You wake up unbearably hot, with a heavy weight crushing your body. You’re groggy, still half-asleep, and your hand wanders up to find the bare, muscular body, thick with curls of black hair, currently spooning you like the world is ending tomorrow.

The previous night comes back to you in a rush.

You, Price, and Gaz had gone out for drinks, had one too many. Fake flirting had turned into lingering looks, and with impaired judgment on all your parts, you’d gone back to Price’s quarters. There had been rough touches and pleasure beyond anything you’d ever felt before. Gaz was a devious man with his tongue, and when Price had crooked his fingers just right, his bristly muttonchops tickling your cheek…

Holy shit, you fucked your captain and sergeant. Your commanding officers.

You look down and recognize the chocolate skin and buzzed black hair of Gaz. You glance up to see Price leaning against the headboard and smoking a cigar. He’s scrounged up his shirt, wrinkled from the previous night’s activities, but no trousers, and he has on the stupid boonie hat, which he didn’t even take off when he was—

“Mornin’, son,” Price grunts in acknowledgment when he sees you stir. You stare up at him wide-eyed, disbelieving.

Gaz whines and burrows his face further against your chest, against the pale twin scars from your top surgery. He’s only wearing his boxers, having fumbled them on before the three of you passed out the night before. “Ohhhh… my head… I’m dying… roses for my funeral, please…”

“You’re just hungover, Gaz,” Price chuckles. “You’re fine.”

Gaz mutters something dark about Price “being a mean old codger” and turns to nuzzle against your neck. “Mm… did you sleep well, baby?”

You swallow hard, still coming to terms with all of this. Yeah, you slept well. Slept like the dead, actually. “I…”

Your voice trails away. Gaz looks up at you, brow furrowing. His face is flushed from the warmth of your skin.