Lok was a barren planet, devoid of any color or life. Acres of deserts with rolling hills, alongside the expansive sulfur pools, littered the planet. It was a desolate planet; anyone forced to stay would be a prisoner to its harsh climate.
You were one of the unlucky ones to be an inhabitant of such a planet.
Your lungs burned as your feet carried you further along the stretch of sand. Your heels kicked up sand behind you, causing occasional trips due to the shoes being unfit for your activity. Despite the feeling of the dust you inhaled making it harder for you to breathe, you continued to run. You just needed to make it up the hill, and then you could finally give your body the chance to rest. Your dark cloak bellowed in the artificial wind you created by your speed, revealing the slivers of the white gown you wore underneath.
You took a few more steps before reaching the very top of the mountain, your legs giving out the moment you stopped moving. Hacking coughs racked your body, your throat scratchy from the energy you spent; the dry air provided no relief to your dry lungs. The dark cloth wrapped around you like a blanket, sticky on your sweaty skin. A thick layer of sand particles coated your eyes, making them water in response. You let your eyes flutter closed for just a moment, bathing you in darkness. You took a couple of heaving breaths, your diaphragm expanding as big as it could to desperately take in any semblance of relief. Once you were able to take smaller breaths without pain (even if they were shaky), your eyes opened once more.
You stared at the disturbed sand that had shifted when you collapsed onto the ground, ruffled around your form. Using all your strength, you forced yourself off the ground. Staggering for a second before fully grounding yourself, you took in the surrounding view. Behind you, you could see the way from which you came. The path you had just taken, but the footsteps were no longer imprinted on the surface. It seemed that despite the hot, dead heat that covered you, a breeze still seemed to flow. You turned away from the monotonous surface to turn to the view over the mountains. Miles beneath the ledge lay nothing but more sand, which was guarded by the shadows of the adjacent mountains. It was a long way down.
You squeezed your hands into fists, your fingernails pinching deep into your delicate flesh. You took a couple more deep breaths while squeezing your eyes shut. You knew what you had to do. You just didn't think that in the moment it would be so difficult to do. Despite months of planning and preparation, nothing could prepare you for the vast darkness that lay beneath you. That you would soon lie with too.
You opened your eyes again, turning them to the sky, and whispered a silent prayer: please give me a sign I'm doing the right thing. And if it is, give me the strength to do it.
Tears pooled at the edge of your lashes. Taking one more large breath, you prepared yourself to take the plunge before a sound drew your attention.
You looked around wildly, eyes scanning the vast range for a sign of life. Nothing was there. Maybe you imagined the sound, as you were unable to recall what it even sounded like.
A frustrated sigh left your lips. You were looking for an excuse to not go through with it, and time was dwindling. You only had a certain amount of time before everyone realized you were gone, and if they had already noticed, surely they would assemble a group to search for you. You had even less time before they found you. You had to get it together and do it soon before—
The feeling was there again.
A slight caress of what felt like fingertips slid down your back, causing the bumps on your skin to rise in suit. You turned around to stare at the land before you, eyes perusing for anything to explain this strange feeling. Nothing but sand filled your view until the smaller sliver of a light tucked behind a mound of sand flashed before you. You narrowed your eyes to get a better glimpse of what it was, and the light wavered. It was metal.
Once more, the tingle of wind gently made its way from your shoulders down to your fingertips, as if to pull you along. You didn't know why, but you let it. You followed the wisp of energy all the way back down the hill that you, just a mere few minutes ago, struggled to hike up. You followed it all the way until you could see what the glimpse of metal was connected to.
In front of you sat a large spaceship that towered above your form. The metal was dusty and worn; the dust from the sand that coated the ship seemed to be doing it a favor: hiding the scraps and dents in its form. The most out-of-place thing was that the ramp at the back of the ship was left wide open. You glanced around; no footprints. The air around you was dead: no sounds had graced your ears. No one was nearby. You weren't sure what someone would be doing all the way out here. You knew of the planet's history, ingrained with the cruelty of pirates and the destruction that they had caused. But that had been so long ago; there was no way that they could still exist here. Right?
You felt it again. The pull, this time in your chest. The pull that was pleading with you to go inside the ship.
And despite your judgement and throwing all caution to the wind, you made your way up the ramp.
Your heels clicked as you slowly made your way across the ramp, echoing against the walls inside the ship. The light from the open ramp flooded inside. There wasn't too much going on inside the ship, and you continued to look for a semblance of ownership.
"Hello," you called out to the empty air. "Is anyone in here?"
You paused, waiting for a response, and were met with silence. Remaining apprehensive, you decided to continue your journey further into the ship. Maybe this was your lucky day. If the ship was truly abandoned, maybe you could use it for your escape. Of course, there was the small issue that you had never actually flown a spaceship before, but how hard can it be? You spent hours having your brother go on and on about them; surely some of that knowledge could come to your aid now. You made your way deeper into the interior when your eyes met a floating capsule just hovering a small distance away from you. You paused, unable to see what was inside the carrier.
Then you felt it again, that strange force washing over you, but this time, it was amplified. That pull that seemed to whisper, move forward. With your mind clouded over with that feeling at the forefront, you slowly crept towards the device. You could barely see the shape of pointed ears peering over the capsule, and when you went to take the next step closer—
A strong force shoved into your chest, pushing you against the firm metal panel behind you. The wind was knocked out of your lungs, rendering you speechless. A distorted voice spoke out, "Get away from it!" His tone was filled with anger, shining through the mechanical hint to it. The action of being shoved against the wall caused the hood of your cloak to fall further down your face, hindering your view of the figure in front of you. The pressure against your chest persisted as he kept his arm firmly against you, pinning you between him and the wall. The pain of his restraint, as well as the extensive exertion of your journey, had made it difficult for you to get even a peep out. The lack of response from you caused him to grab your arm, pulling you towards him before once again slamming you against the wall. A sharp hiss of pain slipped out as your head hit harshly backwards, the edge of a panel causing pain to branch out from the back of your scalp. The sensation of cold metal being thrust into your jaw forced your head to angle upwards. In turn, this moment allowed for your hood to fall further down, exposing your face and part of your hair. You finally were able to get a good look at the figure in front of you. The silver helmet he adorned was mostly dark, with light reflecting from the top. The T-shaped visor was black and devoid of any emotion. However, with how close he was to you, you could see your own reflection staring back at you. Your eyes were wide, lips slightly parted as your chest rose up and down erratically, and you could see what the metal pressed against your jaw was: a blaster. You took in a shaky breath and squeezed your eyes as you leaned back against the wall, trying to put distance between you and the weapon.
