"We played with this idea of, is she fully seeing through her own eyes what's happening and doesn't feel in control, or if it's kind of like teleportation where every time that she pops back in, it's from the moment that she popped back in before, which is why whenever she's in the house, she comes out and she's like, 'Wait, where am I?â So we played with both of them, and now that I've watched the film back, I think that she does both. I think that in the very beginning, whenever she doesn't understand what's going on, she's teleporting, and once she realizes what's going on, Nikkiâs a fighter, and so her urge to fight the wish just gets bigger and bigger and bigger, and thatâs why she has the grief at the end, because she's watched it happen. She's felt it. She has to deal with it. It wasn't her fault. Her life has completely changed. And she just lets it all go." â Inde Navarrette (x)
Simon remembered the words that had left your mouth the night before. An inconvenient thing to remember during a briefing.
Price was speaking about mission details, Gaz was taking notes, and Soap looked like he was only half paying attention.
Meanwhile, Simon couldn't stop looking at you. Your mouth. Your eyes.
The way you were pretending to focus on the presentation. He remembered the way your body moved and squirmed under his touch.
"Yeah? You like it right there?"
"Want me to keep going?"
You remembered his words from last night too. The briefing room felt too small. Too warm.
You kept your eyes fixed on the table, refusing to look at him. Because you knew exactly what would happen if you did. You'd remember. The way he sounded. The way he touched you. The way he knew exactly how to make you fall apart. You knew exactly what would happen. You'd smile. And if you smiled, he'd know.
As if sensing your thoughts, Simon's gaze remained on you. You could practically feel it.
âY/N?â
Your head snapped up. Price was looking directly at you.
âSir?â
âCare to tell us what I just said?â
For a second, your mind went completely blank. Across the table, Soap looked amused. Simon looked away, hiding a smirk. You cleared your throat.
It all began in the briefing room when the task force returned from a long deployment. Everyone was exhausted after being stuck in those cargo planes for hours. You couldn't get comfortable in your chair; your backside was aching from those shitty, cold, netted seats.
âPrice was rambling about information you all already knew, gesturing at diagrams and maps, but your head was somewhere else. You were trying hard not to whine about the pain, scanning the room for anywhere more comfortable to sit. Suddenly, your eyes landed on Ghostâs well-defined, muscular thighs, and dear God, did they look cushioned.
â"Ghost," you whispered, trying not to draw attention to yourselves. "Hey."
â"Wot?" he grunted, his eyes fixed on Price.
â"My ass really hurts from those shitty aircraft seats. Iâm literally dying here. I was wondering if I could sit on your lap?" you begged.
â"What? No. Weâre in a bloody meeting."
â"Please! It really hurts!"
âGhost remained silent for a long moment, analyzing the situation. You were just about to give up when you saw him spread his legs and pat his thigh softly. "You bloody nightmare."
âYou blinked several times, then immediately crawled onto his lap. Thank Godâthey were just as comfortable as youâd imagined. It was like sitting on a damn cloud. Seeking even more comfort, you grabbed both of Ghostâs arms and wrapped them around your waist. He was so massive that he simply rested his chin on the top of your head.
â"The next mission will take place onâ" Price cut off abruptly in the middle of his sentence, his eyes locked on the two of you.
â"What? My ass hurts; you really should change the bloody seats on the aircraft," you defended yourself against Priceâs judgmental stare.
âThat didn't stop you, though. From that day on, you were always found in your usual place: perched on Ghost's thighs. Without fail.
Oh I was CRAVING for something like this i just adore how fucking massive this man is RAWR
Summary: Youâre doctor Robbyâs younger daughter, and you are waiting outside for him in front of the ER. As usual he doesnât make it out of work on time. So, instead youâre greeted by his best friend, Jack Abbot.
Contains: Daddy issues, absent father, dads best friend, age gap, forbidden, almost getting caught, couch makeout session, dry humping, hand kink, words like âkiddoâ, Abbot drives a truck, desperation, praise kink, fingering
One thing you hated was the fact your dad worked in the ER. Especially the ER in Pittsburgh that never seems to get a break.
You wait on a bench outside of the noisy hospital. Ambulances rolling in and out every now and then. Your hands are tucked away in your dadâs green coat. You sniffle as your nose runs from the cold. It grows numb at the cold breeze.
You didnât mind waiting in the cold though.
Every time the sliding doors open you canât help but glance up in hope itâs your dad. Each time itâs someone different; some familiar faces but it was never your dad.
The sliding doors open once more, your eyes flick up, and to your surprise itâs a more than familiar face.
"Dr. Abbot?" You say, almost like it was a question.
"You waiting up for your dad?"
You scoot over on the bench as he inches closer. He just has on black scrubs, a grey shirt under, and a stethoscope wrapped around his neck.
"Yeah." You kept your response short.
With a soft grunt he sits down next to you. He leans back a bit and his legs spread open slowly in a manspread you canât help but notice.
Your eyes flick away quickly.
"Robby is going to be held up a bit tonight." His tone makes you worry. Your eyes flick to his.
"Should I be worried?" Something in your stomach twists.
"There was a car pile up on the freeway tonight. Some of the local hospitals computer systems went down, so they had to transfer them over." He explains.
"Heâs been in there for almost twenty-four hours." You mumble.
"You know how your dad is, kiddo."
Kiddo.
"The sun is rising practically, and I see the night shift doctors going home." You point at the night shift doctor who has a Dunkin' drink with him everyday, leaving.
"I know youâre upset-"
"Upset? Yeah, I hardly get to see my dad because his second home is a hospital for crying out loud." You shout angrily.
Abbot seems taken aback at your frustration, but he understands. He places a hand on your knee and gives it a squeeze.
"I get your frustration â I do. Your dad just works hard," Abbot tries to defend your dad.
You shake your head, "But when do I get a say when I want to see my dad."
