Task Force 141 Imagines & What If... Series: Masterlist
Note:This is the primary Task Force 141 Imagines & What If Series masterlist. You can find the secondary masterlist with additional prompts HERE.
Requests: OPEN
To submit a request, please send me an ask. Anon and non-anon are fine. I will not accept requests sent via direct message or in comments on posts.
All requests will be fulfilled for Task Force 141 which include Price, Gaz, Ghost, and Soap. Specification of who and who isn't included in the prompt will result in me deleting the ask. For example, if you send in a prompt but only want it fulfilled for three out of the four members, it will not be fulfilled.
Requests are allowed to add one additional character but only if they are part of 141 in some capacity. Acceptable additions include: Alejandro, Rudy, Laswell, Alex, Farah, etc. You are not allowed to send in a request with characters that are not part of 141 or from the MW games. An unaccepted example: 141 + König. Non-141 requests should be sent in as a headcanon or quick write request.
Not specifying that you are sending an imagines/what if request will push your request into the headcanon/quick write queue.
Requests should not be more than a paragraph. Four or five sentences please. Anything longer than a paragraph will be deleted. Too much detail doesn't allow for personal creative freedom. If you're asking for some super specific that requires a lot of words, you should probably write what you want yourself.
If you're adding a link, that is not included in the sentence limit. Please be aware that I do not have any personal social media. Some links might be inaccessible to me.
I reserve the right to deny any request. Sending in requests that violate my boundaries will be deleted without notification and will result in a block (if sent non-anon). I reserve the right to change an imagines request into a headcanon or quick write request.
Repeat requests happen. If I have several requests that are extremely similar, I will group them all under one post. Requests sent that repeat already fulfilled requests will be deleted.
Clarification is absolutely allowed and encouraged. Please don't hesitate to reach out if you have questions.
„What do you want to watch, baby?“ Simons voice is muffled due to him having his lips pressed against your hair.
„I don’t care, Si. Maybe something colorful?“ your words are quiet and you’re exhausted.
„Something with color…mhmm. We can watch that baking show you like.“
„Cake or fake? Yeah, sounds good.“
You lay against his chest, arms wrapped around you, caressing your skin everywhere his fingers can reach.
It’s a quiet moment. Almost peaceful.
You took a shower a few minutes ago, he washed your scalp and body. He brushed your hair and braided it.
And now you’re cuddling in bed, watching the colorful tv show that always made you laugh.
You feel Simons breathing behind you is irregular, his body feeling a little tense but he tries to hide it even though he is failing miserably.
„I love you, you know that right, Si?“
„Of course I know that, birdie.“
Birdie.
Your favorite nickname. You love birds, they’re free. Free to go wherever they want, whenever they want and however they want.
Not you though.
You feel the last bit of energy leaving you.
The month long struggle and battle you fought overcoming you and forcing you onto your knees.
He’s been there for it all.
The first symptoms.
The diagnosis.
The first treatment.
Every chemotherapy session he was there to hold your hand, to support your head when it got heavy and occasionally carrying you to the hospital bed.
The nurses let him.
A bad sign. They told him that these are the last weeks he’ll have with you. Told him to hold you at every moment possible and to love you until your end.
There is no cure, Mr Riley. We told you and your wife already. We can only hold it off for so long.
That’s what let you to right now. Laying in his arms in a freshly made bed, clean body and hair, your wedding dress still hanging over the door from when you put it on again for the last time and the full pill bottle in the trash can because they also only push the inevitable a few days back.
Simon holds you tightly, rubs your wedding band and kisses your temple every few minutes while a steady stream of tears flows from his eyes.
„I love you, birdie.“ he mumbles again but there is no reaction, not even a twitch and he knows there won’t ever be again.
Your breathing that was only shallow before, but still there, stopped, your weak, but still there, grip on his hand weakens until your slender fingers slip from his.
In death you look small.
But Simon knows you weren’t. You were the sun in his universe. He, his life, his heart and soul revolved around you.
His anchor point that gave him something to hold him just lifted.
His sun extinguished.
Shrunken to a small frail body.
He held you tighter, crying into your hair.
In the background 'Cake or Fake‘ still happily chirping away, but that was wrong.
There was no happiness.
No light.
No reason to live.
He knew you would never tell him to keep going.
Knew how much he resented life, but a small part hoped till your last second that he would keep going.