"I'm so sorry," you squeaked out. "I didn't realize this ship belonged to anyone; I thought it was abandoned. I don't mean to cause any trouble, I swear." You trembled under his hold, blaster still held steadily against you. You were unsure of what he was thinking. Unsure of whether he even believed you despite telling the truth. You allowed yourself the opportunity to open your eyes, as if looking at him would give you any indication as to what he was thinking. But his helmet masked any emotion he could feel, leaving the pit in your stomach to get deeper.
His tight hold of you lessened, and even after his grasp left your arm, the pain of his hand lingered. He took a step back, creating a small distance between your forms, and holstered the blaster into position securely on his hip. An awkward silence washed over the room, the two of you sizing each other up, waiting for the other to make any sudden movement. The soft coo of the child inside the capsule seemed to break the trance.
The man cocked his head towards the ramp that you had used to let yourself in, "Leave."
You stood there, your back still awkwardly pressed against the sturdy wall behind you. The pulsing of your head caused you to hesitate before you spoke softly, "I cannot."
Silence filled the air once more. Neither of you moved. You stared at the blank expression of his helmet, no longer able to see yourself in the reflection due to the distance between you. You didn't know if that made you feel more or less at ease. It was the man who spoke up first.
"There's something I can help you with?" His tone came off in this harsh, sarcastic way. You could tell he had no true intention of helping you; he merely wanted you off of his ship. Away from his child, you suppose. You hesitated, thinking of the best way to offer your proposal.
"I need safe passage off of this planet." You continued, "You may drop me off at the next planet you visit. I can pay you for your service."
Silence once more. Even without seeing his face, you could tell he was looking you up and down. You, a young lady, were graced with nothing else on you but your lousy brown cloak that covered most of your form. You had no bag, no indication of having anything that could prove that you could pay the man in front of you.
"My price is high."
You stepped forward a bit, revealing a bit more of yourself. You could feel the light against the warm skin of your face. Angling your face towards his masked face, you pleaded, "I can pay it. I may not have the credits now, but as soon as we get to the next planet, I can pay you." You took a deep breath. "I need your help." Your eyes flickered to the open ramp of the ship. "I cannot stay here."
No one spoke for a moment. The pit in your stomach only grew deeper with every passing moment. You couldn't take no as an answer; this was the only way out now. Your body would not be able to pull itself up that mountain again; your other plan was foiled, and if he said no, you would surely be found and punished for your attempted escape. You tightly balled your hands into fists, in a lame attempt to stop the way they violently shook.
The soft sound of the child pulled you away from your frantic thoughts. Before you, the child in its crib sat up taller, allowing you a good look at its form. The green wrinkled skin of his face was softly illuminated by the light that made its way into the ship. His long, pointed ears stood proudly on his round face. And his dark eyes stared right at you. The sound left him once more as he slightly angled his head to get a better look at you.
He turned his head to the Mandalorian before cooing again. Your eyes glanced away from the child to the armored figure, as the two seemed to be having a silent conversation between them. A beat passed. The masked man turned towards you:
"Deal."
He turned quickly, ignoring the shock written across your face, and quickly moved to close the ramp. You stood, still semi-against the wall, watching his movements as the light from the outside slipped away with the shutting of the ramp. His armor was reflected now only by the dim overhead lights, as well as the colorful lights from the buttons and panels scattered across the inside of the ship. Basking in the warm glow from the ship, you could finally take a second to just breathe. The sticky sensation of sweat on your skin felt suffocating with the lousy cloak pressed against it. You shrugged off the cloak, letting it slip off before folding it into your arms. The hairs on your neck were matted by the dense layer of sweat. The feeling of the long sheer veil softly grazed your newly exposed skin along your arms. The white gown cascaded down your body, ruffles disheveled and wrinkled by the movements of the day. You glanced down; the bottom hem of the dress, caked in the dusty sand, contrasted greatly against the clean cloth around your midriff. The slight shimmer of the cloth shone brighter due to the glow of gentle lights around you. You could only imagine how much of the orange dirt had plagued your once brand-new heels beneath your dress. Your hair cascaded down your face, and you could feel the small jewels carefully scattered throughout it as you went to swipe it out of your vision. Your hand traced up the opposite arm towards the area of the man's previous tight hold. A slight wince followed as your fingertips traced the discoloration that had already begun to form.
You were so lost in your own world that the past few moments of silence went unnoticed. However, the discovery of the man's lack of movement caused you to glance up at his previous position.
There he stood, still by the buttons to close the ramp. But his form was trained in your direction, watching your movements for who knows how long. You pulled your arms into yourself, wrapping yourself in a tight hold as if to shrink as small as possible to disappear from his steady gaze. The veil slipped past your shoulders to wrap around the front of your form. The light formed a halo around the shimmering gems that graced the cloth now adorning the front of your form. Your eyes still remained on his unmoving body, and then he quickly turned, making his way to a different part of the ship.
You let go of the breath that you were holding in. Despite your request for his aid, you were unsure of the man. Uncertain of who he was and what business he could possibly have on this dead, barren planet. Worst of all, what could he possibly be doing with the child that sat only a few mere feet away from you?