You squeeze your hands into a fist, theyâre tucked away in the long sleeves of your dadâs coat. You feel the tears of frustration starting to rise in your eyes. You bite your lower lip to try to stop anything from escaping but itâs hard with the cold air smacking you in the face. A tear escapes and so does a hushed sniffle.
"Hey, hey, woah," Abbot turns to you and you refuse to look up at him. "These tears arenât worth it."
He grabs your face and his calloused hand glides against your cheek. Your eyes flinch at the touch. His hands are surprisingly warm. His thumb brushes away a tear under your eye.
"How did you get here?" Abbot asks you.
"I took the bus." You sniffle.
"Iâll text Robby that Iâm taking you home today, okay?" You feel your heart rate increase at the idea of being in Abbotâs truck, just you and him, going to your house.
You nod and wipe away the tears from your face, "Okay." You softly say.
The car ride felt like it was the longest car ride. The soft hum of the engine, and the smell of the cars heater blowing in your face. You can tell his truck is a little older. It is a nice rustic red, and it suits him. Everything Abbot has or does suits him.
He pulls into the driveway of you and your dadâs house. Your own car, a 2016 Volkswagen Beetle, which broke down on you about a month ago, sits peacefully next to his truck.
"You took the bus but you have your beetle?" He points to your red beetle.
"She broke down on me last month. I think somethingâs wrong with the transmission. Dad was supposed to take it to the shop last week, but he got busy."
As usual.
"I can always take it into the shop. I know a mechanic who could probably get her back up and running." You canât help but smile.
"Youâd do that?" Your eyes flick between his.
With a soft nod and a smile that you canât help but stare at, "Of course. Iâd do anything for you, kiddo."
Your heart skips a beat and you can feel your palms grow sweaty. Your stomach twists and turns like you have to throw up.
"You should come in," You blurt out.
Abbot looks surprised, "You want me to come in?"
"I mean, dad wouldnât like you to not come in. You drove me here you must be hungry or thirsty or â something." You ramble a bit.
Abbot chuckles at you and shakes his head. He reaches for his key fob and turns off his truck.
"Okay, Iâll go inside." He rests his hands on his legs.
His black scrubs fit nicely on his body. It squeezes around his legs and his black shirt accentuates his biceps.
You guys get out of the truck and you take out your key. Itâs on a keychain with a picture of you and your dad, a small stuffed bunny, and a red heart. The keys jingle and you fumble a bit trying to unlock your door. You can feel Abbot staring at the side of your face and at the lock.
Once you get the door open you are instantly greeted by your cat Cinnamon. Sheâs a smaller tabby cat, and she rubs against your legs. She doesnât hesitate to go to Abbot next. Rubbing on his black scrubs; her fur clings to it.
He leans down to pick her up. He lays her on her back and she purrs loudly. He takes his middle and ring finger and begins to pet her gently in the stomach.
"Such a pretty girl," He hums and rubs her fur slowly.
You lick your lips and swallow the lump forming in your throat. Your eyes canât help but focus on his veiny hands and the thickness of his two fingers rubbing your cat.
He sets her down and when he gets back up he softly groans.
You blink out of whatever fantasy you were playing in your head.
"Are you thirsty?" You ask and walk over to the kitchen.
"Coffee would be great," He nods.
"Coffee after doing the night shift?" You tease and he huffs as he sits down on your sofa.
"Coffee is like water to me now, kid."
"You realize Iâm nineteen. Iâm not a kid," You glare at him.
"I know, I know. I just like saying it," He smiles.
You put the pod of coffee into your Keurig. It begins to rumble as the water starts to heat up. You awkwardly stand in the kitchen not knowing if you should go over to the couch or not.
"Donât be so uptight in your own home," You flinch at the husky voice and look over at Abbot.
He pats the cushion next to him and hesitantly you begin to walk over. You stand in front of him and his head tilts up to look at you. You sit down slowly next to him. You can feel his eyes on you; watching your every move.
You guys sit in silence, you can hear your heart beating loudly. Youâve been around Abbot many times but this one time youâre with him alone.
You notice him bringg his hand up, and it finds your leg. He places his hand on your leg and brings your chin over his lap.
You watch him.
He knows youâre watching.
He slides his hand up to your chin slowly â rubbing your skin. Shivers run up your spine at his warm hands caressing your legs.
He turns his head and his eyes lock with yours.
You swallow.
"Abbot," you say almost breathlessly.
"Yes?" His voice is deeper than before.
You lean in more, your butt pressing against his thigh. Your legs are now both over his lap, but youâre not sitting in his lap â yet.
"Keep going," you say. "Please."
His eyes flick between yours. Something new lights in them and you can tell heâs enjoying this as much as you are.
You lean in to his neck as he continues to stroke your legs. You get a smell of his musk that makes him smell more like a man. You place a soft kiss on his neck and his hand halts on your chin.
You pull away and look up at him.
"Kid," Abbot begins.
His hand reaches out for your cheek. His thumb traces your bottom lip as he holds your face. A breathy gasp escapes between your lips. You stare up at him; he licks his lips slowly. Before you left him finish his sentence you place your mouth on his. His breath gets caught in his throat, but he doesnât fight the kiss. His mouth wanders yours; his tongue protruding the entrance to your mouth. Your tongues fight against each other.
You find yourself now straddling him. Your hands are on his broad shoulders, squeezing and pulling on his shirt. The more you two kiss, the more you want.
He breaks away from you. Youâre both breathless and he stares into your eyes. You can feel your lips are swollen but you donât mind.
"Kid, we shouldnât have done that." He says.
"But I wanted it to happen," You whisper.
He tilts his head back a bit and you bite your lip. You inch towards his face again and he doesnât mind. You place another soft kiss on his lips. You can feel the heat from his breath on your lips. His breath smells like peppermint, and you canât help but crave it.