The bigger part however saw the Zyankali pills he stole from work.
Saw that he placed it in his nightstand with a small bottle of water right next to it.
And deep down you knew that he couldn’t keep going and a selfish little voice inside of you was glad.
Even if you never believed in a god you spent your last moment wishing that you would see him again.
And as Simon took the pill and kissed you softly before laying you both comfortably down he wished that he would see you again.
I just conjured the juiciest, most self-indulgent cross-over of an idea ever that I don’t know if anyone would read but…
Imagine being a military medic, a nurse in the British SAS, you know John Price well, his reputation as the Captain of the 141 preceding him. But, after tagging along on a campaign here and there you’ve grown close to him like most men you’ve worked with and pieced back together in the military. Just maybe edging into knowing him too well with the half-jokes and half-flirts you share.
Enter Jack Abbot, the combat medic you meet when the 141 has to cooperate with an American branch during an operation. You hit it off well, being in the same field within the military, sharing war stories. He’s painfully American in some aspects, but so unlike his patrons in other ways. And something about him, maybe that he’s closer to your age despite his hair already having greyed, makes you excited to spend downtime between missions with him.
Now, Price and Abbot aren’t stupid, they have eyes, they’re men, they know they have one thing in common: you. They give each other cordial nods and tight-lipped smiles, but they recognise the look in the other man’s eyes, in they why their jaws work when the other interrupts a conversation and the smugness radiating in the air when they successfully gain your attention.
You’re not clueless either, you’ve worked long enough with soldiers to see when they’re peacocking. But you never thought that Price and Abbot’s friendly, but highly competitive, rivalry would end with you between them. Price’s hands on your hips, lips pressed against your ear, his beard scratching your skin, accent thick like it always gets during exertion, ”Think the Yankee fucks ye better, love?” Meanwhile, Abbot’s fingers grip your chin, gentle but firmly making you face him, that gaze that always burns into yours, ”Baby, I’m not against proving another Englishman he’s wrong,” he says with that barely there smile and tip of his head.
Hello! Can I request a fic where the boys get jealous and possessive over reader (they aren't dating but they find out reader is going on a date with somebody) with smut please!
You've got me giggling and kicking my feet over here. I love jealous and possessive 141. Throw in some smut and you've got me hooked. They're all walking red flags in this one, and I'm not apologizing for it.
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x Female Reader
Content & Warnings (mdni): swearing, jealousy, possessive behavior, possessive sex, unprotected piv, creampie, rough sex, car sex, desk sex, 141 doing bad things to potential boyfriends
Word Count: 2.6k
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
“Took a family trip there once. Lovely place.”
You lean forward, eager to hear more. “How was the weather?”
A date. You’re on a real date. It’s been years, and while you’re nervous, everything has gone well. Chris is a nice guy, financially stable, and from what you can gleam, emotionally available and intuitive. You need calm in a crazy world.
Chris wipes the corners of his mouth and sets the napkin down. “Sunny almost every day. And then—” His smile holds but the middle of his brow creases. “Can I help you?”
Confused, you turn in your chair, and nearly faint at who stands behind you.
“John,” you blurt. “What are you doing here?”
John Price, your on-again off-again friends with benefits is staring Chris down with lethal intensity. You’ve seen that look before. John aims it at anyone he deems a threat.
“Interrupting,” he growls, grabbing a chair from the table nearby, placing it directly next to yours. He plops down into it, draping his arm over your shoulders as if you belong to him and Chris shouldn’t be here.
“What—what is this?” Chris absently points at you and John with the prongs of his fork. “Are you together?"
“No,” you say at the same moment John says, “yes.”
You turn on him. “We are not together. What are you doing here?”
“Told you,” replies John, his gaze still locked on Chris. “Interrupting.”
“I can’t believe this,” you mutter, removing your napkin from your lap and throwing it onto the table. “Leave, John. This doesn’t concern you.”
“It does,” he says, voice cool. “A man needs to know his place.”
“Exactly. And you need to leave.”
John blatantly ignores you. “Chris,” he says with a fake smile, leaning forward in a menacing demeanor. “Why are you after my woman?”
“John!”
“I—your woman?” croaks Chris, his gaze darting between the two of you. The poor man is glued to his chair, clearly bewildered by John’s sudden appearance.