The child, which had completely slipped your mind, with its rather large eyes, still remained trained on you. You felt that feeling again, the invisible rope that compelled you to move towards the capsule that inhabited the small creature. You blindly followed that feeling until you were just a step away from the child. He craned his neck to look up at you, curious eyes that followed you, waiting for a moment. He cooed once more before raising his tiny arm up towards you.
You hesitated. The man seemed rather upset before when you were near the child, and you had the bruise on your arm to show for it. He was protective of what you assumed to be his son, and the last thing you needed was to make him upset again. At the possible detriment of his taking back his deal and leaving you abandoned on the planet, you wouldn't allow yourself to touch the child in front of you. You whispered softly, "I'm sorry, but I don't think I am allowed to touch you."
The child whined, his arms reaching even further in desperation to get closer to you. He whined louder when a moment passed, and he continued to strain himself to find his way from your remote form. "Okay," you reached your hand out towards him, scared that if he reached any further, he would tip and fall out of his holder. You let your pointed finger slide into his open hand, his hold wrapped around it. The oddly firm grip from the tiny creature took you by surprise. The feeling of his slightly sharp nails grazed softly against the tip of your index finger. This small action placated the creature, and he let out a rather happy coo at the newfound contact between you.
With his grasp still on your finger, you lowered yourself onto your knees to let yourself be at eye level with the child. His eyes never left yours, and you took this opportunity to get a better view of the small creature before you. You had never seen anything quite like him before. The green, wrinkled skin made him seem like he should be older than he truly was. The light from above the two of you allowed you to see the light wisps of hair that sparsely coated his head. Those dark, expansive eyes were actually quite bright in this lighting, as they reflected everything the small child held in its gaze. Right now, you could see yourself in his gaze. And despite your best judgment, you felt slightly embarrassed by your disheveled appearance. With your free hand, you went to swipe away the dirt that had painted across your cheek. Your hair was tousled across the top of your head; the makeup around your eyes was smudged. If only your mother could see you now, the look of disgust she would give you for looking anything less than perfect. The child before watched as you readjusted your appearance, as he reached his other hand out for the cloth that descended down past your head. His small, three-digit claw wrapped around the sheer fabric, and you watched the way he slowly moved it back and forth in his hold. His eyes were trained on the way the light caught the gems carefully sewn into it. He squealed in delight as the light came and went with the smallest movement of his hand. A small laugh slipped past your lips; a small smile bestowed the shape of your lips. Your eyes watched the way his face contorted into one of joy at the simplest pleasure of the veil that brought you so much pain. "Do you like that?"
The child moved his eyes away from the fabric that remained in his sturdy hold. His other hand let go of its grasp on your finger to now reach out to your face. You shifted slightly, allowing his hand to gently touch the tip of your nose. The smile remained graced upon your lips as you watched the way his vast eyes studied the shape of your face.
"We're leaving now."
You jumped back, moving your face away from the child. He let out a disgruntled grunt at the loss of contact with you. You remained seated on the floor, the gown pooling around your form as you looked up at the man with wide eyes. You went to quickly apologize for touching his child, but before you could, he was already gone; you assumed to the cockpit. The child mewled, both arms outstretched to you as he opened and closed his tiny fist in your direction.
"I don't know if I'm allowed to pick you up, honey."
He whined in response and continued his restless movements with his fist. You glanced at the ladder that the armored figure disappeared into. If he truly had a problem with you being near the child, he would have said something. Surely he had to see the child touching your face before. If he had any issue with it, you assumed he would have forbidden you from even being allowed anywhere near the creature. You took one more glance in the direction you last saw the man before scooping the tiny baby into your arms. The child babbled happily in the new position in your grasp. You looked around for a moment, looking for a place to rest so that you could safely take off into the vast space. Due to the lack of seating around you, you finally realized why the man emerged earlier. He was not being kind enough to let you know about takeoff; he was telling you to follow him into the cockpit in the most curt way possible. You slowly raised yourself from the ground, struggling due to the child that was wrapped tightly in your one arm. Once you had gathered your bearings, you made your way up the ladder. The door slid open, the light from the windows momentarily blinding you. Beyond the windows lay the vast terrain that you had crossed just moments ago. And there in the seat right in front of the control panel sat the masked man, who didn't even turn to look at you. You knew that he could hear you, the sliding of the door, and the tapping of your heels on the metal panels beneath you giving your position away. You glanced at the seat on the man's right, seeing a makeshift carrier for the creature. You gently lowered the child into the seat and waited until he was completely nestled into the space before moving to the open seat across from it. The masked man continued to fiddle with the switches and buttons, but it wasn't until the soft click of your seat belt closing that the engine fired to life. He moved the stick directly in front of him, and you could feel the ship's shaky rise off the ground. The ship moved steadily as it ascended further into the sky until the surface became nothing but a distant memory. Once the ship began slowly cruising through space, you truly felt the weight of today hit you.
You were free.
Your eyes felt heavy, and you fought with all your might to not doze off in the seat. A quick washup and some sleep would help you be back in better shape. The man still hadn't spoken to you since you were back on the ground, and you felt your throat tighten up at the thought of being the one to break the silence. You remembered seeing the refresher and a sleeping cot by the ladder, but you didn't want to assume you could just use both without permission. Your father had driven home the idea that you didn't deserve anything unless you were explicitly given permission for it. You stared holes into the back of the helmet, trying to conjure up the courage to ask if it was okay to go, when the man spoke up for you.
"Refreshers downstairs. Sleep in the cot."
With a quick thank-you for the curt statement, you made your way back down the ladder. The first thing you did was wash the grime off your face, using the water to gently remove the buildup. You let the cool water run over your delicate skin, washing away the memories of your expedition. The water dripped slowly from your skin, and you leaned over the sink, resting your forehead on the cool metal surface. Your body felt like dead weight, and it was taking far more energy than it should have to keep your body upright. You removed your head from the surface and stood up straight, expecting to see a mirror in front of you; however, no such thing existed. You guessed it made sense: why would a man who wears a mask require such a thing?