Your tongue glides along the bottom of his lip, and slowly you rock your hips forward. With the movement of your hips you can hear him grunt in your mouth.
Everything around you disappears. All you can focus on is the feeling of your pussy slowly grinding against his growing hard on, and the way his breathing grows erratic against your mouth.
"Fuck," He groans.
He stared at you intensely through hooded eyes. You rock your hips and a shot of pleasure shoots through you.
You lean forward a bit and your head meets his muscular shoulder. His hand slides into your hair and the fingers that were once petting your cat were now racking through your hair.
You let out a muffled moan into his shoulder at the feeling of your cunt grinding and his hand roughly playing in your hair.
"Keep going," He encourages through a groan.
You press down harder and roll your hips. Your breath hitches softly.
"Yeah," He breathes. "Just like that."
You moan again at his words.
"What would your dad think?" He whispers. "Him coming home and seeing his daughter grinding against his friend, huh?"
You whimper in response.
You lean back and look at him. Your chest heaves up and down.
"I want more," You gasp. "Jack, please."
"Jack, hm?" He moves his hands down onto your thighs and up to your hips.
He squeezes and massages them slowly.
"What more do you want?" He asks.
"Touch me, anything, please." You beg.
"Touch you?" His hand slides closer to the button of your jeans.
He rubs his finger around the button. You watch the way his index finger slowly does circles on the piece of metal. You feel yourself pulsing at the idea of his fingers doing that to you.
He unbuttons the button and glides down the zipper. He can see your pink lace underwear youâre wearing. His thumb glides against the silky underwear and he looks up at you â looking for an answer.
"Please," you beg. "Touch me."
Without anymore hesitation he slides his hand inside of your underwear. You let out a mixture of a gasp and a moan as his index finger slides up your wet folds and runs over your clit, slowly. You rub is back and forth in a slowly flicking motion. You moan and tilt your head back a bit and rock your hips forward.
"You think you can take my fingers?" He wraps his free hand around your neck and tilts your head back to look at him.
You bob your head and he gives a smirk.
Slowly he pushes between your folds and slides his index finger inside of you. You squeeze your eyes shut at the feeling of his finger going in. A mixture of pain and pleasure rush over you. His index finger slides in and out slowly but his thumb finds its way down back to your clit. In a motion you fingers you and rubs circles on your clit.
"Look at that," he hums. "Such a good girl."
You moan loudly at the way heâs treating you and the words he speaks. You can feel the nerves bundling up and the pleasure becoming intense on you.
"Oh God," You whimper. "Iâm going to cum." You moan out.
"Itâs okay," He reassures. "I got you; cum for me."
With those words, it felt like an explosion hit you. Your body trembles as you reach your climax and you let out a loud moan. You bite your lip and collapse onto his shoulder once again. He pumps his finger slower inside of you until all thatâs left is your body twitching.
You sit up and catch your breath. You two are both breathless and you canât help but smile. Jack cracks a smile back at you.
He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing gets out as you both hear the sound of keys entering the front doors lock.
You jump off Jackâs lap and zip up your jeans. You quickly tuck your hair behind your ears and glance at Jack once more. You notice him adjust his dick in his scrubs before the door opens.
"Hi dad," You blurt out.
"Hey sweetie," Robby sets down the keys in the bowl by your door and he walks over and kisses your forehead. "Sorry Iâm home so late."
"Itâs fine," you say. "Dr. Abbot kept me company."
â cw: established relationship; smut and fluff; domesticity; wc: 5.5 k
â S. RILEY:
Simon loves handling knives. Itâs one of his specialities after all. And heâs caught you watching him multiple times; whether it was him cutting vegetables for supper, cleaning his combat knives, or shaving with a razor blade.Â
So, when you pad into the kitchen in nothing but his shirt and ask him to help you shave, he doesn't even blink.Â
âWhere?âÂ
You tug at the hem. He follows the gesture, and his expression doesnât change, but something behind his eyes does.Â
âRight.â The chair scrapes over the tiles as he rises to his full height, rolling his shoulders. âBathroom. Now.âÂ
He has you up on the counter with your legs spread before you can overthink it. Clinical and efficient, like heâs done this a thousand times.Â
âHold still,â he commands, lathering soap between his mammoth hands. âSquirm and I'll nick ya.âÂ
You snort, âReassuring."Â
âWasnât meant tâbe.âÂ
His hands are rough but warm and deliberate as he works the lather over you, one palm flat against your lower belly to keep you pinned. He tilts his head, surveying you like a problem he is solving.Â
He clucks his tongue, âNot takinâ it all off.âÂ
And you blink owlishly, âWhy not?âÂ
âBecause I like it.â He drags his thumb through the dark curls at the apex of your cunt, appraising. âLeavinâ a clean strip. You'll thank me later.âÂ
The razor comes up before you can argue. First strokeâslow, precise, the blade gliding through lather and coarse hair with a control that makes your stomach flip. His jaw is set, focused, and there is something unbearable about how steady his hands are when yours are gripping the counter edge so hard your knuckles ache.Â
He rinses the blade. Goes again. His knuckles brush bare skin this time and your thigh jerks involuntarily.Â
âWhatâd I say?â His voice is low, flat; his eyes almost bored as they flick up to meet yours.Â
âSorryââÂ
âDonât apologise. Stop squirminâ.â He resettles his grip on your thigh, firm enough to bruise. âAlmost done.âÂ
But youâre not making it easy on him and he knows it. He can see itâthe flush creeping down your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, the slick gathering where his hands keep almost-but-not-quite touching.Â
âYouâre wet,â he remarks, the same way heâd say Itâs raining.Â
âCan you blame me?â you squeak.Â
âNo.â Simon finishes the last stroke, rinses the blade, sets it aside. Then he runs his thumb along the neat strip of hair heâs left, then lower, over smooth sensitive skin, checking his work. âDid a bloody good job, if I say so myself.âÂ
His thumb drags lower. Slides through the slick with zero hesitation, and you gasp loud enough to echo off the tiles.Â