You turn to Chris. “We are not together,” you chuckle. “John is being silly,” and you turn on John, “and he needs to get his ass up and leave.”
“John isn’t going anywhere,” says John with a smile, “until Chris fucks off.”
Chris’ face burns bright red. “She told you to leave.”
John hasn’t dropped the smile. “Then we’ll leave.” The man moves so fast you release a startled yelp as John lifts you out of your chair and onto your feet. His arm snakes around your waist, drawing you close, striding away from the table as you stumble to keep up.
“How dare you,” you seethe, attempting to smack John across the face.
He merely dodges it, bringing you around the side of the building and into the small parking lot connected to it. He leads you to his car, opens the rear door, and tosses you inside.
“John!”
He follows you in, pushing you into a facedown, ass up position. Your dress falls toward your chest, exposing your entire lower half. Fabric rips and cool air brushes over your slick pussy.
“Did that turn you on?” chuckles John, his voice low and husky.
You chew on your bottom lip, hating how right he is. “No,” you mutter but it’s weak. All pathetic breath.
John slaps your cunt, the sound wet, betraying your words.
“Maybe,” you admit.
You hear the rustling of fabric, the familiar clink of a belt buckle. At it, your pussy clenches, knowing what comes next. It’s instinctual and you hardly care. Distantly, you hear Chris calling your name. If you’re being honest, he didn’t make your stomach flutter.
Grasping your hips, John guides you onto his cock. He does it slowly, aggravatingly so, drawing it out in a thick tease. The stretch perfectly turns into a needy ache. You want every inch of him, to be full of his cock, to beg for more.
“Not going to answer him?” jokes John, already knowing you won’t.
“Shut up and fuck me already.”
Using the leverage of the position, John strokes deep, forcing a cry from your lips. “You know I’m what you want,” he growls. “Didn’t even fight back.”
“Stop talking,” you groan, the last bit of the word melting into a moan.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
I’m not interested if you have a crazy ex.
Your phone screen glows, the text message loud as you read it for the fifteenth time. Unbelievable. The audacity.
He is not my ex!
Even as you send the text off, you know it won’t soothe things over. Kyle has already cut between, staked a claim though he has no right. Releasing some tension and having a quickie does not make a relationship. It isn’t anything but Kyle thinks so, and somehow, he found out about your date and took it upon himself to claim that you’re spoken for.
You want to scream, to slap Kyle across the face, to lie about it being bad and you didn’t get off at all. But you’re not overly upset. Not really. This date was planned last minute, and the man you made it with ghosted you all damn week before finally say something a few hours before. That’s hardly material to work with. It’s nothing, if you’re being honest.
But it was still yours. Tangible. You made the effort and Kyle stepped all over it because he’s jealous.
A knock at your office door. You glance up, and frown. “What the hell are you doing?”
Kyle nonchalantly leans against the frame. “Thought I’d stop in for a chat.
You hold up your phone. “About this?”
He steps inside, closing the door behind him. Your office on base is incredibly small, but you don’t hold a rank. Your work is clerical. Line editing. Marking where there are inconsistencies or potentially missing details. Record keeping. It pays well and you’re mostly unbothered by others, but you’re bothered now. Fuming.
“That wanker?” scoffs Kyle, coming around the side of your desk, arms over his chest. “You really wanted to date that shite?”
You bolt up from your chair, standing toe-to-toe. “It’s none of your business. We are not a couple. We,” and you gesture between the two of you, “are not a thing. You had no right.”
Kyle’s voice lowers. “That so?”
You hate that confidence in his tone, how it leaks into every syllable. The man is forming his defense, and he’s about to shatter whatever statement you’ve decided on.
“Exactly so. I don’t know why you’d even think that.”
The corner of Kyle’s mouth quirks upward in a knowing smirk. “Tell me. Be honest.” His head tilts to the left. “When I fucked you on this desk. Right here.” He taps the tabletop. “What did you say to me?”
You remain mute. Damn him.
“I’ll tell you,” he drawls, tugging on the hem of your skirt. “This was up at your waist. Had your legs spread. Watching my cock as it pumped in and out of you.” Kyle shifts forward. “You were so fucking wet that I’d barely touch your clit and you’d come.”
Memory burns bright, stifling your words. Kyle is right and you hate him for it.
