he’s sitting on the couch watching television when you walk into the room after getting back from work.
when you finally reach the couch, you immediately snuggle into him and all he says is, “is that all i get?”
you turn your head to look at him.
“what do you mean?” you ask softly.
“i haven’t seen you all day, don’t you wanna give your daddy a kiss?”
you quirk your eyebrows at him before laughing.
“you’re so gross,” you say as you shove him gently but his gaze stays locked on yours.
you know that look, that stupid smirk that doesn’t leave his face, he’s going to get what he wants because at the end of the day you're still weak for him.
you roll your eyes and kiss him softly, and that’s when he knows he’s in.
he starts sneaking it into casual conversations after that, always referring to himself as your “daddy” and you laugh, brushing him off as just teasing you.
but it gets worse when he starts using it in the bedroom.
you start acting out?
“come on, love. don’t you wanna be good for daddy, hm?” he says in that soft voice and it has you melting.
he knows just how to break you. he knows you love when you talks to you in that gentle voice of his. he also doesn't forget the way you subconsciously lean your cheek into his hand when he strokes it softly.
always so sweet for him.
he also is incredibly patient.
it doesn’t matter how much his pants tighten when he watches you squirm in front of him because you’re too embarrassed to ask him to fuck you. he’s going to wait, however long it takes.
john makes you use your words. if you don’t say anything, you won’t get anything.
"you gonna tell daddy what you want?"
he looks at you expectantly with a smug look on his face as he feeds off your embarrassment.
when you finally give into him, a pitiful "please touch me, daddy" leaving your lips, he smiles cockily before he leans down to kiss you roughly and his hand wraps around your throat holding you in place.
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
— pairing: Task Force 141 × fem!141!Reader
— cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years 💀 And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns men—"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sir—"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Please—"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"
"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"Simon…"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't want—"
"Wasn't bloody askin’."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."
"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and it’s anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
part 1 here · contains: him as ur teacher, smut, p in v sex in classroom, choking, spanking, age gap (reader is a student, byung hun in mid 50s) 1.5k words
“you're sleeping with mr. byung hun, are you not?“ this was practically an ongoing joke between you and your friends, all of them giggling, unable to restrain their crazed and exaggerated expressions as one of them held your test paper in their hand. it was amazing, really— going from failing most of your tests to straight A's in calculus. without a helping hand, as you'd tell them.
you wouldn't want everyone to know you were slutting yourself out to your teacher for bonus marks, would you?
were you doing that only for some extra credit?
the classroom was fairly quiet in a bit, save for the sound of mr. byung hun's marker gliding across the whiteboard. he was halfway through solving a complicated integral when your friend passed you a note: ’correct him so we know y'all arent having sex. xoxo ♡’. it made you snicker at her, before you raised your hand.
“uhm, mr. byung hun, you totally messed that up,” you said, tone dripping with feigned condescension. you leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. you were always a little rebel, weren't you? how could byung hun forget? “you forgot to distribute the negative. kind of embarrassing for a teacher.”
oh you were bold. you caught him off-gaurd. he never would've known you'd act like such a brat after he only fucked you once; it amused him to say the least. you enjoyed riling him up, taunting him despite his frustrated grumbles and groans and the obvious bulge in his pants. he'll roll his eyes at you; something the class caught on to; attempting to hold himself back from admiring and touching your adorable body.
“let's see, shall we?“ he exhaled, stepping aside to rework the equation. the room grew tense as he went through each step on the board, taking his sweet, sweet, time.
“ah, turns out, i didn't forget anything. you, however, overlooked the substitution rule. this part," he'd say, unfazed as a subtle smile crept up his lips, circling the equation. "—is where you went wrong."
the class stirred with soft gasps and muffled laughter. byung hun paused, walking up to face you, before crossing his arms. your cheeks were burning up. not because of the embarrassment, no— but because of byung hun. he'd punish you. you made him thrilled.
“detention after school for you, stay in my class afterwards. feel free to brush up on substitution rules while you’re at it, you'll need them for the test next week.“
you were a brat begging to be tamed; but byung hun had self-control, able to hold himself back from re-enacting his fantasies onto you right in front of all his students. the hunger that festered in the pit of his stomach, beating with an erratic pulse and growing in restlessness. he has to push back the hanging reminder that he was hard, dick pressed against his suit trousers with a leaky tip. you'd think he'd have a hard time getting his dick up, his aging evident from the way the corners of his eyes crinkle every time he smiled— but no, all it took was you teasing him in front of his class.
it wasn't long before byung hun's hands slid down to your ass as the last of his students left the class, pulling you flush up against him, the raw intensity of his emotions— the restraint he had let go of, the vulnerability he now laid bare.
“you know what you were fuckin’ doing to me back there, yeah?“ he wasted zero time in shifting his belt open, tugging a finger to the waistband of his boxers as he fumbled his dick out; making it spring up and slap against his abdomen before taking his shirt off. anger filled his veins today, and he decided he'd needed to take this anger out into someone. more specifically, you. “you need to be punished.“
you don't mind. your gaze was smitten to his contoured body— his chiseled chest, huge shoulders that are the perfect leverage, his.. huge dick; so so perfect for his age. was he on steroids? that's insane. byung hun kept himself somewhat shaven, as you noticed. he doesn't have a lot of hair, but he has a trail of black hair running up his sturdy abdomen, as well as around his crotch. pretty little thing, you'd think to yourself before your teacher snapped you out of your thoughts.
“up, baby,“ byung hun said oh so hushed, pulling you up by your ass and bending you over on his desk— pages of assignments flying everywhere. his fingers would rub against the wet patch of your panties, tracing your folds and oggling at them. practically drooling as he tore your panties off. he spread your soft folds with such expertise while looking between your eyes and your pussy, begging to push inside. it made you wonder, how many women had he fucked before? did he even have a wife? kids?
his thick cock sat stiff in front of your pussy, tip so red and garbles of pre-cum drooled at the sight of your bare pussy spread out for him. it's hard to get used to the feeling of being pried open and split apart by byung hun, the splitting sensation of his boner being pushed into you. his hands would wander all over your bare, naked skin. so so so greedy. he wanted to have you whole; not knowing where to touch your body next. he pushed deep into your slit and let out breathless, guttural groans. taking him was painful, the sheer length of him foreign to your organs. you've only ever had sex with, what, two men? and both their dicks were tiny.
“i'm risking going to jail for you, slut..“ he snapped his hips forward, a gasp escaping your puffy lips as he bottomed out in the first thrust. byung hun held a finger to your bottom lip, before the hand trailed down your chin and grabbed onto your neck from behind, pressing it to restrict your airflow. it was such a tight, snug fit. it had you squirming. he left zero spaces open to waste inside your pussy. no holes for even air to fucking enter. your pussy was stretched to the max by his big fucking cock, your juices dripping down your thighs to the wood of his desk, wetting them. “so good, daddy..“
each thrust he made with his hips caused a grunt to slip from his throat. he huffs, groans out at the sensation against his covered bulge. “you're a needy thing, you know that?” he chuckles when he sees your fucked-out eyes, beyond desperation as your orgasm pools at your sweet cunt, desperate for release.
“s-so big-!“ you’re a whore, a blubbering mess, both legs hooked around his hammering hips whilst your arms kept a tight grip on his burly shoulders. you whine, mouth open as moans and ‘more's’ pour from it. his dick continues rutting into you, splitting your pussy apart in such an animalistic way it had you seeing stars— a pool of steam gathering down at your lower abdomen.
you were certain an orgasm on the brink edge of releasing was close, but when he spanks your ass as punishment, all it did was make him even hotter. “자기야 [baby].. you take my cock so well, but can't handle a slap? you need a roughening up, my dear...“
and the way his accent turns more prominent against your ear and his hot breath against your neck, it was all too much for a dumb, crying thing like you— unable to control the way your pussy uncontrollably clutches onto him, forcing him to shoot his potent, hot load of inside your puffy hole.