âResponsive,â he murmurs, smug. He does it againâslower, more deliberate, watching your face like heâs taking briefing notes. âAll this from a shave, love?âÂ
You nod, voice thick, âFrom you.âÂ
Something shifts in his expression; shifts to something darker, hungrier. His free hand grips the inside of your thigh and pushes it wider, and he drops to his knees on the bathroom floor like a man settling into a foxhole.Â
âSiââÂ
âShut up,â he growls against your skin. âLet me admire my work.âÂ
His mouth finds youâhot and wet, and completely unhurried. He licks a long, flat stripe over the freshly shaved skin and groans low in his throat like heâs tasting honey on a warm, buttered toast. Your hand flies to his head, fingers digging into the short hair, and he lets you.Â
Then he pulls back, and you almost whine, but heâs not going anywhere. He brings both hands up instead, spreads you open with his thumbs, rough callused pads pressing into soft skin, holding you apart so he can see everything.Â
âLook at that,â he murmurs, low and self-satisfied. âAll swollen already.â
Your hips buck, but his sheer strength keep you pinned to the counter. âSimon, pleaseââÂ
âI heard ya.âÂ
But then Simin leans back in and his tongue finds your clitânot a broad stroke this time but a quick, focused flicker, right over the swollen nerve. Your hips buck harder and his grip tightens, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your pussy lips, keeping you spread wide and pinned open.Â
âStay. Still.â Spoken directly against you, the vibration making your thighs shake.Â
He does it againâthat precise, maddening flickerâand you make a sound thatâs closer to a sob than anything dignified. He rewards it with a low hum, adjusting the angle, working the tip of his tongue in tight little circles that make your vision blur.Â
âKnew youâd be like this,â he groans, pulling back just enough to watch your clit twitch under his breath. His thumbs spread you wider, obscenely so. âAll wound up from a fuckinâ razor and a steady hand.âÂ
Your cheeks are burning while your hole clenches around nothing. âYouâre so full ofâohââÂ
âMyself? Yeah.â His tongue flattens against you, then flickers again, fast and relentless. âAnd you love it.âÂ
You canât argue. You canât do anything except grip his hair and hold on.Â
He doesnât let up. That maddening flicker becomes a rhythmâtight, relentless circles over your clit with the tip of his tongue while his thumbs keep you spread open and pinned like a butterfly under glass. Youâe shaking, thighs trembling against his hands, and every sound you make earns you another low hum of approval that vibrates straight through your whole body.Â
âSimonâSiâIâm going toââÂ
âThen fuckinâ do it.â His tone is flat as ever, impatient, like youâre wasting his time by holding back.Â
His tongue presses harder, faster, and you come with a choked cry that bounces off the bathroom tiles. He works you through itâslower now, lapping at you in long, lazy strokes while your legs twitch and your fingers go slack in his hair.Â
And then you hear it before you see itâthe sound of his joggers being shoved down, the slick rhythm of his fist. You lift your head, still dazed, and look down to find him on his knees with his fat cock in his hand, jerking himself in hard, fast strokes while his mouth stays pressed against your inner thigh.Â
âSimonâ?âÂ
âShut up.â His voice is wrecked now. Rough. Nothing clinical about it anymore. âNeeded this since I fuckinâ started.âÂ
Heâs close already. You can tell from the way his breathing fractures, the way his free hand grips your thigh hard enough to leave fingerptints. Simon pulls back, angles himself forward, fist working fast and tight, and his eyes are fixed on the mess heâs made of you, all puffy and slick. The neat landing strip dark and matted with your wetness against flushed skin.Â
âFuck,â he grits out, low and broken. âLook at you.âÂ
He comes across your cunt in hot, thick stripesâgroaning through his teeth, forehead dropping against your thigh as his hips jerk into his own fist, massive shoulders shaking against the onslaught of pleasure. You feel it land on smooth skin, on the strip of hair he insisted on keeping, dripping down between your folds, and the sound he makes is almost pained.Â
He stays there for a moment. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your leg.Â
Then he straightens up, tucks himself away methodically, and surveys the damage with the composure of a man reviewing a mission report.Â
âThere,â he says, dragging his thumb through the mess on your skin. His and yours, mixed so prettily. âPayment for services rendered.âÂ
Your eyes roll with fond exasperation as your head tips back to rest on the counter. Â
âYouâre disgusting.âÂ
âAnd youâre welcome, love.â He leans in, presses a single kiss to the landing strip, and stands. âClean yerself up. Dinnerâs in twenty.âÂ
â K. GARRICK
Kyle notices things. Itâs what makes him terrific at his jobâreading a room in mere seconds, clocking the miniscule details everyone else always misses. So, when you come home looking like the week has chewed you up and spat you out, heâs already running the bath before youâve kicked off your shoes and put down your bag.Â
âDidnât ask.â Heâs already steering you by the shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. âIâve got you, yeah? Let me do this for you, baby.âÂ
And thatâs the thing about Kyle. He doesnât ask permission to take care of youâhe just does it, like breathing, like itâs the most natural and obvious thing in the world.Â
He starts with your arms.Â
Youâre sitting on the edge of the ceramic tub, warm water lapping at your calves, while Kyle kneels beside you with a fresh razor and a bottle of fancy shaving oil he warmed between his palms. He lifts your arm above your head, long and gentle fingers circling your wrist, and works the oil into the hollow of your underarm with slow, thorough strokes.Â
âWhenâs the last time someone took care of you properly?â he asks casually, like small talk.Â
âYou did. Last week,â you deadpan, brows furrowed.Â
He grins brilliantly. âDoesnât count. That was just sex.âÂ
You snort softly, âJust sex, he saysââÂ
âHush now.â He draws the razor up in a smooth, careful line. Rinses. Again. His touch is absurdly gentle for hands that can strip a rifle in seconds. âThis is different. This is maintenance.â
âYou make me sound like a bloody car.âÂ
âNah.â Kyle kisses his teeth, then switches to the other arm, lifting it with the same easy confidence. âMore like a classic bike. High-performance. Needs the right hands.âÂ
You snort again, but your skin is already tingling where heâs touchedâwarm oil sinking in, the faint sting of freshly shaved skin, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist while he works.Â