“You said,” and he pauses for emphasis, “my pussy is yours, Kyle. And then I came inside you. Let’s not forget,” he chuckles. “You were the one who pushed my cum back in.”
You glance away, face hot with embarrassment. It lasts seconds. Kyle snaps into action, lifting you off your feet and plopping you on top of the desk, shoving himself between your legs. His hands fall to the hem of your skirt, pushing up up up until it bunches at your waist.
His eyebrows rise in surprise. “Nothing?” Kyle shakes his head, tutting. “Naughty thing.”
You are upset with him, but it hardly comes close to how much you respond to him, body heating with anticipation. Reaching for him is natural, why deny that? Kyle greedily kisses you, allowing you to undo his belt, to reveal him and take him in hand. Two strokes and then Kyle is shoving your hand away, spreading you open further before taking what he believes is his.
And you let him, draping an arm around his shoulder, grasping with every rough thrust. The desk beneath you shakes, all the stuff on top rattling in time with Kyle’s movements.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
“Are you serious?” You smack his chest, defiant. “How dare you?”
Simon remains stony, immovable even as you hit him again. “Don’t see what the problem is.”
“Of course you don’t,” you snap. “You’re only thinking about yourself.”
As you form a fist, intending to bring it down, Simon shifts into action, seizing your wrist mid-swing. “Stop hitting me,” he growls.
“I’ll do whatever the hell I’d like.” You yank your arm back, but Simon holds firm. “This is the third time, Simon. It has to stop.”
He’s silent for a long moment, those dark eyes piercing right through you. “No,” he replies flatly and without remorse.
“No?” you guffaw. “It was a one-night stand, Simon. You don’t suddenly own me.”
Simon’s fingers around your wrist tighten. A sharp tug. All dominance. “Don’t I?”
“You—”
“And calling what we did a one-night stand?” Simon clucks his tongue like you’re a misbehaving child. “You think so little of us?”
“There is no us,” you hiss. “Never was. We fucked and that’s it. I’m not yours.”
With his hold on your wrist, Simon steps back, taking you with him. “Then why are you at my flat?” he asks. “Came all this way to tell me to piss off? Bollocks.”
Trapping you against the door, Simon grinds his hips into yours. A hardness pokes at you, and the knowledge that he wants you severs the anger, melting it into arousal.
“I’m supposed to be on a date right now,” you breathe, suddenly needing air. “And you ruined it.”
“Ruined it?” he chuckles. “Not at all, love. Making sure the wanker knew what’s mine.”
“That picture is private. It wasn’t yours to share.”
Simon’s head dips, lips lightly brushing over your cheekbone. “You think I let him keep it?” His mouth descends to your jawline. “You came to recreate it. Didn’t you?”
“Shut up,” you snap, but the frustration vanishes, swept up by the hardened connection of bodies pressing in.
Simon’s kiss is not sweet or tempting. Possession twists its roots around it, suffocating you to the point where breathing feels like drowning. You are not a woman, not independent of him but an extension. You should have known when you slept with him, when he snapped that picture of you glancing over your shoulder as he hit from the back.
“Jealously isn’t cute on you, Simon,” you manage as he breaks away to suck and nip at your throat.
With his lips pressed to your skin, Simon smiles. “Says the woman who begged me to come inside her.”
You jerk back, only to smack your head against the door in the process. “That’s not—”
“How it happened?” interjects Simon. He brings his face close to yours, voice a gnarled whisper. “You asked right after I took it. Don’t remember how you said it? Because I do.”
Words form, a stinging retort for all his bluster. They’re eviscerated. Broken. Ripped right from your lungs as Simon spins you around, takes a few steps, and bends you over the sofa arm. Hands hit cushion, propping you up as Simon forces you into the position he had you in a mere month ago.
“That’s unfair,” you snarl over your shoulder.
Simon only smirks, his hands fiddling with the button and zipper of your jeans. You don’t attempt to stop him, but you don’t want to. Three times. Three times in the past month Simon has sent that photo to the men you had plans with. All dates. And all of them were cancelled.
All because Simon sent them a text that said, hands off what’s mine.
Simon yanks your jeans off your legs, shoving your underwear aside as he frees his erection. Hard and already dripping precum, you snag a quick glimpse before Simon seizes your hips and slams you down on it.
You gasp, toes curling as he pounds into you.
“Say it,” he growls. “Just as you said it that night.”