“i'm gonna.. fuck— i'm cumming..“ byung hun said as his pretty eyes grew half-lidded, strands of sweaty hair falling to his forehead as he shut his eyes completely, ropes of thick cum squirting from his still-swollen tip as he pumps you full. so full in fact, that he's actually pumping his cum out of you because you’re overflowing with his seed.
and once byung hun was done fucking a brain-numbing orgasm out of you, and fucked his own deep into your womb, he'd settle you down on his chair, your head lolled to the side as he finished slipping his softening dick back into his boxers— his eyes admiring your pretty state. you were so adorable like this.
his phone would ring as he fixed his tie, the contact reading ’Principal’ as you giggled to yourself— you knew he was in trouble all because of you. ♡
ani’s notes 𝜗ৎ some scenarios are based around things i’ve written b4 for context. apologies if any links no longer seem to be working, i will try to replace them if they are deleted xoxo
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+ f!reader, daddy kink, dirty talk, pet names, pet play / hybrid AU, spit kink, free use, nymphomania.
how jack fingers you when you’re bratty — “what happened to that smart lil’ mouth, huh?” he grumbles over your pitched, whiny and huffy moans. his free hand grabs one of your ankles and stops you from kicking so much, thumb rubbing over your cotton sock. “gotta stop acting out just ‘cause your pussy needs attention, sweetheart.”
when you and jack both wake up needy — jack’s so sneaky when it comes to pinning you down under him. one minute you’re lazily kissing in the soft morning light and you feel his hands all over you, the next your face is stuffed into a pillow with his strong chest pressed against your back while you claw at the sheets and drool. he grunts over your ear, grabbing your waist and your hips and whatever soft skin he can touch. “fuck, that’s it— cum on my cock, baby. make daddy proud.”
jack giving kitty!reader attention after being gone all day — “such a sweet girl,” jack coos, watching you rut yourself against his thigh. his warm, strong hands cover your hips to help you move gently, reveling in the sounds and pleas that fall from your lips. he kisses you, mumbling words between each sweet smooch, “y’wanna be filled up, baby? i know, i know— let’s see if you can cum like this first.”
clingy!pope needing to feel you up — andrew lets out a soft gasp as you work his belt open. his hands are already slipping into your pj bottoms, rubbing the fullness of your ass. his touches make it difficult for you to focus on his fat cock that’s now in your hand but he doesn’t mind, not when you’re mewling and breathing like that. “c’mere,” he mumbles before curling himself over you and rutting his cock against your softness— “need to feel my baby close.”
being a good girl for pope in the backseat — “made me pullover just ‘cause you needed your throat stuffed, baby?” he chastises softly, his gaze meeting your big dazed eyes as you work his drool covered cock with your hands. he makes you stop for a second, grabbing your face and leaning over you. your lips part on their own, already expecting him to spit in your mouth. “good fuckin’ girl.” he coos out, voice raspy.
free use!pope letting nympho!reader tease ‘n fuck herself on him — “babygirl…” andrew whines, watching your hands reach for his as you press your ass against his hardening cock and mimic the way he fucks you. he already pounded you into the mattress less than two hours ago, and here you are whimpering for more. “fuck— you always do this.” he grits out, letting you pull his pants down and guide him with your hips.
ani’s notes 𝜗ৎ some scenarios are based around things i’ve written b4 for context. apologies if any links no longer seem to be working, i will try to replace them if they are deleted xoxo
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+ f!reader, daddy kink, dirty talk, pet names, pet play / hybrid AU, spit kink, free use, nymphomania.
how jack fingers you when you’re bratty — “what happened to that smart lil’ mouth, huh?” he grumbles over your pitched, whiny and huffy moans. his free hand grabs one of your ankles and stops you from kicking so much, thumb rubbing over your cotton sock. “gotta stop acting out just ‘cause your pussy needs attention, sweetheart.”
when you and jack both wake up needy — jack’s so sneaky when it comes to pinning you down under him. one minute you’re lazily kissing in the soft morning light and you feel his hands all over you, the next your face is stuffed into a pillow with his strong chest pressed against your back while you claw at the sheets and drool. he grunts over your ear, grabbing your waist and your hips and whatever soft skin he can touch. “fuck, that’s it— cum on my cock, baby. make daddy proud.”
jack giving kitty!reader attention after being gone all day — “such a sweet girl,” jack coos, watching you rut yourself against his thigh. his warm, strong hands cover your hips to help you move gently, reveling in the sounds and pleas that fall from your lips. he kisses you, mumbling words between each sweet smooch, “y’wanna be filled up, baby? i know, i know— let’s see if you can cum like this first.”
clingy!pope needing to feel you up — andrew lets out a soft gasp as you work his belt open. his hands are already slipping into your pj bottoms, rubbing the fullness of your ass. his touches make it difficult for you to focus on his fat cock that’s now in your hand but he doesn’t mind, not when you’re mewling and breathing like that. “c’mere,” he mumbles before curling himself over you and rutting his cock against your softness— “need to feel my baby close.”
being a good girl for pope in the backseat — “made me pullover just ‘cause you needed your throat stuffed, baby?” he chastises softly, his gaze meeting your big dazed eyes as you work his drool covered cock with your hands. he makes you stop for a second, grabbing your face and leaning over you. your lips part on their own, already expecting him to spit in your mouth. “good fuckin’ girl.” he coos out, voice raspy.
free use!pope letting nympho!reader tease ‘n fuck herself on him — “babygirl…” andrew whines, watching your hands reach for his as you press your ass against his hardening cock and mimic the way he fucks you. he already pounded you into the mattress less than two hours ago, and here you are whimpering for more. “fuck— you always do this.” he grits out, letting you pull his pants down and guide him with your hips.
Random idea that's not really holiday adjacent: Demon king with reader that's growing older. Idk if he ages like mortals do in universe but if he does I wonder how he'd act :P
I recently learned about the Vampire Husband webtoon, and I think the concept would be just as entertaining in this particular case!
Demon King with a human Reader who is aging naturally, so eventually he ends up with a little grandma/grandpa tap tap tapping behind.
He loves you as much as he did on the first day of meeting you. Indeed, your life remains otherwise unchanged: you go on dates, he surprises you with gifts, and he’s just as happy to return home to his tiny human after destroying worlds.
Of course, he's aging too. Yet time flows differently for him. However long your lifetime may be, it is but a mere blink of an eye for his unholy Majesty. Alas, he does not despair. Your soul shall return again someday, and he'll be there to welcome it. The only downside, really, is that he'll have to be extra careful on his killing sprees. He wouldn't want to accidentally obliterate his beloved's new body.
How would (one of) Shawn’s characters feel when her bush is gone or very trimmed because they’re going to the beach? <3333
omg i love this bc why the fuck would they all be pissed HAHAH
pope cody would look at you changing, just staring and staring and staring and staring—until you finally snap, “andy, what?” he’d huff, annoyed as he crosses his arms, “you shaved.”
you roll your eyes, “yeah, so? we’re going to the beach.”
“so—don’t do that.” you sigh, “pope, ‘s just a little trim. it’ll grow back, i promise.” he’s not convinced, glaring a little at you until he finally nods, leaving the room to pack up the rest of your stuff. <333
jack abbot would notice when you’re on the towel in front of his chair, on your back as you get some sun. he’d shift, putting his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose to make sure he’s lookin’ at you right.
“baby? come here—“ he calls out to you and you smile, sitting up to perch yourself on his lap. softly, he takes his hand to move your bottoms to the side a bit, causing you to yelp.
“jackie!” you try to scramble off as he grabs you harder, keeping you seated on his clothed dick. dipping his fingers in, he strokes your now silky folds—you lean your head back, trying not to cause a total scene.