Your legs take longer. Heâs thorough about itâkneeling on the tile floor, one of your calves propped on his shoulder, dragging the razor from ankle to knee in long, unhurried strokes. He takes his time with the oil after, working it into your skin with both hands, thumbs pressing into the muscle of your calf until you groan.Â
âGood?â he asks, gauging your reaction, and there is something darker in his voice now. Something paying attention.Â
âSo good,â you breathe, eyes closed in bliss.Â
He slides higherâpast your knee, along your inner thigh. Still massaging, still working the oil in, but his fingers are brushing territory that has nothing to do with shaving. He watches your face the whole time, reading every micro-expression, cataloguing what makes your breath hitch, what makes your muscles relax.Â
âOne more spot,â he murmurs, hands settling on your inner thighs. âYeah?âÂ
You nod. Your mouth has gone dry.Â
âNeed words, love.âÂ
And you nod more enthusiastically, âYes. Please.â
His smile is warm, but his gaze is filthy.Â
Kyle repositions you gently, guiding you back against the fluffy towels heâs already laid out on the bathroom floor like he planned this from the start. Probably did. Kyle Garrick is always three steps ahead.Â
He settles between your thighs and takes his time with the oil, working it into the soft skin of your mound with his fingertips. Not rushing. Letting you feel every slow circle, every press of his thumb, until youâre breathing hard and your hips are shifting restlessly.Â
âEasy, my love," he says softly, one hand flat on your belly. âIâve got you. Not going anywhere.âÂ
The razor is careful. Feather-light strokes, angled perfectly, his free hand stretching the skin taut with a confidence that makes heat pool low in your stomach. He shaves you bare, all of it, pausing to rinse the blade and check his work with the pad of his thumb.Â
âBeautiful,â he murmurs thickly, and means it.Â
Then the oil comes back. Warm from his hands, drizzled over freshly shaved skin, and he starts working it in with both thumbs in long, slow strokes down either side of your slit.Â
Your thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he does.Â
âSensitive?â he asks teasingly, voice low. Eyes crinkling with mirth.Â
âKyleââÂ
âThatâs not an answer.â But heâs smiling, thumbs pressing a little firmer, gliding through the oil and spreading you open slowly. âTell me how it feels.âÂ
You swallow hard, but your voice still comes out raspy, âLike youâre trying to kill me, baby.âÂ
He laughs; warm, genuine, the sound rumbling through his chest. âNot yet.â His thumbs drag inward, slicking through the oil and your own syrupy wetness now, framing your clit without touching it. âWeâre getting there, though.âÂ
Kyle starts massaging in earnest then, and itâs devastatingly precise. Both thumbs working slow circles over your outer lips, pressing and releasing, coaxing blood to the surface until everything is swollen and throbbing and so slick you can hear it. He watches your face the whole time, dark eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-back sound.Â
âThere she is,â he praises when your hips start rolling into his hands. âThere you go. Just let it happen, baby.âÂ
And he slides one thumb between your foldsâjust one, dragging through the messâand your whole body arches.Â
âFuck, Kyleââ you mewl, and Kyle mutters a curse under his breath, pupils blown. Â
âYeah, I know.â He does it again, slow and firm, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb while his other hand keeps you spread open. âYouâre soaking my hand, love. That all from the shave, or you just like being taken care of by me?âÂ
âBothâGodâboth!âÂ
âGreedy.â He says it fondly, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. Then he sinks a finger into youâone, then twoâcurling them forward, and your back comes off the floor.Â
âOhâohâfuck!âÂ
âRight there?â He crooks his fingers experimentally, finds the spot that makes your vision white out, and presses more firmly. âYeah. Right there.âÂ
He starts working you open with slow, deliberate thrustsâtwo fingers buried deep, curling against that front wall, while his thumb keeps circling your clit in a rhythm thatâs going to end you. His other hand is on your hip, holding you steady when you start to writhe.Â
âDon't fight it,â he reminds you, and then his mouth replaces his thumbâhot and wet, tongue lapping at your clit in broad, flat strokes that make your thighs clamp around his head.Â
He groans against you and his fingers pick up the pace, curling and pressing in a rhythm that builds something white-hot at the base of your spine. You can feel it coiling, tighter and tighter, different from a normal orgasm, deeper, more urgent.Â
âKyleâKyle, Iâm gonnaââÂ
âI know.â He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing your clit while your inner muscles clench and flutter around his pumping fingers, urging him deeper. âI can feel it. Let go.âÂ
âI canâtââÂ
âYes, you can.â His fingers press harder, faster, rubbing firmly against that swollen spot inside you. âYouâre safe. Iâve got you. Let go for me.âÂ
His mouth seals over your clit and he sucks, gentle and persistent, while his fingers thrust up hard until something inside you breaks. And you come with a sound you donât recognise; your whole body locking up and then releasing in a hot, pulsing rush that soaks his hand, his chin, the towels underneath you.Â
âThatâs it. Fuck, baby, thatâs itââ Kyleâs voice is wrecked, awed, his fingers still working you through it as you gush and squirt over his knuckles, soaking the towels. âChrist, look at you. So fucking beautiful.â
Youâre shaking. Trembling all over, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, and Kyle is already there to catch you; easing his fingers out gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip, the curve of your quivering belly.Â
âIâve got you,â he says again, gathering you up against his lean chest. âIâve got you, love. You did so well.âÂ
You bury your face in his neck and he holds you. Always solid, warm, and steady. His hand strokes your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing comes down.Â
âSelf-care day,â you mumble against his throat, chuckling softly. Â
He laughs, quiet and fond. âTold you Iâd take care of you.âÂ
â J. PRICE
John finds you standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fresh from the shower, towel discarded on the floor like an afterthought. Youâre turning sideways, then forward again, fingers tugging at the dark curls between your thighs with a frown he recognises immediately.Â
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watches you for a moment.Â
âDonât even think about it woman,â he says gruffly.