Effort is like oil, sliding over you and slipping between fingers. You’re full and aching, utterly focused on that building pleasure, unable to do more than mumble nonsense at him.
“Say it,” he snaps, bringing his hand down on your ass in a harsh slap.
“Come inside me, Simon!” The words burst from you, bright and hot and burning. “Make me yours.”
“Atta girl.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
“What did you do, Johnny?”
Johnny shrugs. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, lass.”
“You—You don’t know what I’m talking about?” You hold your phone up, shaking it. “My date ghosted me. Just poof, and you’re telling me you had nothing to do with it?”
“Maybe he wasn’t that into you.”
You guffaw. “You’re insurable. A real ass, you know that?”
“Little harsh but I’ll forgive you.”
Crossing your arms over your chest, you stride into his space, staring into Johnny’s face. “The last time a date ghosted me, you asked your little military buddies to help you chase the guy off. What else am I supposed to think?”
Johnny holds your stare, and you don’t require confirmation. He did something. It’s clear by the smirk on his face that Johnny enlisted his friends in chasing off your date.
“Tell me,” you demand. “I know you did it.” Johnny remains mute and you growl. “Did you kill him?”
This time Johnny bursts out laughing. “Kill him? You serious?”
“It would explain why he hasn’t texted me for three days.”
Johnny runs his tongue over his teeth, shaking his head. “Oh, aye. We killed him.”
“What!”
“Killed his phone. Bastard won’t be calling you for a while.”
You go to slap him but Johnny easily dodges, amusement clear in his features. “This isn’t a game. You can’t insert yourself into my dating life. You have no right.”
“I do when someone is encroaching on what’s mine.”
“That is not—”
“What? The truth?” Johnny snorts. “Then what were we to you last week?”
“Nothing. It was nothing.”
All the amusement bleeds from him, tone growing serious. “You said you loved me.”
“I said it,” you reply slowly, “while you were fucking my brains out. Sorta slipped out.”
Johnny is entirely unmoved. “You wouldn’t say something like that unless you meant it.”
“People say things they don’t mean all the time,” you insist. “And I said it after the second orgasm. Clearly, I was under the influence.”
Johnny laughs. “Under the influence? Of what? My dick?”
“Cut the humor, Johnny. I’m not amused right now.”
“And what would amuse you?” he croons. Taking your hand, Johnny brings it to his groin. “This?”
“There is nothing between us,” you murmur though you do not remove your hand. Instead, you lightly squeeze, and Johnny groans, the sound luscious in your ears. “And it’s a small amusement.”
Johnny hardly blinks as he guides your hand beneath the band of his pants, showing you exactly how wrong you are.
“Think you hurt his feelings,” he muses.
“Did I?” you ask, all innocence.
“Give him a kiss. Make him feel better.”
You are annoyed with him, irritated even, but you won’t deny how good you had it with Johnny. A quick fling isn’t much of anything, and that’s all this is, really.
“There’s a good lass,” he breathes as you sink to your knees and open your mouth.
You present your tongue, the head of him brushing over it. A pearly bead blooms in the slit, leaving a salty bite behind. A quick kiss paints your lips. Another your chin. And then you’re swallowing, taking every inch like you were made for it.
Johnny fists the back of your head. “Tell me again you don’t belong to me.”
No thoughts except Nik getting you to come all over the inside of his helicopter. Fingering you so you squirt onto the seat and soak the leather and fabric; helping you ride the various sticks and controls that will fit into your pussy so slick makes them shine; fucking you on your knees so every gushing orgasm leaves sticky droplets on the floor.
Does he clean any of this up? Hell no, he leaves it just like that so every time he grips his controls, every time the doors roll open, your scent wafts around, the whole thing smelling like cunt, a little reminder for himself of what's waiting for him when he's flying.
Smells do fade over time of course, especially under all the mechanical odors, grease and gunpowder and fuel, so Nik's absolutely getting you back into the helicopter to refresh it all before every mission, leaving you to stagger wobbly and come-drunk off the tarmac as he licks your come off his fingers and waves the waiting soldiers on board.
You ever have an art idea stuck in your head for years but never really had the skills to create it? Well this was that piece for me. I finally got there. This is my favorite illustration of 2025 and I call it Lazy River.