“you shaved? when? this morning?” you nod against his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, removing his hand—you pout.
he looks at you all stern, “tell me why.” you shy away a bit.. mumbling, “just feeling a little insecure having it all out in public ….”
grabbing your face he turns you to face him, “hair is beautiful baby, and natural. you know how much i love it, and you’re so confident with it—i like you that way.”
you nod, give him a little kiss on his cheek, “mkay”
sammy bryant sees you putting on your bikini bottoms, letting out, “the fuck?” you pause, eyes wide as you look at him glaring, tongue in his cheek. “jesus, what sammy?”
walking over, he kneels down in front of you, putting his finger through the string to see your pussy. “whadya do to her, baby?” you laugh a little, head back as you gasp in disbelief, “shaved! jesus i thought there was a spider behind me or something!”
leaning forward, he kisses your trimmed mound, mumbling into her, “i’m sorry, baby. i’m sorry she did this.”
grabbing his hair you giggle, shoving his face harder into your pussy, “give her a real apology, baby. like you mean it.”
thinking about being in an argument with robby and jack making you kiss and make up
lol this is hot as fuck!
18+ mdni tw: daddy kink!
“you’re a fuckin’ brat.” robby growls at you.
“and you’re mean.” you spit back at him— his sweet little girl, not being so sweet.
he laughs. “yeah? i’m mean? you seem to like it when i’m inches inside of you, baby.”
you blush, huffing and crossing you arms, turning to jack, “no daddy. i don’t want him.”
jack sighs, “both of you, cut it out. baby, we can’t just leave mike out—that’s not how we do things.”
you crawl over to where he’s seated on the couch, resting your head against his thigh with your best pleading expression, “please, daddy. i don’t want him to fuck me.”
robby scoffs from where he’s seated in a chair opposite of the coffee table.
“this because you’re mad at him? hm?”
you pause for a second, giving a little nod against his leg.
jack reaches down to caress your face, smoothing your hair out of the way. you think you have him convinced until he says, “go give robby a kiss, baby.”
you pout, “but—“
he grips your chin firmly, making you look straight up at him, “you’ll do as i say.”
“what if i don’t want to kiss her?” robby chimes in, sarcastically.
“you’ll do as i say too.” jack glares at him from across the table, robby sighing, bringing his arms down in defeat. “come here, honey.”
you stand up from between jack’s legs, walking slowly over to robby. you step between his spread thighs and lean forward to give him a light peck on his lips.
before you can stand back up, robby grabs your hips with both his hands, pulling you down quickly to straddle him. clutching your hair, he brings your face to his to properly make out with you. <3
you moan into his mouth, grinding your body down on him, causing him to paw and slap at you everywhere he can. pulling your panties aside, he slides his fingers through your wet folds, bringing them between your faces.
“still mad at me, baby?”
jack chuckles from the couch, “you two are gonna be just fine.”
♡ synopsis: when a med student accidentally sticks you with an anesthetic intended for a patient, jack sits with you until its effects wear off to ensure you don't have an allergic reaction. while under the effects of the drug, you make many confessions which he finds to be both entertaining and endearing.
♡ content: pining!robby, medical inaccuracies, reader being under the influence of anesthetics, jack gets handsy on the roof, ogilvie is on night shift for this one bc i say so
♡ a/n: based on this request by @styx03, ty!
Allowing a med student to sedate a patient was clearly not the right course of action. You're not even sure who gave them the order to, or if they just heard a command for an anesthetic to be administered and chose to take it upon theirself to be the one for the job, but either way... You've now become the patient because of their eagerness to impress.
Stumbling back on your feet, your vision swims and the room tilts while raised voices yell. You think one is Jack's. You want to tell Ogilvie that it's okay, because accidents happen and you're sure you'll be fine. Hopefully. Instead, however, your attempted words slur into something incomprehensible while your eyes cross. Just as you descend toward the floor, a strong pair of arms catch you.
Jack most assuredly ripped Ogilvie a new one. He's never been so enraged here at work, since he's a man who prides himself on the trained ability to keep his cool under duress. After all, if he could bark orders while bullets rained down on his unit overseas, then an ED would and has been a cakewalk in comparison.
Until you came along, apple of his eye.
You'd been so shy initially—presumedly because you felt intimidated—but intent on seeking you out, Jack refused to let you slip from his grasp. So he tutored you in field medicine (maybe to show his skills off, even a little), gifted you a beautiful hardback copy of Gray's Anatomy, a fancy carrying case for your stethoscope, and this year for your birthday, a $200 prepaid Visa gift card to spend as you pleased. A present you'd been insistent on giving back, until he threatened to up the amount to $300 if you didn't accept it.
The more you bonded, the more the scales tipped from teacher and student to something else that he didn't really have the words for. What is it the kids call it nowadays? He heard it from one of the residents before... Situationship. Obnoxious, but he supposes appropriate.
What else is he meant to call it when he barely even calls you by your name anymore—instead opting for sweetheart, darlin', honey, baby doll, pumpkin; any and all pet names that he can come up with which earn him a sweet, bashful smile in return?
When the two of you are on a case together, he's always at your back or side to supervise your actions and decision making while showering you in quiet praise all the while. And anytime you have a particularly hard day? Jack gathers you in his arms and holds you suffocatingly close while insisting on taking you to a quiet dinner after... Or breakfast. Whatever you wish is his command.
But it's not all heaviness and burnout. It's also joking around by snapping rubber bands at your ass and tickling you until you're begging for a reprieve—lest you wet yourself—because your smile is his favorite sight, and your musical laugh or joyous cackle his favorite sounds.
He's waiting for the day HR comes down on his head like a hammer, but he's also aware that PTMC can't exactly afford to lose his expertise, so he feels pretty comfortable in toeing the line here and there.
So when your body went stumbling back because of Ogilvie acting first and hardly thinking at all, he hit the roof.
A gurney was unnecessary when he cradled you against his chest and carried you into a private room before lying you back on a hospital bed so he could wait at your side for the medication to wear off.
He continually took your vitals every handful of minutes, afraid the substance would wreak havoc on your system. With him being unaware of any possible allergies you may or may not have, sitting idly by while watching the clock simply wasn't an option. He needed to make himself of use somehow.
While running a soothing hand over your forehead is when you finally stir and blink up at Jack from beneath drooping lids.
Loosing a long, ragged breath of relief, the tightness in Jack's chest dissipates. "Hey, sweetheart," he coos quietly. "How you feelin'?"
Your tautly drawn features quickly morph into that of a scrunched nose and a toothy grin. "You're s'handsome," you slur while lifting a wobbly hand toward his cheek.
Practically slapping it against the stubbled skin, you giggle, which is then followed by your eyes suddenly widening to the size of saucers while your lips form a perfect O. "Are you my husband?" you inquire breathlessly.
Are you taking the piss or is the injection still wearing off?
"Honey—"
You toss your head back. "Jus' kidding," you drawl. "Never be that lucky," you mumble with a pout.
Waving your hand floppily that he should lean in closer, he does so with an amused smirk.
"I think 'm in love with you," you murmur while fisting the neck of his shirt and tugging him toward you.
Suddenly pulled out of his seat, Jack stumbles forward and barely manages to catch himself by planting a hand on your hip before you guide his lips down to your own.
Thank God he pulled the curtain around to give you a bit of privacy, because if anybody caught him in such a compromising position?
He jolts when you slip your tongue in his mouth and moan lustfully while exploring the warm, wet lay of it. Not a man to take advantage, though, especially of you, Jack breaks away reluctantly. A gesture which is met with a long, drawn out No from you.
Seating himself again, he tries literally to wipe the smirk from his face by scrubbing a hand from his cheekbones to jawline, but it does him little good.
"You're s'posed to say it baaack," you whine between chattering teeth.
With a sigh, Abbot shakes his head, then reaches over you to grab the remote for the electric blanket he draped over you just incase, until you lift your head and chomp down on his forearm.
Your lips recede into a smile while you nibble on the skin between your teeth.
He barks a laugh, then slips the limb from your mouth while turning the blanket to high heat. "You're somethin' else," he commentates while tucking the edges securely around your shivering form.
"But you love me," you whisper before your eyes flutter closed.
Cupping your cheek in his hand, he smiles softly. "If only you knew how much."
When you come-to, you feel groggy and ran through. Your memory pretty well begins and ends with you passing out just after being injected with something you shouldn't have been.
You've seen the videos—funny little snippets where people divulge hilarious admittances and embarrassing secrets while under the influence—so you of course begin to panic a little when your eyes slowly draw open. What if you said or did something? Maybe you were left alone to recuperate on your own?