You jump, because of course you didnât hear him coming. The man moves like smoke when he wants to. âJesus, JohnââÂ
âI know that look.â He nods toward your hand. âYouâre thinking about shaving.âÂ
You tut. Caught again. âItâs gottenââÂ
âNo.âÂ
He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room, calm and unhurried, the way he does everything. Like the world operates on his schedule and it knows better than to argue.Â
âYou nicked yourself last time,â he reminds you, stopping behind your back. You can feel the warmth of him through his shirt, his breath against the top of your head. âBled all over the damn bathroom. Looked like a crime scene.âÂ
You frown. âIt wasnât that badââÂ
âIt was exactly that bad.â His steely eyes meet yours in the mirror. Steady and final. âYou want to be smooth, Iâll do it. End of discussion.âÂ
That tone from your husband. The one that ends briefings and closes arguments. It mean Captain Price isnât asking.Â
He takes his time setting up, because John Price has never rushed anything important in his life and heâs not about to start with a blade near your precious skin. Warm water in a bowl. A fresh razorânot the one you butchered yourself with last time, but his, the good one he keeps in the leather case. A flannel. Shaving soap that smells like sandalwood and menthol.Â
âOn the bed,â he orders. âEdge. Legs apart.âÂ
âJohn,â you try to reason again. Â
âDid I stutter?â And he gives you that look. The head tilt forward to look down at you.Â
And you sit obediently. He pulls the ottoman over, settles onto it between your knees like heâs sitting down to a job that requires patience and precision. Which, in his mind, it does. He drapes the warm flannel over you firstâpressing it gently against the curls, softening the hairâand the heat makes you exhale slowly through your nose.Â
âGood girl,â he murmurs, absent and fond. âJust relax.âÂ
He works the soap into a lather between his palms, and his hands are broad and rough and unhurried as he spreads it over you. Fingers moving through the hair with a kind of proprietary ease, like this is his to manage. His to maintain. You watch him from aboveâthe focused set of his jaw, the silver threading through his full beard, the absolute steadiness of his hands.Â
You exhale slowly, willing yourself to relax while heat starts pooling low in your belly. âYou donât have toââÂ
âI know I donât have to,â he interrupts calmly, picking up the razor. âI want to. Difference.âÂ
The first stroke silences you. Slow, precise, the blade drawing a clean line through lather and hair. His free hand pulls the skin taut, and his eyes never leave his work with the same concentration youâve seen him give to maps and mission briefs in his office.Â
He rinses the blade in warm water. Goes again.Â
âYouâre quiet,â he remarks eventually, a hint of amusement buried under the gravel.Â
âHard to be mouthy when your husbandâs got a razor on yourââÂ
âCareful.â But heâs smiling, just barely, the lines around his eyes crinkling. âGood time to practice some of that restraint Iâm always bloody on about.âÂ
Stroke by stroke, he clears the hair away. Thorough. Methodical. He tilts your hips when he needs a better angle, adjusts your thigh with a tap of two fingers like heâs positioning you on instinct. Thereâs nothing rushed about it, nothing performativeâjust a man doing a job properly because it needs doing and he doesnât trust anyone else to do it right.Â
When heâs finished, he sets the razor aside and wipes you clean with the warm flannelâslow and careful passes that make your freshly shaved skin prickle and sing. Then he sits back, hands on your knees, and surveys his work.Â
âThank you.â And when you try to close your legs to get up, his hands stop you.Â
âIâm not finished.âÂ
Your breath catches. He hasnât movedâstill sitting on the ottoman, still between your thighs, still looking at you with that calm, unhurried authority. But somethingâs shifted in his expression. His gaze has darkened, and you very well know what that means.Â
Your stomach swoops. âJohn?âÂ
âLie back.âÂ
And you do obediently. Again. Not because he has ordered you toâthough he hasâbut because when John Price uses that voice, your body just listens. Your back hits the duvet and you stare at the ceiling, heart hammering, while he pushes your thighs wider with both hands.Â
âSmooth,â he murmurs absentmindedly, running his palm over you, feeling his own handiwork. His thumb traces the edge of your slit; barely there, maddeningly light. âSoft.â His eyes flit up to look at you, almost smugly. âSee what happens when you let me handle things?âÂ
But youâre still staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction. âYouâre insufferable.âÂ
âAnd youâre wet.â John mentions it plainly, like a field observation. âHave been since I started. Thought I wouldnât notice?â He snorts.Â
Your eyes close slowly, praying for patience. âWas hoping you wouldnât.â
âI notice everything. Especially about my wife. You know that.â He leans forward, presses a kiss just above your mound. Utterly deliberate and proprietary. His beard scratches against the smooth skin and your hips jerk. His eyebrow raises. âSensitive?âÂ
You exhale a breath. âYour beardââÂ
âMm.â He does it againâdrags his jaw across the freshly shaved skin, rough against smooth, and the noise you make is mortifying. âThatâs bloody new. Like that, do you?âÂ
He doesnât wait for an answer, just settles in, hands hooking under your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed and into his mouth like heâs sitting down to a meal he intends to take his time with.Â
The first broad stroke of his tongue makes you arch clean off the mattress. He grunts, low and satisfied, and pins your hips down with one forearm.Â
âStay put,â he mutters against you. âI mean it.âÂ
And then he takes you apart.Â