You made your way out of the washroom back into the empty space of the interior of the ship. Your eyes landed on the cloak you left behind amidst the interaction with the child. With a quick swoop, the cloak was back in your arms. You moved back to the small cot tucked into the corner. Before allowing yourself to enter, you peeled the pins that held the veil in place from your hair. Without care, you balled the fabric together, tossing it lazily in the corner. The removal of the gems that decorated it would have to wait until tomorrow. You sat at the edge of the cot before swinging your feet into it, readjusting yourself so that they lay in the deep crevice of the small space. Placing the folded cloak at the opening edge of the cot, you finally let your head rest against the scratchy fabric. The mattress, which was nothing more than a thin cloth, barely provided any comfort from the harsh metal surface beneath it. Despite that, after a few moments of shutting your eyes, sleep had taken over you.
I feel like if Hanahaki disease was real in the House MD universe there’d be a whole episode about them treating a patient with it and they like lie or some shit about not telling so and so about their love or like the person they love is dead or something and so they try to cure them another way and the whole time House is like being a dick as always and making fun of them for it and like haha you won’t tell them you love them loser and then at the end of the episode the person the patient loves comes in at the last minute when the patient is on the brink of death and they confess and so the patient lives and gets a happy ending but then Wilson talks to House and says something like “the lengths people would go to to avoid rejection” and House would respond like “yeah these idiots would risk their lives just to not get their stupid feelings hurt” and then Wilson leaves and literally right after he’s gone House coughs up a few petals and barely reacts and just throws them into the trash or a fireplace or something and walks out into the hallway and the episode ends and it’s literally never brought up again
synopsis you and Jack have always been two peas in a pod, working the ER together, on the field together, no wonder you started to search for those dark eyes and damning smirk. and you thought for a second, just for a second, he might be searching for you too, until you hear the man you're crushing on airing out everything he hates about you
warningstypical medical drama stuff, in-accurate medical terms. miscommunication. angst. insecure reader. language, jack says things he doesn't mean about reader. angry love confession in the rain. this is not proof-read
authornotei really really really loved this idea and tried so hard to do it justice, I hope you like anon. I tried to stay close to the SWAT idea but I'll be honest I know nothing about American army stuff (i'm british) so I sort of set it as much in the Pitt as I could. I also couldn't find ANYTHING for Jack's military background so I made up some SWAT guys
pitt masterlist. another Jack fic!
Just when you thought the rest of your day was going to be boring, Jack Abbot and his crew of SWAT pushed through the ambulance bay doors, yelling off stats, applying pressure where needed and clearing the way around them.
Which was a welcome change from trying to sell Robby your hypothetical first born child in exchange for a lunch break.
“Intubated neck wound, stats are going down. Got a room?” said Jack.
You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”
“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”
“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”
Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.
You were what could be called, a floater.
By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.
“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”
You helped lift him over to the bed.
“Did you intubate him?” you asked,
“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.
You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”
“Shot at.”
“You need to be looked at?”
“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.
“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.
There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.
Jack had.
Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.
“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”
Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.
“You should get that looked at,” you told him.
“I'm fine.”
“No, you're not.”
There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.
“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”
You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.
So, he wasn't in the joking mood.
“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”
You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.
“Demanding,” said Robby.
“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.
Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.
You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”
The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.
“Geez- woah!”
“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.
The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.
“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”
“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”
“I know that but-”
“- this is a transected trachea now-”
There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.
There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.
You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.
It was one of the reasons he always called you in.
“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.
Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”
Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”
“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.
You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.
But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.
Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.
He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.
Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.
“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.
“Don't want the paperwork?”
“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.
“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.
There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.
You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.
And, why.
Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.
He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.
Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.
And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.
Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.
“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.
Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”
She hummed. “Funny.”
“Thank you.”
He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.
They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.
He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.
Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.
“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.
Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”
“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.
Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”
Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.
“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”
“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”
Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.
Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.
“Are you avoiding her, now?”
Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”
“Did she do something?”
“No.”
“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.
Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”
Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”
Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.
“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.
“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.
Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”
“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”
“Jack, c’mon-”
Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.
“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.
Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.
Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.
Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”
Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.
“She’s not it, Robby.”
“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.
“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”
He pressed down against the metal band branding him.
“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.
Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”
Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”
“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.
“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.
But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”
“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”
“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.
Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.
“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”
“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.
In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.
Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.
Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.
You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.
That’s why you felt it plummet.
She’s not it for me.
There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.
But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.
She's brutal.
It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.
You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.
You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.
She's not it for me.
“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”
“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.
Robby gave a nod and left you to it.
Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?
Besides from not being his wife.
The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.
It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.
You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.
You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.
Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.
The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.
You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.
A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.
“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.
When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.
“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)
Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.
And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.
But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.
You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.
“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”
You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”
Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”
“Well, no-”
“Then get your ass over here.”
“Robby-”
“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”
Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.
Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.
You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.
“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.
At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.
“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”
“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.
“Room in trauma one!”
Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.
“You're here,” was all he said.
You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.
Jack didn't like that person.
“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.
“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”
“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.
“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”
“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.
You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.
“What have you got?” he asked.
It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.
“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.
You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”
“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”
“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.
“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.
You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”
“Okay, start an-”
“- start an internal massage-”
You and Jack said at the same time.
Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.
“Pulse?”
“Barely.”
Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”
“I need suction!”
“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.
“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.
Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”
“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.
Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”
Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.
“Clamped,” said Princess.
“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.
There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.
“He's going into V-fib!”
You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”
They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.
“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.
“Charge to thirty! Clear!”
Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.
“There! He's stable!” said Princess.
“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.
“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.
You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.
Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.
When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.
The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.
You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.
“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.
“Thank you.”
He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”
“Yeah.”
“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”
You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”
“What, from the guys?”
You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.
“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”
Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?
“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.