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This piece is inspired by the online aesthetic of the pool rooms combined with vaporwave and abandoned mall themes. It represents the highs and lows experienced during the art journey. It also represents the loneliness it can have. It is a brilliant shining loneliness though. I think every artist is incredibly brave to venture into this unknown territory that is often undervalued by society.
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Since I can feel it coming, no this is not AI. I did not even use AI as a reference and I’m proud to say I never do. I only use things made by other humans or things in my real life as inspiration. If you reached the end I just want to say thank you. It means the world to me 🩷🩵💜
Summary: Jack and you have a past together…a past neither of you are good at acknowledging. The universe has a sick sense of humor though.
Warnings: age gap (Jack late 40s in present time, reader late 30s in present time), talks of amputation and spousal death, possible medical inaccuracies
Words: 2.2k words
A/N: Hi! I am on winter break from college and finally got the urge and motivation to write a full fic again so I hope you enjoy! I came up with this idea a long time ago while listening to 'Do I ever cross your mind?" by Sombr.
At the beginning things between you and Jack were good, really good. You two were the couple who everyone thought would make it through anything. You guys thought that too, but you were wrong. The two of you were what seemed like the perfect couple. You met at a small coffee shop in Boston near one of the hospitals. The hospital you were a bright eyed 25 year old 4th year med student doing your Sub-I and Jack was a late in life 2nd year resident later in his thirties after his work in the military as a medic. You two met at the coffee shop when you both were the only ones there too late into the night, needing caffeine to fuel a late night study session or night shift. The rest was history from there, the years went by and you guys were what seemed to be the perfect couple. Everything was going exactly as you guys wanted it to. It had been 3 years since you two met and started dating and now you lived in your own little house in Boston, an engagement ring on your finger.
Then the accident happened.
The car accident changed everything. Jack was driving to the hospital for his night shift, ready to do hand off with the day shift attending and get to kiss you and talk for a second before swapping places. But Jack didn't make it to the hospital. A drunk driver hit him on the way there, demolishing his car, crushing and trapping his right leg in the process.
You were concerned as soon as Jack was late for his shift. He was never late, him being on time was late for him. After years in the military he was always on time. You knew something was wrong immediately. You didn't have time to figure out what happened when the nurses station gets a call about a serious MVA coming our way, 2 minutes out, unconscious patient, possible amputation needed. The ER was ready when the EMT rushed in with the gurney, patient's right leg mangled, body covered in gravel and blood. It took you a second before realizing who it was.
It was Jack.
Your Jack.
Your fiancé.
Your world.
Your everything.
You let out a choked sob when you realize it, your hand covering your mouth as you sprint up to his unconscious body, your hand cupping his face, murmuring sweet words between hiccuped sobs. You were quickly pulled away by a fellow resident, getting led to the family room where they held you while you sobbed and panicked. When Jack finally woke up almost a full 24 hours later, you were the first person he saw, sitting right next to his hospital bed, holding his hand, your head leaned against your arm, dozing slightly.
After the accident things went downhill from there. Losing his leg hit Jack a lot harder than anyone could've expected. He was grieving it and the life he once expected to live, all of it presenting as anger and resentment for life. He pushed you away in any way he could. You tried your best for so long, staying with him through the accident and the physical therapy and prosthetic fittings. You put up with it all, with all of his anger and grief, trying to tell yourself it would get better and he would be your Jack again, that you'd have your fiance back but that never happened. Time went on and he remained angry and unhealed, pushing you away, not letting you into anything in his life or in his head anymore. You could only put up with it for so long, it having been 2 years since the accident at the point it all came crashing down, when you guys broke up, going your separate ways despite both of you still loving each other more than anything deep down. Life doesn't always go how you want it though, people in love still break up.
It was 3 years later when you saw Jack again. After the breakup Jack took an attending job at a different Boston hospital, you staying at your original one to finish up your residency. Now you were a first year attending yourself. You spotted him in a grocery store on the other side of town, picking up a snack for a friend's game night. You saw him in one of the aisles as you passed, the sight of him stopping you in your footsteps. You couldn't help but watch him, he looked good, healthy, happy. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, his prosthetic on display, his once auburn curls graying around the temples.