When your head lulls to the side, that hope is quickly shot dead at the sight of Robby leaned back in a chair with an iPad held at a bit of a distance.
"Got my test results on there?" you ask quietly.
Lowering the device, the daytime attending studies you from over the rim of his glasses. Robby sets the tablet aside, then leans forward and caresses your cheek with a smile. "How you feeling?"
You blink sleepy eyes. "Tired. Which I shouldn't be if I slept long enough for you to get here."
He snorts quietly. "Being under anesthesia is hardly the same as sleeping. You know that."
You roll your eyes. "It's called sarcasm," you groan while sitting up.
"Easy," Robby mutters while settlings his hands over the crowns of your shoulders to keep you steady.
Hanging your head in exhaustion, you sigh. "Was anybody in here when you clocked in?"
"Abbot."
You wince. "Did I...do or say anything?"
His lips twitch into a smile. "If you did, he didn't tell me as much. Just asked me to sit with you so he could get back to it before his shift ended."
You lift your head. "You don't have to waste your time in here—"
He clicks his tongue while giving your chin a gentle, affectionate tap. "I'd never call it that." Robby slides a hand down the back of your head after standing. "Watching you sleep was the most peace I've gotten in..." he shakes his head while turning and pulling the curtain aside. "Too long," he mutters.
"Could have that all the time if I could only get you to come onto the dayshift with me," Robby states while turning around with hands on his hips. "Might do you some good to see a bit of daylight every once in awhile."
You grin while swinging your feet. "Are you trying to poach me from Abbot's team?"
He meets your smile. "Always." Robby walks over and grabs the iPad again. "It'd give me a reason to look forward to coming in here again every day at least."
Robby offers you a hand, which you take. Once you're standing on two feet again, you take a moment to catch your bearings.
Sliding an arm around your shoulders, Robby slowly leads you toward the door. "You're not just Abbot's favorite, you know?"
You glance up to him. "Oh?"
He presses a kiss to your brow before swinging open the door and holding it for you. "Just something for you to consider. Incase the nights ever get too long."
With your shift at an end, you decide to head in the direction of your locker to gather your things before heading home. A long soak in the tub, followed by plenty of rest sounds pretty nice. Maybe some Chinese takeout while you're at it. Or Thai.
"Robby tells me that you seem to be feeling better."
Clicking your locker shut, you turn and smile at the sight of Jack standing just a few feet away with an easy grin playing on his lips, matched by hands stuck in his pockets.
"Think so," you reply with a quiet, casual shrug.
"You heading home?" he asks while ambling closer.
"Planning on it."
Slipping your bag from your shoulder, he hefts it onto his instead. "How about," Jack begins while leading you in the direction of the elevators with your hand held in his, "You come up on the roof with me now that you're awake and let me watch you for a bit to make sure there's no residual effects."
You huff dramatically. "Jack, I really do feel fine."
Pressing the button that'll lead the two of you up, he cups the crown of your shoulder in his hand and brings you in close. "That is to still be determined."
The elevator dings and steel doors slide apart, inviting the two of you into an empty chamber.
"By me," he concludes while ushering you inside with an encouraging push.
With one arm wrapped around yourself, you settle the other over your mouth to suppress a laugh of disbelief. "Of course you and Robby have folding chairs up here," you remark with a giggle.
Popping one open, Jack nods to it, indicating it as your designated seat. "Could always look into a tent," he states while settling the other beside it. "If it meant getting you snuggled up next to me in a sleeping bag."
Plopping down in the offered chair, you rest an elbow on the fabric arm and your chin in your palm.
Jack tugs off his prosthetic, then leans back with a sigh. "That feels better."
"Maybe we get an extra big one. Or a blow-up mattress," you quip happily.
Jack clasps his hands over his belly. "Why's that, pumpkin?"
You flash a grin. "Maybe Robby can join us."
Hanging his head back, he shakes it from side to side. "Don't tell me he was making moves on my girl while I was busy saving lives this morning."
You shrug while wiggling your brows playfully.
"So..." You begin while picking nervously at your nails. "Did I say anything?"
"To me or Robby?" Jack asks while massaging his leg.
You roll your eyes. "Apart from me asking Robby to take his shirt off," you remark sarcastically.
Jack snickers and his mouth curves into a lopsided grin. "Without me there to see it?"
You remain silent as you wait for him to fess up.
"You, uh..." he trails off, then barks a laugh.
Oh no...
Jack glances at you. "You might've bit me," he says while cringing mischievously in an attempt to downplay things.
"I what?!" you cry while leaning toward him in shock.
Jack throws himself back against the chair and lies his arms palm face up. "Well, after you got done harping on my good looks, you got cold, so I went to switch on the heated blanket that I put you under and you just chomped down," he explains whole gesturing toward his right forearm with his hand drawn into the shape of a claw. "It was more like a nibble, though." He shrugs and bestows a reassuring smile. "You didn't break skin, so don't worry about it."
Burying your face in your hands, you shake your head. "Oh, this is mortifying." Dropping them into your lap, you stare at the skyline. "I'm so sorry."
Studying him from beneath your lashes, you nervously chew your lip. "Anything else?"
Please say no, please say no.
He smiles warmly—almost bashfully, in fact. "Asked if I was your husband. Then you broke character, and let me know you were just kidding."
It can't get any worse, surely.
Doubling over, you rest your elbows on your knees, then press your forehead against the heels of your palms. "Please tell me that's it."
He should let it go—leave things as they are. But Jack can't help it: wanting to hear that it wasn't just because you were high as a kite.
That feelings are mutual, and always have been.
When the sound of silence descends, you raise your head. "Jack?"
He sighs. "I just want you to know that I know it was strictly because you were out of it." Jack turns fully toward you. "That you didn't mean it."
"The more you talk, the more worried I'm getting," you reply with searching eyes.
Clasping his hands together, Jack leans forward slightly. "You..." he sighs. "You told me that you were in love with me."
His eyes flit to yours—attempting to gauge from expression alone whether it was a true utterance, or mere sarcasm. "And then you kissed me."
Your eyes pop wide open. "I—" You clam up.
Is this it? The defining moment that either makes or breaks your and Jack's...situation?
"You know how they say drunk words are sober thoughts?" you ask quietly and with a pattering heart that leaves you short of breath.
Jack's chin wobbles, but only slightly. "Yeah?"
You nod, and a sob breaks last your watery smile.
"C'mere, honey," he commands with a wave of his hand.
Rising from your seat, Jack guides your hips until you're seated on his generous lap. "Can you say it again?" he asks quietly while smoothing a hand across your brow.
You press your forehead to his and hum from the feeling of the rising sun warming your back. "I love you," you whisper while winding soft, gentle hands around his neck. "Jack."
Cupping his own around the curve of your neck, he guides your lips down to his this time. "'Bout damn time we got that outta the way," he murmurs before kissing you the way he's meant to so many times.
Jack teases your tongue with a wet, pointed tip which he slides along the underside of your own.
"How about," he pants. "I take you home just to be safe." A calloused palm scratches its way along the polyester that covers your inner thigh.
"Y-Yours or mine?" you whimper.
Squeezing your hip temptingly, he nips at your chin. "Better take you to mine to keep an eye on you. Help you in the shower," he drawls with a bored shrug. "I have a chair in there. It'll make things more comfortable when I help. Then I can fix you dinner before we go to bed. Together."
Carefully, he prods at the heat which radiates from between your thighs. "Would you like that, sweetpea?"
"Pretty dizzy all of a sudden," you sigh.
"Let me get my leg back on and I'll take you home, baby."
Rising from his lap, you stand to the side and wait for him to store he and Robby's chairs back away before following excitedly along so he can take you home for further eventful flirtations.
Being Jack abbots little young girlfriend and he just gives you his phone. Obviously because you know more about it!!!
He’s driving and his phone dings loudly over the speakers, he nods his head towards it to you in the passenger seat. “Can you see who that is for me?”
When you grab it and open it up (because of course you memorized his password) you groan seeing the text. “Robby says he will be thirty minutes late.”