Itâs not frantic. Itâs not teasing. Itâs thorough. The way John does everything. Long, slow drags of his tongue from entrance to clit, tasting every inch of smooth skin, learning the new terrain with the same patient focus he gave the razor. His beard scrapes against your inner thighs, your lips, the crease of your legs, and the contrastâsoft warm tongue, rough stubbleâhas you writhing within minutes.Â
âJohnâJohnââÂ
He hums against your clit and the vibration shoots straight up your spine. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you closer, burying himself deeper. He sucks your clit between his lips firmly and flicks his tongue over it in a tight rhythm that makes your hands fist in the duvet.Â
âOh Godâoh fuckââÂ
He pulls back. Just enough. Lips still brushing you when he speaks.Â
âLanguage, darling.âÂ
âYouâre eating me out!â you whine helplessly.Â
âAnd youâll still mind your mouth in my house.â But there is a rumble underneath the wordsâamusement and bone-deep arousal, barely restrainedâand his tongue is back on you before you can fire back, licking into you with a hunger that contradicts every ounce of composure in his voice.Â
John brings a hand up and slides two thick fingers inside you without preamble, curling them forward, and the sound you make is broken and loud and not remotely dignified. He groans at the feel of you clenching around him, and you feel it everywhere.Â
He fucks you with his fingersâsteady and deep, curling against the spot that makes your thighs shakeâwhile his mouth works your clit in slow, sucking pulls. Heâs not rushing but savouring. Taking you apart piece by piece with the same relentless patience he applies to everything, and you couldnât stop the orgasm building in you if you tried.Â
âJohnâIâm closeââÂ
âI know you are.â He doesnât change pace. Just keeps that maddening, steady rhythm. âCome when youâre ready. Iâll be here.âÂ
It hits you like a wave. Slow and devastating, rolling through you from the inside out. Your back arches, your legs lock around his wide shoulders, and you come on his tongue with his name in your mouth. John works you through every second of it, fingers still moving, tongue still pressing, until youâre shaking and pushing weakly at his head.Â
When he finally pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks up at you with dark, satisfied eyes and a beard thatâs matted and glistening with your come.Â
âSee? Thatâs why you let me handle things.âÂ
You canât even argue with that. Not right now at least. Youâre boneless, spent, staring at the ceiling while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and standsâunhurried as ever, straightening his shirt like he didnât just ruin you for the rest of the day.Â
âIâll make us a tea,â he calls from the doorway, completely composed. âYouâll want a biscuit after that, because Iâm going to fuck my wife later.âÂ
â J. MACTAVISH
âNae, hen.âÂ
Like every time before, Johnny straight up refuses when you ask him to help you shave your bush.Â
He takes one glance at it and his pupils blow up like an IED, swallowing the baby blue of his irises within milliseconds.Â
âWhy?â you whine, stomping your foot like a petulant bunny. âJohnny, pleeease! I canât do it on my own! I cut myself last time!âÂ
And you cross your arms, frowning at him, and hoping itâs enough to make him cave. But, alas, it is not.Â
âGood,â he retorts, turning back to the telly where some Premier League match is playing that heâs barely watching anymore. âMaybe thaâll teach ye to leave her alone.âÂ
Her.Â
âJohnny, itâs hair.âÂ
âAye, itâs hair. Her hair. And I fuckinâ like it.â He slings his arm over the back of the couch, manspreading like he owns the entire living room, eyes fixed on the screen with a kind of stubbornness that makes you want to scream. âEnd of.âÂ
âYou donât get to decide what I do with my ownââÂ
âNever said I did,â he interrupts flatly, then glances at you sideways, grinning. âI said am noâ helpinâ. Big fuckinâ difference, lass. Ye want to hack away at yerself in the bathroom again, be my guest. Iâll be here Mourninâ.âÂ
You cross your arms, scoffing, âYouâre mourning my pubic hair.âÂ
âAye. Sheâs a right bonnie. Deserves better than some dull razor and yer shaky hands.âÂ
You gape at him. He takes a slow sip of his beer, utterly unbothered, eyes back on the match. The audacity of this man. The sheer, Scottish audacity.Â
âFine,â you snap, and yank your leggings down right there in the living room. âLook at it then. Look. Itâs a mess, Johnny!âÂ
That gets his attention.Â
He turns his head slowly, beer bottle halfway to his mouth, and his eyes drop between your thighs. The grin slides off his face and something else replaces itâsomething hotter, sharper. His jaw works. He shifts in his seat.Â
âCome here,â he demands suddenly.Â
âNo. You said no.âÂ
âI said come here.â He pats his thick right thigh. âNeed a closer look, donât I? Cannae make a proper assessment from across the room.âÂ
You know itâs a trap. You know it is. But heâs looking at you with those baby blue eyes and that crooked, shit-eating smile, and your feet are already moving.Â
He pulls you onto his lap the second youâre within reachâhands on your hips, spinning you so your back is against his chest, your bare arse settled right over the growing bulge in his joggers. He spreads your thighs with his knees, hooking your legs over the outside of his, opening you up.Â
Your eyes widen. âJohnny!âÂ
âShh, hen. âM assessinâ.âÂ
Johnny looks down over your shoulder, chin resting against your temple, and his hands slide down from your hips to your inner thighs. He spreads you open with both thumbs and makes a low, appreciative sound that vibrates through his chest and into your spine.Â
âAye, see?â he says, voice dropping rougher. âLook at her. Sheâs fuckinâ gorgeous. All soft anâ warm." He drags his fingers through the curls, tugging gently, and your hips twitch. âWhy would ye want to get rid of this?âÂ
âJohnny, I justââÂ
