John says, giving you another amused huff, “but sure.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you wave, and escape inside.

#cod x reader #cod mwii #cod fanfic #cod:mw2 #cod imagine #cod mw2 #mw2 fanfic #mw2 imagine #mw2 x reader #cod mw2 fanfic #john price x you #john price x reader #captain john price x you #captain john price x reader #price x reader #og post #neighbors au

[heardchef]

the bear but it's just carmy saying chef requested by @guyfieriii

#sorry this took so long! #thank u for being so patient <3 #the bear #the bear fx #the bear spoilers #the bear hulu #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #jeremy allen white #video