Jack hums. He’s already switching on the blinker and making a turn. “Well in that case let’s go pick out some ice cream for my girl huh?”
Also!!! Whenever you walk anyplace he just hands it to you. Like the responsibility of putting the phone in his pocket is too much so he whispers out an: “hold on to this for me honey.”
Whenever he gets a call you pull it out and he answers. Always mumbling a “thank you baby.” Like you’re keeping him on track.
And not to mention he comes to you on the weekends showing you his email and asking. “I’ve been trying for fifteen minutes. How do I find the receipt for the airbnb we booked.”
“Jack you told me to book it.”
“How do I find the receipt to the air bnb you booked.”
n’Jack is so deathly scared of someone taking his phone and seeing the nudes you send him in little panties, he’s this close to putting all those photos on a USB. Until you show him the little private folder.
Old man with his phone is what I’m trying to get at.
Being Jack abbots little young girlfriend and he just gives you his phone. Obviously because you know more about it!!!
He’s driving and his phone dings loudly over the speakers, he nods his head towards it to you in the passenger seat. “Can you see who that is for me?”
When you grab it and open it up (because of course you memorized his password) you groan seeing the text. “Robby says he will be thirty minutes late.”
Jack hums. He’s already switching on the blinker and making a turn. “Well in that case let’s go pick out some ice cream for my girl huh?”
Also!!! Whenever you walk anyplace he just hands it to you. Like the responsibility of putting the phone in his pocket is too much so he whispers out an: “hold on to this for me honey.”
Whenever he gets a call you pull it out and he answers. Always mumbling a “thank you baby.” Like you’re keeping him on track.
And not to mention he comes to you on the weekends showing you his email and asking. “I’ve been trying for fifteen minutes. How do I find the receipt for the airbnb we booked.”
“Jack you told me to book it.”
“How do I find the receipt to the air bnb you booked.”
n’Jack is so deathly scared of someone taking his phone and seeing the nudes you send him in little panties, he’s this close to putting all those photos on a USB. Until you show him the little private folder.
Old man with his phone is what I’m trying to get at.
cw: 18+ mdni, smut, d/ș dynamics, humpíng :p, p in v
He’s been making those corny jokes your entire shift, randomly poking your sides as he sees you rounding the nurses station trying to find spare rooms, bumping shoulders when you’re observing a patient.
“What’s up with you tonight Dr. Abbot?”
His eyes flicker from you, who’s typing away at the computer, then to Lena who’s more than intrigued. You can see the the end of his lip curve upward just for a slight second, sucking in a breath before putting on that charming smile, “I can’t check on my favorite nurses? Aren’t I supposed to be a good attending?”
You and Lena share a look, both laughing and continuing your tasks, you point at him, finally giving the older man the time of day to see that beautiful face in all your glory, pursing your lips, “First, get away from my station with your shit,” you lick your lips, trying to hide your smile, “and Trauma 2 needs you.”
Abbot let’s put an exaggerated sigh , feet already heading in that direction before you call out, “And try to keep your hands to yourself this time around!”
You’d take those words back if you knew the old man would have you like this, pussy gushing while you clawed at the pillows of your bed, whining and shaking your hips for more movement. Jacks heavy cock slowly rutting through your glistening folds. His cockhead leaking pre everytime he rolls the tip around your puffy clit that makes you groan out.
You reach for his hip again, letting him smack you hand away for the nth time this morning, “You said no touchin honey,” he tilts his head to the side rolling his hips fast this time, watching you wither and gasp at the feel. “M only following your orders.”
“That was only- anngh- only at work!” You whine, glaring at Jack.
“Don’t make that face baby,” he chides with a smirk, leaning back on his hands on the bed, grinding his hips into yours hard, “You run the show here [+], remember?” He grunts, your so fucking warm even if his dick is just feeling the syrup on your pussy lips, “Oooonly doin’ what you tell me to. Mmh- tell me what you want from me sweetheart.”
You mewl, hiccuping, “W-Want you t’ touch me.”
“Been touchin you this whole time though, huh,” Jack, gently pulls you closer by your plush thighs, letting his throbbing tip, ‘plap, plap, plap’ against your fluttering hole. Putting the tip in before pulling out juuust enough then smearing himself on your cunt, “Feel how good we fit together pretty?”
You let out a frustrated cry, tears starting to brim your eyes as you bottom lip trembles. You feel Jacks hand run down your thighs, his voice softer, richer, “Don’t start that baby, told you to use your words.”
“My words.” You repeat, incoherent to Jack but he nods, encouraging you. You let out a breath, “Need you inside me Jack, hck- aangh- please?”
And it’s just enough, Jack sinking his dick inside your hole inch for inch. Stretching you out so good all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut, clawing at his biceps till he’s folding you in half. His lips finding your plump ones as he rolls his hips into yours, velvety walls holding onto him so snug around him as he picks up his pace.
“Goood job baby.”
a/n: I KNOW I don’t go here, it’s obvious, let me have fun too!!! I was converted!!
♡ synopsis: uncle pope catches you touching yourself & you catch him watching. you go after him to confront his disturbing behavior, until he turns the situation on its head, knowing that you didn't get to finish, but nevertheless want to.
♡ content: dd:dne, incest, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, oral (f receiving), praise kink, possessive behavior, fingering, pope has a lactation kink, premature ejaculation
If Pope thought his racing thoughts were bad before, he had no idea of the storm that was coming when you reentered his life.
He's watching you at all hours now: in the swimming pool as you paddle around, in the kitchen while you cook... He even follows from a distance in his truck when you ride to the beach on your bike before he eventually parks and observes from a distance as you wade in the ocean's shore while collecting seashells.
It's become a compulsive habit, similar to scrubbing the kitchen counters until they shine. An itch he can't help but scratch because it feels so fucking good when he does, even if it's until he's red and raw and bleeding.
His favorite time is at night, however, when things are dark, silent, and you're unconscious.
You seem so vulnerable then.
Weak.
Helpless.
He's convinced himself that you dream of him—that he's invaded your every thought, just as you have his, like a parasite.
It's the middle of the day now, meaning you could be up to anything. Changing, reading, watching TV or painting. But when he presses the shell of his ear to your bedroom door, he fails to hear even a whisper of sound.
A nap then, perhaps.
Slowly cracking the door open with measured patience, he leans back while taking a surreptitious peek inside, and what he bears witness to causes his breath to hitch in his throat and his knees to grow weak beneath him.
With your head turned away—so long as you keep it that way—there's little chance of him being caught. Because he's also caught you...with your hand between your legs. Naked and spread wide open on your bed, your fingers plunge away steadily between your thighs while you whimper quietly. Needily.
He should help you. It's part of his job now, isn't it? Taking care of you.
Maybe this part counts—tending to your sexual desires.
He certainly thinks orgasms do, because you deserve that: someone willing to put their own selfish needs aside in favor of your own.
They're more important.
Whining in want, you circle your clit with glistening fingers before slipping them back inside yourself.
His cheek twitches, and Pope's hand soon finds its way below the waist of his jeans. Semi-erect cock now in-hand, he slowly begins to stroke, wanting to savor the moment while he imagines that it's you wrapped around him. Your cunt, your mouth, your own inexperienced hand.
He loved Julia, but she wasn't innocent to the ways of men.
He humors himself with the assumption that you are.
Sliding his calloused hand to the swollen tip of his cock, he swipes the pad of his thumb over the precum that's gathered before moving his hand back down the girthy shaft.
The same blood that thrums in his hardened cock is the exact same which flows through your veins and keeps you so pleasantly warm to the touch. It makes him ache to be inside of you where he knows he undoubtedly belongs. Where everything is soft and wet and hot. Where your cunt would squeeze him tight and swallow his cock hole until he finally pours himself inside of you in release.
He knows you'd be a good mother. Better than his. You'd never withhold anything from him that he wants. Even if he wanted to take it by force, you'd be too scared to ever tell him no.
Slowly, your head rolls back in his direction and his ministrations cease briefly. When you fail to open your eyes, he continues on.
Pope could help you, if you'd only let him. However long you wanted to take until you came, he'd be all to pleased to wait while he teased you until you were a disgusting mess.