âNah, hold on, âm talkinâ to her, no' you.â He dips his head lower, mouth against your ear, but heâs addressing your exposed cunt like itâs a separate entity. âDonât listen to her, sweetheart. She doesnae know what sheâs got. Yeâre perfect.âÂ
You sigh deeply, lips pursing. âYouâre literally insane.âÂ
âAye, she says thank ye,â he continues, ignoring you completely. His fingers stroke through the hair again, lower this time, brushing your outer lips. âSheâs happy. See? Nice and warm in her wee fur coat. Ye want to take that away from her? In this economy? In this weather?âÂ
âItâs literally June, Johnny.âÂ
âCould get cold! Ye donât know!â His thumb grazes your clitâbarely, just enoughâand you gasp. He grins against your ear. âOh, anâ sheâs awake now. See that? She heard ye talkinâ aboot razors anâ she got scared. Iâm just comfortinâ her.â
âYouâre the worst person Iâve everâhahââÂ
His thumb presses down, firm, and circles slowly. âWhat was thaâ?âÂ
ââever met in my entireâfuckââÂ
Johnny chuckles with dark satisfaction. âThatâs more like it.â He circles again, lazy, like heâs got all the time in the world, like the match is still the most important thing in the room. His other hand holds your thigh open, fingers digging into the soft flesh. âLook at ye. All wet already and Iâve barely touched her. She likes the bush, babe. Sheâs tellinâ ye.âÂ
Your eyes squeeze shut, trying not to make another sound. âThatâs notâthatâs not how that worksââÂ
âNo?â He sinks a finger into youâjust one for now, thick and roughâand you clench around him so hard your vision blurs. âFeels like itâs workinâ to me.âÂ
He starts a rhythmâslow, dragging thrusts with his finger while his thumb circles your clitâand youâre melting into his chest, head falling back against his shoulder. The telly is still on, some commentator yelling about a foul, and Johnnyâs watching the match over your shoulder like heâs not knuckle-deep inside your hairy cunt.Â
âJohnnyâfuckâpay attention to meââÂ
âI am payinâ attention. Multitaskinâ, lass. Top oâ ma fuckinâ class.â He crooks his thick finger, and you nearly come off his lap. âOoh, there she is. Found the spot, aye?âÂ
âPleaseââÂ
âPlease what? Please shave ye?â He tsks, adding a second finger, stretching you. âStill nae. But Iâll make ye forget why ye wanted to in the first place. Deal?âÂ
You whimper. He takes that as a yes.Â
Then he pulls his fingers out, and you do whine, loud and needy, and before you can protest, heâs lifting you off his lap and onto your feet. You sway, legs shaking, and he grins up at you as he slides down the couch, lying back with his head on the armrest.Â
âCome here,â he demands again, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it. He folds his muscular arms behind his head, looking up at you like heâs ordered room service. âSit on my face.âÂ
âYouâwhat?âÂ
Johnny snickers at the dumbstruck expression on your face. âYe heard me.â He licks his lips. Obscenely slow and deliberate. Like a wolf licking its chaps. The bastard. âBring her up here. I want to have a proper conversation.âÂ
âA conversation,â you repeat, not amused.Â
âAye. With my tongue. Now get up here before I drag ye.âÂ
Your thighs are still trembling as you relent with a groan and climb over him, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his head. You hover, suddenly self-conscious, and he rolls his eyes.Â
âOh, fer fuckâs sakeââ His brawny hands grip your hips and yank you down onto his mouth.Â
The first thing you feel is his groanâdeep, guttural, vibrating against your cunt like he has just taken a bite of the best thing heâs ever tasted. His tongue drags through your furry pussy lips, broad and flat and filthy, and his fingers dig into the meat of your arse hard enough to leave bruises.Â
âJohnnyâoh my God!âÂ
He canât answer with his mouth full of you, but he slaps your thigh onceâhardâand you jolt. And the message is clear.Â
You roll your hips against his face, tentative at first, then harder when his tongue licks your clit and flicks over it in rapid, relentless strokes Heâs making sounds beneath you, groaning into your cunt like heâs getting off on it as much as you are. Perhaps more. His nose presses into the curls he refused to shave and he inhales deeply, moaning like heâs dying.Â
âTaste so fuckinâ good,â he mumbles against you, pulling back just long enough to breathe. His chin is soaked, his eyes are five shades darker, and heâs grinning like a maniac. âRide my face, sweetheart. Fuckinâ use me.âÂ
His mouth seals over your clit again and he sucks hard, and your hand flies to the armrest for balance because your legs have stopped working entirely. Heâs licking into you with his whole mouth now, tongue fucking you, slurping, then dragging back up to your clit, alternating between sucking and flicking in a rhythm designed to make you lose your mind.Â
âIâmâJohnny, Iâm going toâfuckâ!âÂ
He pulls you tighter against his mouth, both hands gripping your arse and leaving finger-shaped marks, and his tongue works your clit in fast, tight circles while his nose presses against your mound and you come so hard your thighs clamp around his head and your whole body convulses.Â
He doesnât stop. He licks you through itâslower now, gentler, long lazy strokes through your slit while you twitch and shake above him. When you finally collapse sideways onto the couch, boneless and gasping, he wipes his face with the back of his hand and sits up looking thoroughly pleased with himself; face shiny and mohawk wild.Â
âSo,â he says, reaching for his beer on the side table like nothing happened. Like his grey joggers donât have a large, damp patch on the front where his hard cock presses against it and reeks of his cum. âStill want to shave?âÂ
You throw a cushion at his head.Â
He catches it, laughingâthat big, stupid, full-body laugh that crinkles his whole faceâand pulls you into his buff, hairy chest.Â
âThatâs what I thought.â He presses a kiss to your hair. âNow let me watch the fuckinâ match, ye silly lass.âÂ
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