“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”
She's brutal, you know.
You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.
“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.
Heading back in seemed the safer option.
Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”
“- I've been busy-”
“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”
“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”
“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”
“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.
Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”
You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.
“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.
You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.
“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.
“Nothing, nothing.”
Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”
He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?
Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”
“Huh?”
You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”
For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.
But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.
Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”
“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”
He gulped. “I didn't mean-”
“-what, for me to hear it?”
“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.
“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.
“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”
You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”
“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”
You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”
“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.
“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.
Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”
“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”
“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.
You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”
“- I know, I know you do-”
“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.
“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”
“You know what the worst part is?”
Jack shook his head, waiting.
“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”
Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.
It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.
Jack had fucked up.
There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.
He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.
He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.
He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.
“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”
“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”
They'd refused, with good reason.
He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.
It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.
Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.
“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.
He said he was looking for you.
“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”
“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.
Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.
There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.
“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.
Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”
Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.
You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.
“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”
“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.
“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”
You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”
Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”
You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.
He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.
“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.
Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.
“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”
“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.
Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”
He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.
“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.
What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.
He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.
“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.
“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.
“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”
There was a glimpse of a smile.
Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”
An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.
“Sorry,” he uttered.
You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.
It was enough for now.
Your name was called down the corridor.
“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.
“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”
Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.
Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.
“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.
Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”
“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”
Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”
“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”
“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.
Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”
“-Robby-”
“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”
Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.
Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”
A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.
“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.
Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.
Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.
Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.
They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.
They told you not to change.
It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.
Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.
You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.
Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.
“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”
Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.
Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.
It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.
“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.
“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.
The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”
You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”
You put in the orders for stitches.
“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.
“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”
The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.
You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.
Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.
You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”
You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.
“Here, I can-”
His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.
Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.
The tin fell into your hand.
Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”
“Thanks.”
It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.
It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.
“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”
Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”
“It's in the garage.”
“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.
The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.
“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”
“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”
You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.
“You don't have to, Jack.”
“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”
Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.
Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.
“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.
“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.
“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.
Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”
The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.
“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”
The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.
“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”
“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”
“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”
“-so why try?”
“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”
“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”
“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”
To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.
He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.
“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”
“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.
“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”
“Excuse me?”
Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”
You chuckled.
“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”
You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”
He waited, catching his breath, for more.
You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”
Jack nodded, looking down.
The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.
“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”
His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.
“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“And looking to settle down.”
Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”
“Therapy is good,” you said.
Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”
As sorry's went... as love confessions went.
“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.
“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”
You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”
He smirked a little. “No.”
Your heart dropped.
Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”
His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.
You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.
You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.
Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.
You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”
He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.
“Will you let me?” you asked.
“Always,” he promised.
thank you to anon for requesting, and thank you to @oldbaddies and @mafercita101 who wanted to be tagged :)
A novel-length secret relationship story set after season 3, with an original plot, worldbuilding, and fully developed characterisation.
Summary: A risky decision traps an injured Din Djarin with Greef Karga’s adoptive niece for a fifteen-day lockdown, during which something steamy yet short-term evolves in secret. But ending it when the lockdown lifts isn’t as easy as either party thought, and there are many obstacles to navigate when everyday life starts up again.
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Pairing: Din Djarin x OFC!Reader (she’s physically a blank slate but has a canon-compliant background, so she’s you if you were born in the Star Wars Universe)
Word Count: TBC (>100k words in 16 chapters)
Author’s Note: This fic started as a oneshot for @burntheedges’s Roll-A-Trope Writing Challenge in August 2024, but it accidentally turned into a novel – oops! It took me so long to write and edit (21 months!) because I’ve genuinely slaved over it. After I finished the first draft, I took some writing classes, then went back and edited every single word to get it perfect. It’s turned into something I’m really proud of, so I hope you enjoy! As always, concepts and lore are accurately researched to satisfy Star Wars nerds but also referenced/explained to ensure those less familiar with the franchise can enjoy and understand everything, too.
*** FULLY WRITTEN, CHAPTERS RELEASED EVERY THIRD SATURDAY ***
Please feel free to JOIN MY TAG LIST or lmk in the comments if you’d like a tag for this fic only.
Chapter 1: In The Mood For Solitude [AO3]
Chapter 2: Armless, But Never Harmless [AO3]
Chapter 3: Confidential Potential [AO3]
Chapter 4: Built To Uncover Our Guilt [coming 25-Jul-26]
Chapter 5: It’s My Purview To Serve You
Chapter 6: Secret Sex Isn’t Complex
Chapter 7 (part 1): My Undercover Lover
Chapter 7 (part 2): Exceptions and Deceptions
Chapter 8: Keep Going, It’s Mindblowing
Chapter 9: Guess What I Heard, Little Bird
Chapter 10: Encore! So Much More In Store
Chapter 11 (part 1): Don’t Smirk, I Work Here, You Jerk
Pope only gifts you real, legitimately purchased jewelry. Nothing plated. Not even fill. Real, pure shit. And it’s all legitimately purchased, never swiped. Paid for with dirty cash, but there’s always a receipt, he can promise that. Kept in a neat little box next to your jewelry. All of Cath’s shit can end up in an evidence locker tomorrow, not yours. Only the best for Popes baby.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Disgustingly loving sex (sorry). Soft dom!Simon Talks You Through It™️ Creampie. Brief mention of Reader’s insecurities w sex
Note: I’m on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi :-)
Word count: 2.1k
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried before.
You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.
By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.
That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.
And things had only been official for a week.
You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.
He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.
Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move
Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.
You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.
“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.
You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.
“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.
Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.
“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”
He slid deeper for emphasis.
You didn’t.
You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.
“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.
Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.
This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.
Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.
“Better?” The man’s question was simple.
Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.
You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.
Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.
“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”
“I—I know, I just can’t—”
At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.
You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.
“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”
The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.
“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”
“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”
“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”
But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.
Maybe you’d never found that place after all.
This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.
You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.
Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”
“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.
Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.