After a second of you standing there, your body feeling paralyzed and in a daze, Jack glanced over and saw you too. His face, looked similar to yours, both shocked and filled with an underlying heartache and yearning for a time long lost. You two just looked at each other for a minute or so, time feeling like it had slowed down entirely. The moment was broken by the sound of a woman's voice calling Jack's name, a woman coming walking down the other end of the aisle towards him with a grin. Jack whipped his head towards her quickly, his face morphing into a somewhat forced smile as she greets him and kisses his cheek, taking his free hand as she asks him about whatever they were shopping for. You watch the interaction for a moment, not missing the shiny diamond wedding ring on her hand and silver band on his.
You found yourself quickly walking away, like you could escape the tears burning in your eyes if you walked fast enough. You mind spiraled as you rushed out of the store, the snack you were originally looking for now long forgotten. It felt like you had been stabbed in your chest, your heart breaking into a million pieces. You thought you were okay, that you would be able to live without Jack, that you could be happy without him in your life but seeing him shattered any idea of that. The moment you saw him every feeling for him came bubbling up in you, every memory together, every ounce of love you still held for him. He was your person and always would be and seeing him after all these years confirmed it, confirmed that no one would ever compare to him in your heart.
Deep down Jack had felt the same way about seeing you, his chest aching at the sight of you after all this time. But he couldn't show it there, having to keep a happy face on for his wife, for the amazing woman who stood next to him, who slept next to him every night. She wasn't you though. His heart ached at the thought of you, at the gaping hole it left in his life and his heart. He had too believed that he could be okay after all this time. That he could try and be happy again. He moved on, dated another woman, ending up marrying her. They were happy, they truly were but she wasn't you and she never could be. After seeing you in the store Jack couldn't help but lay in bed at night for weeks on end staring at his ceiling thinking about what could've been between the two of you if he hadn't ruined everything, if he had let you be there for him, if the accident never happened.
You never thought you'd see Jack again, or at least you hoped you wouldn't, hoping to leave that forever gaping would alone.
The universe has a sick sense of humor though.
It was another 5 years before you saw him again, when you were met with the one face you never wanted to see again when arriving for a tour at your new hospital. You had moved here for a change of scenery, a fresh start, but somehow the most painful part of your past had followed you. You chose to move to Pittsburgh after your brother who lived in Pittsburgh had his first kid, wanting to be closer to your family. You didn't expect to be met with the face of the man who you could never stop loving. You were standing in the middle of the ER, or the Pitt, as the man standing next to you referred to it as. The man next to you was the chief of the ER and was a taller, dark haired man with a beard, having introduced himself as Dr. Michael Robinavitch or 'Robby'. He was giving you a tour of the place you would now call your second home and stopped at the nurses station to talk about some stuff and introduce you to the people standing there, specifically the charge nurse and night shift attending, aka Jack. When Jack looked up from the computer he was typing at, you finally realizing it was him, it felt like the whole world stopped. Everything Robby was saying next to you tuned out as you and Jack stared at each other with badly hidden faces of shock and hurt.
He looked different now, older than he did when you were together. His curls you loved so much were now completely salt and pepper, the corners of his eyes filled with settled in crows feet from laughing, smile lines around his mouth. He looked good, healthy. You looked different too, looking older than you had when you two were together, you now in your later 30's and him in his later 40's. You both were different people than you were a decade ago, when things were still good. The ache remained though, the lingering yearning and love that would never go away no matter how hard you tried.
Jack had never expected to see you after all these years, especially not at the hospital he was working at states away from where you two once lived, especially not being introduced to him as the new night shift attending that would be working with him. It felt like an awful joke or nightmare. Like he would wake up any minute in his cold, lonely bed in his empty apartment. He didn't know what to do or say as the two of you stood there, staring at each other, eyes swimming in emotion, Robby talking about something neither of you were listening to anymore.
Jack had moved to Pittsburgh for similar reasons to you, searching for peace, for change, for a fresh start. His wife, the woman you saw him with all those years ago, had passed away 3 years ago now. She passed away of cancer, bone cancer that he had known about when he met her at the support group for medical traumas, bone cancer that caught up to her despite the treatments. When she passed he couldn't stay in Boston anymore, couldn't stay in the house he lived in with her, not by himself. He fled to Pittsburgh when Robby, who was an old friend of his, offered him an attending position. He jumped on the offer and ran as far away from things as he could, drowning himself in work, in therapy, in volunteer work with the VA, in anything he could to distract himself from the fact that he was alone. He never expected that he would be forced to stare at one of the biggest regrets of his life and told this is who he would be working with day in day out, sharing spaces with, conversations with.