He's pretty sure he's in love with you.
Tugging at one of your pretty breasts, he drags his lower lip between his teeth at the sight of your pebbled nipples, wanting to know what they'd taste like in his mouth. If you'd let him suckle at them.
If only you'd give him the chance he needs to make you round and swollen with his offspring, he could nurse from you for comfort.
Now panting quietly, you circle your hips, and your pussy squelches from how incredibly aroused your body is.
He loves how perfect you are for him.
It's like Julia's womb knew exactly what to do, in terms of your creation, for when you would later happen upon Smurf's doorstep—what he would need when he finally got out of Folsom, only to find his life in shambles.
You're the glue that's piecing him back together. Without you, there is no him.
He wants it the other way around, too.
It's nice, the thought of neither of you being able to live without the other. The rest of his family got on just fine in his absence, clearly. He knows they dislike his being back, but he's just something they'll have to fucking suffer, whether they like it or not.
Your lips slightly part and you sigh quietly while dragging damp fingers through slick folds.
Even his own cock is wet from lubrication.
When your hooded lids slowly open, everything is blurry and distorted—if not somehow a tad brighter. And then you catch a sign of movement in the doorway.
Pope.
When your eyes lock onto his, a scream crawls its way up your throat, only to halt at the back of your mouth when your eyes flit lower and see that he has his hand down his pants, which are tented from an erection.
Oh God. How long has he been standing there?
Pushing yourself into an upright position, he quickly tucks his cock into the waistband of his briefs before readjusting his clothes and disappearing from sight.
Refusing to let him get away with invading your privacy, you shove off the bed, throw on a thin robe, and hastily tie a half-hearted knot in the front before stomping down the hall with fists clenched tightly at your sides.
As you near the kitchen, you're greeted by the sound of chattering male voices. If he's in there and thinks that he can hide behind his brothers from what he's done, he is sorely fucking mistaken.
Swinging around the stainless steel fridge at the corner of the room, your eyes flit between the likes of Craig, Deran, and Baz in search of the other one who's getting away.
You stare down the latter—ready to ask which way Pope went—until Craig opens his big mouth with a shit-eating grin on his face. "Need a hand with somethin', sweetheart?" he asks while trailing his eyes over your exposed legs and messy head of hair.
Deran merely huffs in irritation before taking a swig of beer and turning around to wash something down the sink.
Baz goes to reach for his own glass bottle, but nearly knocks it over since he finds himself unable to remove his eyes from the swell of your half-exposed breasts and the thin sheen of sweat that glistens on your skin.
When you hear the front door slam shut, you jog to catch up with Pope.
Padding outside into the hot sun, you seethe at the sight of his retreating backside. "Hey!" you shout with vehemence. "Don't you walk away from me!"
When he turns back on his heel with a look of dark intensity, you stumble back slightly.
"What?" barks Pope.
"You can't just—" You shake your head while advancing on him again. "You can't do that."
Yanking open the driver's side door of his truck, he tosses his phone inside.
You grab his arm and squeeze forcefully in refusal of letting him leave easily. "You need to—"
Gripping you by the upper arms, he shoves you against the driver's seat before popping open the back door and resituating you against it.
"What?" he asks again while pushing his frontside against yours.
You make note of how he's still erect when the outline of his cock brushes against your belly.
"I can't what?" Pope hisses, pushing his forehead against your temple, as you've now turned away.
You can't look at him.
Not now.
"Watch my niece touch herself? Or touch myself while you do?"
Your body begins to tremble. From nerves or excitement, you're not wholly sure.
Sick little girl, you mentally chastise.
"Or are you pissed," he continues. "Because you didn't get to finish?"
When he leans back, you slowly turn to face him. When you open your mouth to speak, he grabs your hips and lifts you into the backseat before shoving the front of your robe open.
"Pope, you ca—"
"I told you not to call me that," he sneers while sliding a hand between your slick thighs.
"Uncle Andrew," you sigh when he eases a finger inside of you.
Grabbing the roof of the truck, he slips in a second. Swiping his nose along your neck, he speaks again. "Tell me you were thinking of me," he rasps. "Tell me and I'll let you orgasm."
You shouldn't. But oh, how you really want to. He's so close like this, and tempting. With his t-shirt stretched across his brawny chest and his muscled arm shoved between your spread thighs while he has you trapped in the back of his lifted truck.
It's...nice to be wanted. And by someone so familiar, at that.
You're not thinking straight, you know. But it's a difficult feat with him always trailing after you and watching, watching, watching your every move.
You hope Smurf gets what's about to happen on camera, the old hag.
Gingerly trailing your fingertips along the stubble of his chin, you scoot closer and force your walls to squeeze around him, which he groans in response to. "I was, Uncle Andrew." You sink your fingers into his luscious curls and bring your lips nearer to his ear. "I was thinking about you while I was playing with myself."
In one swift move, he's sunk down to his knees. Tossing either of your legs over his shoulders, Pope buries his face between your legs and plants his open mouth over your weeping cunt.
You double over while gasping in surprise, then slide one hand between his shoulder blades while the other cradles the back of his head. "Oh God," you say between shuddering breaths. "Mm, right there," you whine when his tongue flicks against your swollen clit.
Your eyes are close to rolling into the back of your head, but are interrupted from fully giving yourself over to the pleasure he's freely providing when Baz exits the front of the house.
When he halts in his steps, you stare at him from beneath hooded lids and moan. "Good boy," you whisper. "Just like that."
When you begin to quietly pant, he shakes his head while running his hand through his hair in exasperation and heading back inside.
Pope lifts his head and gazes up at you with wide eyes. "Say that again," he breathes.
You smile and giggle quietly. "Good boy."
He stays at it for awhile—kissing and licking and sucking and teasing until your ass, thighs, and pussy are swollen and slick and messy, as well as the left edge of his truck's cushy backseat.
He knows what the hell he's doing, you'll give him that much.
Every time you think you're close, though, he switches tactics, causing you to pout quietly.
What you don't know is that he's prolonging your orgasm so you'll keep praising him and calling him Uncle Andrew in reward for what a good job he's doing in eating your cunt like he's starved for his next meal.
But he also likes the two of you being close like this. Doing something so abhorrent, and not to mention grossly illegal.
Just your little secret.
But now, another knows...
"Please, right there," you beg. "Uncle Andrew, I wanna finish."
He groans and squeezes your naked hips, but finally caves to your wants.
He can't deny you anything.
Swiping his tongue along your clit, your thighs quiver around his head while you hold him increasingly close. "Yes, yes, right there. Oh, good boy. Good boy, Uncle Andrew. So good."
He'd been almost frenzied earlier—especially with his cock throbbing fucking painfully from wanting to be buried inside of you where it rightfully belongs, but he's now come twice in his jeans. Safe to say he's somewhat sated... For a bit, at least.
When your breaths become loud and ragged, he fucks you with his fingers, exploring the slick cavity which lies between your legs with them.
And then you squeal and convulse and cry his name from between satisfied moans while tugging against his auburn strands.
Kiss, kiss, kiss—your pussy is so wet that they sound more like slurps when he gives it silent thanks for finishing against his tongue.
"S-Stop," you say between shuddering breaths. "I came."
Swiftly standing, Pope grabs the back of your head and crushes your lips so tightly to his that it's painful.
Fucking your mouth just like he did your cunt, he shoves his palm between your legs again to cup your swollen cunt. "This belongs to me," he spits. "You ever spread your legs for anybody else, and I'll kill 'im."
You nod shyly in agreement before pressing your lips back to his.
♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch (kinda)
♡ synopsis: after a patient attacks & strangles you, you're put on a short leave of absence so you can recover in peace. when you return to ptmc, you stay practically glued to robby's side. jealous, abbot tries keeping his distance—granting you time & space, so as to allow you to come to him when you're ready to discuss the events of that day...which he emerged from with bloody knuckles on your behalf.
♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, strangulation, assault, robby being soft w/ you, jack being jelly b/c robby has so much of your attention, jack comforting you while you have an emotional meltdown
♡ a/n: requested by @styx03, ty! | i intended for this to be a lil prequel to tell me what you feel, but it ended up being its own thing since robby's actions in this one-shot vs what i put in the aforementioned fic about him wouldn't align.
"I want out of this Goddamn bed," Mr. Haberly spits from behind you.
You nod while continuing on with furiously typing away the results from his EKG. "I understand. The doctor will be in to see you really soon. But until then—"
"What? So he can tell me that I have fuckin' Covid or somethin'?" He scoffs. "Bunch of quacks. Whole thing is a hoax. Well, you listen me to me, you little—"
You spin around on your heel, desiring to cut his tirade of expletives off at the head. "It isn't Covid in your case. Nor is it a heart attack like I know you were concerned about. We're going to run a few more tests, then—"
He shoots upright. "And max my out of pocket?" He hollers. "No," he continues with a swipe of his hand through the air. "I'm done. No fuckin' jabs, or tests, or—"
You step toward him and place a gentle hand against his shoulder. "I understand your concern with medical bills, believe me. But you really need to—"
Swatting your hand away, he rips his leads off and stands.
Panicking, you take a small step back. "Sir, p-please get back into bed. If you go home AMA, you...you may not make it back if things get worse, or—"
The world sways. One moment, you're facing your patient. The next, the back of your head has slammed off the tile floor, leaving you staring up at the ceiling. You blink dumbly, and then a searing pain begins to build at the back of your skull until it develops into a blazing inferno.
Oh God. Are... Are you paralyzed?
You curl your fingers inward, taking stock of what still functions. Just when you go to wiggle your toes, he climbs atop you and straddles your waist. "Please," you rasp as tears gather in your eyes, causing them to sting. "Pl—"
He wraps his hands tightly around your throat which you begin to claw uselessly at as your eyes bulge from your head. He presses his thumbs into your larynx next in an attempt to crush it.
His face will be the last thing you see—this red, ugly, pockmarked thing, and breath that reeks of alcohol and peppermint chewing gum which fans across your face.
You're going to die here.
If you're fortunate, his heart will give out before the job is through.
You kick your legs and flail your arms, completely helpless to stop what's happening to you.
"You stupid fuckin' cunt! I told you I wasn't gonna let you do it! Shoulda fuckin' listened!"
Your vision grows blurry, and then dim—the harsh lighting overhead bleeding, instead, into inky darkness.
"Hula hoop! We've got a code hula hoop!" Someone shouts from far away.
You'd had one of those as a child. Aggravating things. Never could get it to stay circling your waist for very long. You suppose that's of little concern to you now, however.
"It's Y/N!" They screech panickedly.
Just as your eyes have begun to flutter closed, a fast-moving, towering form rushes into the room, knocking the monster from atop you, sending him skidding across the floor.
Your body, acting on reflex, doubles over while your hand comes to circle your throat, desperate for air to fill it. You cough hoarsely—a good sign—then draw in a harsh sounding, ragged breath.
People circle you from all angles, fussing over you and speaking all at once. So quickly that you can hardly discern a single question or comment. Too much. It's all too much!
And then the screaming starts again. "Abbot's gonna kill 'em!" Yowls a feminine voice.
Your head rolls to the side, and like a horrific car crash, you find yourself unable to look away as a fist is drawn back before making impact with an impossibly swollen face, sending blood splattering against a stark white wall.
You shudder at the sight, but remain impossibly still, praying you won't be next.
Until a strong pair of arms slide beneath you and hoist you up, holding you against a sturdy chest. "I've got you, sweetheart. Stay with me."
You watch as the floor falls away from beneath you, creating a sense of vertigo. It makes your head swim.
A head full of silver curls turns back to you, and when your eyes lock, his fist stops in its downward descent toward what looks to now be a dead man.
He huffs, then shoves the man aside, leaving him slumped over against the wall and quickly forgotten as he rises.
Bending your head back, you gaze up at a familiar face. One you've admired so many times before from afar. And now you're in his arms. Oh, how lovely it is to be held by him.
"Robby," calls a thickly accented voice at your side. "Put her in here. I've got the room all cleared out."
Dana. Yes, it's Dana directing him as to what to do with your injured form. You like her very much.
With impossible gentility from a man of his stature, he settles you on a gurney and cups the top of your head in his palm before turning toward the doorway from which you just entered. "Whitaker, get me a portable ultrasound machine. Now."
You hear the sputtering of a young man grasping at metaphorical straws, and then Robby sneers. "I said now!" He barks, causing you to flinch in fear.
The sound of sneakers squeaking against polished floors fades away.
Robby turns back to you, and his fingertips gently massage your scalp. "You're gonna be alright, sweetheart. I promise."
He glances to the side. "Security needs to get down here—"
"Already here," Dana says, following his train-of-thought. "Fuck 'im. I hope he codes before they get 'im off the floor."
Leaning down, Robby presses a tender kiss to your forehead, and despite the circumstances, a hot rush of blood rises to your cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I should've had a better eye on things. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again in my ER. Never."
You open your mouth to attempt a reply, until he shakes his head and shooshes you.
"Don't talk. You've got a lot of swelling," he states while tenderly probing at your throat with his fingertips. An action that causes hot tears to prick your eyes.
"Don't you worry, doll," Dana croons.
You turn to look at her, wanting to brush away the blonde strand that's fallen before her twinkling eyes.
"Dr. Robby's on the job, and he's got ya real well looked after."
You're put on leave for the next couple of weeks as you heal. Being unable to speak—not to mention the apparent bruising around your throat—would only serve to make your occupation that much more difficult.
And when patients would inevitably get to asking questions you in no way felt comfortable answering... It's safe to say you enjoy the short vacation you've been alloted as best you can.
Your return to the Pitt is just as hectic as always. A feeling quickly instilled itself within you like you'd never left as residents rushed a patient past who was coughing up mouthfuls of blood into a small plastic tub, an elderly woman hollered from her bed about wanting vodka, and an ambulance screeched outside, signaling another was incoming.
So much for trying to take things easy your first day back.
You do spend your day taking easier cases in the end, though—as easy as they can get in the ED, anyway—per Robby. He assigns you a child having an allergic reaction to a peanut butter cookie, a young woman who'd just returned from a cruise in the tropical islands and came back with the souvenir of an odd fungal infection as a reminder of her time away, and a middle-aged man with a dog bite on his rear.
The rest of the time you spend before a computer at the nurse's station, charting.
You're grateful to those who treat you the same as before the attack. Their looks don't linger, their touches aren't ginger, like you might shatter if your shoulder is squeezed too hard in a simple gesture of reassurance—no matter that you wouldn't entirely mind a hug—and their words are straight to the point of how they require your aid.
Abbot is a different story.
The first thing you'd made note of was the splint around the middle finger of his dominant hand, as well as faded yellow bruises and scabs along his knuckles. You had wanted to thank him, but when you opened your mouth to do so, the words got stuck in your throat. It's a bizarre thing to be appreciative that he assaulted a patient on your behalf, is it not?
When he looked at you with utter alertness, however—ready to hear whatever it was you had to say—you froze up, then scurried away in search of Robby.
He's been a sort of security blanket for you ever since you came walking back through the ED's sliding glass doors. The comforting feeling of being in his arms while he whispered sweet nothings to you made a lasting impression, like an imprint in wet concrete before it dried—forever memorializing the mark left upon its surface.
You've done your utmost to remain out of his way, so as not to hinder his ability to properly do his job, but when either of you have a spare moment, you seem to just appear randomly at his side. Apparently your feet have a mind of their own now, always in search of him they are.
When you're not, though, is when Abbot comes into play.
He'd started out by putting a gentle hand against the small of your back—desiring a talk with you the first morning you returned—but when you squeaked in fear from the unexpected contact, he promptly dropped it. Then watched as you wandered away in search of his fellow attending.
Now, he loves Robby like a brother. He's one of his closest friends. His closest one at PTMC, to be certain. But watching you at his side—gazing up at him with doe eyes, all soft and adoring like—has left a feeling of heated jealousy burning deep within his chest.