With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.
You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.
“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”
Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.
It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.
“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.
“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”
Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.
Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.
He still held onto your other hand tight.
Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.
Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:
“Higher.”
“Higher?”
“Um, to the…to the left.”
Simon tilted his hips left.
Yes.
That was just it. So close.
Almost…
Or, maybe…
“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”
Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.
Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…
“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”
The grin above you stretched even wider.
“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.
“Right there.” You nodded furiously.
A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.
“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.
“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”
Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.
The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.
Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.
You realized as much when he whispered it to you.
“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”
Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”
Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.
“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.
“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”
The ones that you’d been with before.
You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.
Simon was back inside you in a blink.
Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.
He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.
Vindicated.
“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”
You nodded in agreement.
You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.
“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”
When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.
And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.
Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.
“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.
His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.
You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”
“Feel good when I hit it?”
“Fucking perfect, Si.”
You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.
“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”
“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”
“Go on then, love.”
And, shortly, you did.
Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.
Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.
It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”
You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.
He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.
Warnings: Virgin Mando, Oral (male receiving), virginity kink?, vaginal sex, Mando is a little submissive, Cum swallowing, Cock Warming
Comments: Reader gets drunk and mouthy. Mando wrestles with his own sense of sexuality and wonders if he can fulfill the desires of his crew member.
Did Mandalorians have sex? Were they allowed, or did that also go against their Creed? They had to, right? How else would they get baby Mandalorians? Except for the entire adopt Foundlings thing.
You look down at the cup that was full just a moment before. Maker, that Bespin Fizz the bartender droid had recommended went down smooth. No sooner had you set the glass down on the scorched and pitted bar top, the metallic non-humanoid came back to refill it again.
Certainly couldn’t complain about the service here in this dusty cantina. It might be because a certain Beskar clad bounty hunter wasn’t death glaring every being within a ten foot radius. Having a Mandalorian hovering over your shoulder certainly put a kibosh on making friends.
Your employer had finally landed on a rock that had a proper mechanic to deal with some of the larger issues that you had been bitching about for months. Things that couldn’t possibly fix with the limited tools carried on the Razor Crest. The crotchety old coot of a Taung had chased you away from his shop, unwilling to let someone else tinker in his space. So you had found yourself here.
Thinking about soap with ace!reader who isn't sex repulsed but certainly isn't interested in being touched down there.
You love johnny, your roomate and maybe–boyfriend, and you love watching him enjoy himself. Mostly that means him spending four hours straight soldering...something, or watching a show with him on the couch.
Sometimes it also means this.
"Fuck— fuck, thank you—" soap whines into your neck, desperately grinding against your thigh on the couch. Absently, you play with the remote for the vibe in his ass, splitting your attention with the movie on screen.
"You're cute like this," you tell him, turning the vibe to the highest setting to watch him gasp and jerk. "Yknow, I saw someone strap a wand to a boot online yesterday. Seems like your kind of thing."
"Mmmhhh!! Please, please– I'd make it if you let me—" soap tries to bargain, fucked out and dizzy at the thought of it. Despite what others may assume, soap is embarrassingly easy to please without taking your clothes off.
He never once pressured you to do anything with him, and it took him months to make the connection between you not wanting "proper" sex to you being ace. Maybe that's why you feel so comfortable now, doing these things with him knowing it's never a precursor for more.
"Yes–! Mhhh yes, thank you, love you–!" Ah. He came.
You leave the vibe on until he starts squirming uncomfortably, only turning it off to laugh "were you serious about the boot? I think you'd look nice on your knees for me."
You laugh again, louder, when soaps hips give an involuntary grind into your thigh.
And you really thought Simon would be a little mean during sex. He had to be a sadist after everything he’s been through.
So, when he’s between your parted thighs, you’re shocked when he speaks to you so softly. Quietly begging in your ear, cock pressed to the hilt, for you to be good for him.
And everytime you let out a whine, fingers tightening at his shoulders because he’s massive and you feel like you’re splitting in two with every thrust; he shushes you. ‘You can take it. Yes—yes you can.’
And when you clench tighter around him because the cadence of his voice licks warmth in your core, he smiles. ‘There you go, baby. Just like that.’
No thoughts just reader being so reluctant to take ghost home...
You've been kinda-maybe-dating for nearly a month now. It's about time you take him to your apartment, you can tell after the third time he asks "where are we going tonight, love?" That he's dissapointed when you say his.
"Do you not trust me?" He finally huffs one day, half-curled into your side while some match neither of you care about plays on screen.
It's not because you don't like him. You care more about ghost than you have any reason to. You're terrified of rejection, but your own fear is hurting both of you anyways. "It's....i trust you, simon."
"Then what, love?" Simon rolls to prop up on his elbows and really look at you.
"It's...i..." you bite the inside of you mouth, twist around your anxiety and spit it out "I still have stuffed animals on my bed!"
Silence. You brace for the mocking laughter that you always hear.
Feeling ghost slip off the bed hurts more than you want to admit. You blink up at the ceiling and try not to cry. It's fine. He can think you're stupid and childish, you don't care, you still love him and—
"Here. Open your eyes." You do. Plastic, black beaded eyes stare back. Cupped in scarred hands is a small cat plushie, body sagging from beans, fur a little dulled. Well-loved. You look past it to stare at ghost, stunned.
"This is Mr. Kitty." He tells you. Gently, ghost scoots right back to your side and sits the plushie in your hands "I've had him for...years. he means a lot to me."
Oh. You try to imagine ghost, this giant of a man curled in bed with the tiny kitty plush next to his face.
"...I have a cat plushie." You tell him, belatedly fishing your phone out and trying to ignore the tightness in your throat at such easy acceptance.
You spend the rest of the night looking at photos of your plushie collection with ghost. He likes the cats the best, has strong opinions about sanrio characters, and insists on seeing them soon.
You find you don't really mind the thought of that.
He doesn't carry around an edge-worn, beloved photo of you slipped into the space behind his vest as if it were the idea of you waiting at home for him that would stop a bullet, not the kevlar. He has nothing of you he can hold when the nights get too dark and the gun steel gets too cold.
Simon Riley has no background on either his work phone or his personal phone, just a black screen. Not of your smile, your precious face. Your number isn't even saved. He has it memorized and any call or text logs with you will only show a string of numbers, not your initials, your name, an ambiguous emoji, or a one word moniker that carries more truth than you would ever believe: angel.
Simon Riley reads the notes you leave for him over and over again until the divots in the paper where your pen pressure carved lightly into the fibers are also present in his mind. He runs his thoughts over them like his thumb over the ink. Every note you write him is burned, held over his lighter until your words are nothing but smoke.
Because when he's in the field, he's responsible for the safety of his team, the mission, and you. The only way he can do that is by keeping you as far away from Ghost as he can. Because Ghost and the rest of the 141 carry a target on their back always. And if the ones with their sights on that target ever aim true then they will only get him.
Simon Riley has no pictures of you, no tokens of you, no evidence that you even exist.
Simon Riley who instead keeps every memory and reminder of you in a place in his heart he's convinced is what keeps it beating. Somewhere where no blade or bullet can reach. They can string him up, carve him to the bone, cut out that cold organ from his chest and they still wouldn't be able to get you.
Simon Riley carries nothing of you that someone else can take.
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “There she is.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
Immortal!ghost who crawls out of that grave himself meeting immortal!reader....
He meets you on the field of war, wearing enemy colors and bashing in the skulls of one of his best soldiers. That alone is worth a bullet from him, but the thing that really gets ghost is the magic pouring off you.
It's something that took ghost years to notice after his original death. The magic that subtle flowed from him, like the quiver of hot air above a burning fire. Invisible forces twisting in the face of war power.
You are immortal, the same as ghost.
You sense it on him, too, and you smile.
After the ensuing fight that left ghost with thirteen stitches alone the side of his torso, he will learn that you are not the soldier you wear the name of. That you parade around into danger out of sheer boredom.
Ghost has to capture you. It's bone-deep ache. The desire to keep himself something that will truly understand him.
It's as if that moment were the catalyst, because now ghost sees you everywhere.
On the field most often, yes. Though sometimes he swears he can see that faint shimmer in the middle of a crowd, or he catches a glance at your face in the shadows.
You are just as intrigued by him as he is by you. The only question is who will become the mouse and who will become the cat.
cw: afab reader x ghost, smut, p in v, overstimulation, rough, mean simon :((, feral simon
HEADCANON: Jealous of Bunny getting all the attention — smug bastard — you buy a bunny tail butt plug as a joke. You didn’t expect Simon to absolutely go feral over it though
PAIRING: Simon Ghost Riley x reader
"nghh-- Si-- n-no more please--", you whimper. Voice wrecked. High. Shaky and slurred with overstimulation. Having been incoherent since two?--three?-- orgasms ago.
But Simon only growls low. Holding you more pliant atop him as he makes you sink deeper on his cock. Making you take him to the root again and again. Hands gripping your wrists behind your back as he practically bounces you on his dick like he threatened he would. Groaning lowly at the sound of your whines. Enamored by his little bird's soft sobs of pleasure as he shoves the tip of his dick further into your cervix.
Like he was trying to brand himself further into your very marrow. Not wanting to stop until he knows the outline of your womb remembers every inch of his cock.
"Come on, baby", he rasps, voice rough, almost tender under the wrecking as well. Having came twice inside you when he took you from behind. Mounting you like a buck in a rut. From the side where his arms banded tight around your waist and neck. Holding you close to him and dragging you back onto his cock over and over until you sobbed helplessly into the sheets. And now he was on a personal mission to fill you one last time to the brim on top.
"Bounce on it birdie. Said you wanted to be a bunny now do it", he coos. Mocks. Toys and smiles menacingly at your defeated and overstimulated whimper. All mock-sweetness and cruel affection.
It had all started as a stupid idea -- dumb dumb girl. Should stop thinkin' yeah? -- born out of pure, petty jealousy. Watching Simon fawn over Bunny. Patting his head. Calling him "good lad" in that rare, fond voice that made your heart ache.
You hadn't thought much You did actually when you bought the bunny tail butt plug online with shaking hands, wanting some of that attention for yourself. Maybe as a joke. Maybe to tease. Maybe to taunt.
And besides! You wanted to be cute too! You just wanted him to look at you the same way.
You just hadn't expected it to work this well. Hadn’t expected this -- being fucked to absolute ruin, tail bobbing humiliatingly behind you with every merciless slam of his hips.
You had been discreet about it, you swear. Nope not really
Slipped it in with trembling fingers upstairs before dinner, cheeks hot with mortification. You thought you could play it off -- just have your little moment, bask quietly in whatever reaction you could steal.
But Simon?
Simon always knows when you're hiding something.
Always.
So when you bent over innocently to grab the casserole out of the oven, humming and swaying your hips a little too much, he froze.
The metal fork clattered out of his hand and onto the counter.
His mouth parted on a silent groan.
Pupils blown wide and dark -- the way they get when he's well and truly feral.
And the second he caught sight of it -- the little white puff sticking saucily out of the curve of your ass -- you knew you were fucked.
Literally.
Figuratively.
Utterly.
He stalked across the kitchen without a word. Big hands grabbing you by the hips, pressing himself up against you, grinding that hard, throbbing heat between your thighs until you whimpered.
And now your thighs quake. Muscles screaming from exertion and pleasure both, but Simon -- the hulking bastard of your boyfriend -- doesn't let up! Grip only tightening on your wrists as he makes you bounce. Using you like a fleshlight on his cock, hole sopping and dripping both from your orgasms and overstimulation. Clit sore and labia puffy as he only quickens the pace.