Not because he feels like he's owed something for having defended you—he would've done it for anybody here (perhaps he wouldn't have gone quite so far in another's case as he did for yours)—but rather because he wants to gain whatever it is that Robby seems to have; whatever spell he's cast over you.
He doesn't know why it means so damn much to him: ensuring that you understand he's just as much of a safe place for you as Robinavitch—but it does. So, he goes about it by a different approach. Such as buying you lunch.
Until you take the pricey sandwich from him with a quiet 'thank you' before wandering off to eat it in solitude one afternoon.
It makes him feel just the least bit pathetic, practically courting you like a damn school boy with a juvenile crush, but he simply wishes for you to talk to him. Have one decent conversation so he can get...whatever this is out of his system and he can get his head screwed on right once more.
Because if your reason for avoidance is fear? He can't let that go. You should never have a reason to fear a fellow coworker here, particularly an attending. It'll only serve to make the possibility of dire mistakes all the more likely on the job if you hesitate to ask for his expertise when it's required.
So he gives you space; deigns that you'll come to him when you're ready.
He hopes so, anyway.
"I care about her, too, y'know?"
Glancing from the iPad he holds, to Jack over his glasses, Robby raises a brow in confusion. "What?"
Jack folds his arms, then rolls his head to the side from atop his shoulder. He should've kept his damn mouth shut.
"You know who."
Robby merely stares at him for a moment before he snorts quietly with mirth—an action that sends his shoulders slightly shaking from a sense of amusement. "Y/N?" He asks.
That damn obvious, then, Jack muses. "Mhm."
"Alright."
Jack rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. This is the stupidest fucking conversation he's ever had in his life, hand to God. "She just won't..." He sighs from frustration. "She won't fucking talk to me," he hisses while turning toward him. "Every time I try, she runs in the other direction. To you."
Unexpectedly, Robby barks a laugh, then waves his hand before him. "I'm sorry," he begins before crossing one arm over the other, leaving the tablet to hang loosely at his side. "Are you actually saying that you're jealous? About what, Jack?"
Jack silently steams. If this were the damn cartoon with the coyote, there'd be smoke coming out of his ears. "Forget it," he clips before stomping off.
"Oh, come on!" Robby hollers from behind him. "Come back so that we can talk about—"
A raised middle finger cuts him short.
You can't stop shaking. Violently. You're all alone, trapped in that room again, with a hefty man atop you, trying to choke the life from your throat.
You hadn't even done anything wrong—all you wanted was to help him; make him better. Send him home to his family.
Your fault, your fault, your fault. Last you heard, he was in jail. Now what will happen to him? And there've been whispers. That Jack's professionalism has been called into question—if not his medical license as well. How many lives have you ruined all because you were too weak to act? To take care of the problem you caused?
You want to tell someone. Want the truth of everything you've been bottling up and pushing down to come spilling out like an endless river until its bed has gone dry and nothing is left but sand.
But you can't burden anyone else. Can't put them on the line as well for the sake of your own sanity.
Cradling your head in your heads, you rock back and forth while sobbing, doing your utmost to self-soothe and come back to yourself before your break is over.
It's been like this every day since you got back: scheduled meltdowns. You worry you're conditioning yourself for them, because once the clock hits a particular time, here comes a downpour.
"You're fine, you're fine, you're fine," you repeat over and over again.
Problem is, they feel like empty words at this point because you've said them so many times.
A metal door swings open, and you huddle further into the corner you occupy beneath the stairwell, quietly sniffling, hoping they'll soon be on their way.
Even footfalls descend the stairs, your eyes drifting to each one as an unknown foot makes contact with the other side of the stairs that loom above you.
Then they stop at the bottom, round a corner, and—
Oh no.
"You've got people looking for you," Abbot states with his hands on his hips.
Your chin wobbles, then you break into a fit of sobs again.
Taken aback, he stalls for a moment before morphing into a soldier ready to jump into action. His black tennis shoes scuff against the floor as he walks over to you. Pressing his back against the wall, he slides downward, finishing with a quiet 'oomph' when his butt hits the floor.
"Alright," he begins, dragging himself closer until he's pressed against your side. "This about what happened, or somethin' new?"
"H-happened," you choke out inbetween sobs.
For once, Robinavitch fails to be the hero coming to your rescue this time, Abbot muses, despite knowing that he's too damn old to be thinking so immaturely.
And yet.
Outstretching his arm, he makes to wrap it around your shoulder, until you go spastic, nearly pushing him over onto his side. "No! No, I can do it! I have to! I can do it this time! No one has—has to—"
Resituating, his brows furrow. "Sweetheart, what the hell are you talking about?"
Burying your racing head in your hands, you claw at your scalp. "It's all my fault," you mutter between ragged breaths. "That man. He's in jail. And—And you. Your job and—and license. Oh, God, what've I done?"
His mouth falls slightly open as he attempts to formulate a reply. You blame yourself? Just how long have you spent beating the shit out of yourself for things you had no control over, exactly?
Grabbing your face between his hands—refusing to let you slip from his grasp this time—Abbot levels you with a steely look. "I gave that piece of shit what he deserved. Had we been outside the hospital, I can promise you that I would've done a lot worse. I only stopped because you were watching. As for my license, yes, there was an inquiry, but the case is now closed. I'm fine. HR deemed in the end that ultimately I did what I had to to protect my staff."
Sliding his hands beneath your legs, he drapes them over his lap before enveloping the rest of you in his arms.
Almost immediately does the tension within you loosen from the unexpected embrace.
He cups your cheek and brushes a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Everything is fine. That...patient," he spits. "Is fine. Recovering. In jail. Where he fucking belongs. Whatever happens to him next is strictly due to his own actions. Understand?"
Slowly, you nod. "I'm sorry. That I've been avoiding you."
He shakes his head. "I understand why now: you felt guilty when you had no reason to. I thought..." He trails off. "Doesn't matter now. Everything is alright. That's what matters."
"W-what? You thought—"
He sighs, and runs a tired hand down his face before leaning his head back against the wall behind him. "I lost myself in the moment." He wiggles his splinted finger. "When I saw him on top of you, something just...snapped. Everything went red. I was out for blood; felt like I was back overseas again. The shouting turned into gunfire, and all I saw was a faceless man trying to hurt someone that I—"
No. He can't go that far. Not when you're in such a delicate state of mind.
"That you...what?" You question innocently.
"Care about." Deeply, he supplies, but leaves unspoken.
Jack knows it's more than that.
Your sobs having turned instead to the occasional quiet sniffle, you let your eyes flutter closed. Now having exhausted yourself from a nervous breakdown, you'd really like to take a nap.
But there's still four hours left of your shift.
Jack's lips tug into a soft smile at the sight of you so peaceful. And in his arms, at that. "You okay now?"
You nod, then yawn. "Sleepy, but yes."
Granting a kiss to the crown of your head, he breathes deeply. "I knew you were going through it. It's why I hovered," he murmurs against your forehead. "Then I gave you space since suffocating you wasn't getting me anywhere. Maybe I should've done things differently—"
You shake your head, then settle it atop his shoulder. "It wasn't you. It was just...me."
He chews his lip for a moment. Fuck it. "You went to Robby."
Your brows furrow. "Yes...?"
Jack rolls his eyes, then squeezes them shut. He is truly too old for this schoolyard crush bullshit. Damn his heart. "Maybe I got a little jealous."
Your head shoots up—nearly clipping his chin in the process. "Wha—" Your mouth quirks to the side, so as to prevent yourself from smirking. There's just something so deeply hilarious about that statement to you. Coming from someone such as himself, especially. He served overseas—bearing witness to God knows what, then came home only to continue watching people die in the ED, and you giving Robby attention is what does him in?
At a loss for words, you merely look at him with wide eyes.
Shaking his head with a smirk now plastered on his face, he half turns his head toward you. "You don't have to say anything. Please don't, actually. I've already given him shit about it and don't need to feel like any more of an ass than I already do."
You lean forward, and he slides a palm up your thigh. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, you nuzzle against his neck. "I'm just glad to hear that everything is okay with you."
Resting his cheek against the top of your head, Jack nods. "Same here."