You sob, hips jerking away weakly only to be pulled back down on his dick -- desperate, frantic -- as you try (you really do) to obey. Try to lift yourself off his cock only for him to slam you back down again with a guttural grunt, thick and punishing and so deep that your vision whites out at the edges.
"That's it," Simon growls, hips snapping up hard enough to rattle the bedframe. "Look at you — awww baby right there? — Good little bunny, lettin' me f-fuck you stupid."
Your breath hitches on a shattered whine, drool slicking the corner of your mouth. You can feel it -- hot and obscene -- the way his spend is already leaking out of you, making a filthy mess where you’re spread wide around him, the little fluff of the bunny tail butt plug bobbing wildly with every brutal, merciless thrust.
Simon laughs low and broken under his breath, voice thick with pride and possession.
"All mine now, yeah? — shhh I know birdie I know" he says, leaning up to mouth along your jaw, catching your earlobe between his teeth in a quick, sharp bite that makes you jerk and cry out. "Womb's mine. Pussy's mine. Pretty little bunny tail and all."
You nod desperately -- or try to -- the movement so feeble and pathetic it makes him chuckle again, soft and mean and loving all at once.
"Jealous of Bunny, that it baby?" he huffs against your skin. Thrusts brutally upward when you only respond with a soft whine. Broken. Wrecked. Wanton and done for.
"Shoulda just told me, birdie" Simon murmurs, low and almost cruel in its tenderness, muttering a soft fuck as you clench involuntarily at his words. His breath scalding against the shell of your ear. "Didn't need to dress yourself up like a pretty little toy -- shit that's it --Always had my eyes on you."
Another sharp thrust -- a ragged gasp punched from your chest.
You whimper -- desperate, delirious -- thighs trembling from the effort of keeping yourself upright.
Simon hums, pleased, and lets your wrists go for a moment -- only to immediately grab your hips, dragging you flush against him as he starts fucking up into you even harder, reckless and raw.
The bunny tail bounces wildly with every slam of his hips, obscene and humiliating and so hot you think you might just pass out from it.
You’re babbling nonsense now -- tears streaking down your cheeks, throat raw from sobbing his name over and over -- but Simon doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even think of stopping.
Not until you’re a shaking, oversensitive mess.
Not until you can't tell where he ends and you begin.
Not until you’re bred so full his cum drips steadily down your thighs, thick and hot and never-ending.
"That's it, pet," he rasps against your neck. "My pretty little bunny. Gonna keep you plugged up all fuckin’ night. Make sure it sticks."
You shudder, high and keening at the thought -- too gone to even form words anymore.
And Simon just holds you tighter.
Fucks you deeper.
Growls soft and feral into your hair like a wolf who's finally caught his prey and has no plans to ever let go.
Snarling as his rhythm falters. Jaw clenching. Grip tightening and teeth gritted. Low and wrecked. Burying himself twice. Deepest as he can go. Not caring at the soft sob you make as the tip of his dick kisses your cervix. Cock pulsing hot and thick inside your womb before he cums with a guttural and broken moan against you throat.
"Fuck yeah, that's it birdie. Takin' it like a good little doe. My own little bunny in heat"
Simon was a gentle lover. You might not have guessed that by looking at him, and most of the other women were too scared to serve him. The madame made sure his needs were met by throwing him you, the finest piece of meat he could get for the gold he was paid.
When he laid you down in the bed, he took his time with you, training his calloused fingers over your quivering tummy. "You tremble... in fear or arousal, love?" He rumbles, lips pressed to the curve of your ear. He hadn't given you a chance to respond before his hand bullied it's way between your legs.
Simon came often, and he came for you only. If you were busy, he would wait, turning down any of the girls who did muster the courage to approach him. You started to look forward to his visits, to feel his mouth against yours, and his thick cock dragging through your cunt... He would whisper the sweetest things to you, promises to take you all for himself.
"Dress you in the finest silks, love... You'll have a garden to spend your days in, you would like that, yeah?" Simon rumbles as he thrusts into you, nibbling your collar bone. "I'll take you away from all of this, love, I promise. I'll make sure you're only mine."
The weekly visits came to a halt when spring started early one year. He told you he would be leaving, at least. Wrapped in his arms as he held you on his chest. "I'll come back for you, love. You will wait for me, yes? Wait for me to return, be good, and I will take you away."
"Please don't be gone long." You whisper as you press your ear to his chest. You drank in his warmth, the sound of his heart gently thumping in your ear. The two of you lay tangled for as long as you can, reluctantly pulling yourself away from him when the morning finally came. "I'll see you soon."
"I'll return for you." He vowed, and then he was gone.
He was gone for years.
You didn't want to lose hope, but after the first year of no letters, no sign from him, your heart began to break. Year two is when you make peace with him being gone. When the men who pay for a night with you leave, you clutch your pillow tight and cry. If you try, you imagine you can still smell him. That you could still feel his heartbeat underneath your ear and his lips softly trailing between your legs.
"Ladies!! Line up!" You lurch into position, arms locked behind your back as you watch the doorway. Madame glares down her nose at her woman, tapping her riding crop roughly against the thighs of those who won't stand still. "Come in, sir. Take your pick of the litter."
When he steps inside, you can feel the air get thick. His mask was skull patterned. It looked almost adhered to his face as he thumps into the room. His boots echo on the wooden floor, sword swinging slightly as he turns to face the line. "Which of our ladies would you -"
The satchel of gold lands with a heavy thump, shillings tumbling over the top onto the desk. "Her." Your heart leaps nervously, eyes flickering from the masked man to your Madame. "Want her to keep."
"Sir, I cannot -"
"You want my money?" He turns his intimating body towards her, which makes her instinctively step back.
"Yes, sir." He grunts, turning back to you and carefully taking your hand
"With me, love." He whispers, eyes settling over your face with relief. "I told you I'd come back."
I read too much fanfic but fuck it. @fanfuckingfic - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