Once your tour with Robby ended, having been able to pull yourself back together enough to remain professional for the rest of it, you found yourself standing in a hallway off of the ER, drinking a shitty hospital coffee. This was where Jack found you, a coffee cup in his own hands as well, clad in a black scrub top and cargo pants. He leaned against the wall next to you, both of you standing in silence for a handful of minutes, neither of you wanting to break the tension boiling between you. Finally you dared to look at him again, finding him already looking at you, staring at you with those beautiful hazel eyes you knew all too well. They were a little different but still the Jack you knew none the less. You were finally able to force a sentence out of your throat, the words soft, like you were scared it would hurt both of you to speak it too loud. "Would you ever think about me? About us? Does it ever cross your mind?" You nearly whispered, staring into his eyes. He thought about it for a moment before nodding softly, silence once again lingering between the two of you.
The silence that filled the empty hospital hallway you both stood in was filled with uncertainty. Neither of you knew what to do with this, with this understanding that you both still thought about it all, about each other. All you both knew was that despite the years you both still crossed each other's minds more than you should for two people who supposedly no longer love each other.
But even if the love between you two never truly stopped, could it even be fixed? After all these years, after all these changes, after all this hurt. Was there anything left to save?
✦ ⋆ ࣪. about : an unfortunate mistake left you with a room that had only one bed, shared with one of the finest men you had ever met. it was such a cliché, the kind of setup you’d roll your eyes at in a movie—surely nothing would happen.
Who got married in the dead of winter? Scots, apparently.
And because your sister, Phoebe, was marrying a Scottish woman, you’d been stuffed into a satin dress in the middle of the Highlands, in winter, during an outdoor ceremony. You genuinely thought you were going to lose a finger to frostbite.
Apparently, it was tradition to get married outside. But God, you were convinced you might actually die from the cold.
At least the old farmhouse they’d rented for the reception was warm—almost too warm with the sheer number of people packed inside. Still, it was a beautiful wedding, full of love and respect. You’d cried your eyes out when your sister exchanged vows with her now wife, wishing you’d find something that pure one day.
Right now, though, all you felt was pure, inconvenient lust. A feeling you always seemed to get around your sister-in-law’s brother. Johnny fucking Mactavish.
He’d been the only best man at the wedding—being the only boy among the Mactavish children—and of course he was strolling around in a damn kilt in the middle of winter. He didn’t look the slightest bit bothered by the cold creeping under it, standing there proud and steady behind his sister.
You’d watched him through your own blurry eyes as he wiped away a few tears of his own. It was surprisingly refreshing, seeing a man who wasn’t afraid to show how he felt. Didn’t help that said man was also obscenely hot, with those slutty thighs peeking from beneath his kilt.
You’d been seated at the same table, and for the past few hours he’d been flirting with you. Hard. You’d had your fun rolling your eyes, pretending you didn’t want him, but you knew he saw right through your act.
He noticed every little side–glance you stole at his thick thighs, the way your brain seemed to short-circuit whenever he flexed his arms—totally not on purpose—and how your gaze tracked his fingers as he tossed bits of food into his mouth. Your thighs had pressed together pretty tightly when he’d licked them clean.
But you didn’t let him think for a second that he had the upper hand. You weren’t oblivious, and neither was he. You caught the way his eyes always dipped toward your boobs whenever you pressed your arms together or leaned down to talk to one of the kids. You saw how he struggled to stop staring at the slit running up the side of your dress, his gaze practically glued to your thighs. How he would bite his lips every time your nipples peaked against the fabric of your dress from a cold draft of winter wind. And he definitely had a staring problem with your stomach, the way it pressed softly against the satin of your lavender dress.
And of course, just like him, you were doing it all on purpose.
Now he was happily dancing with his sisters on the dance floor, clearly a bit intoxicated. It was getting fairly late—the cake had been cut, and everyone had split off into either chatting or dancing. You were sitting with your own sister as Phoebe excitedly rambled about how happy she was, how she couldn’t wait to start her married life.
Honestly, you couldn’t understand a single word your sister was saying. All you could see was Johnny moving around with his sisters, twirling a little too provocatively as his kilt kept riding up just enough to make your stomach twist.
“He’s cute, right?” Your sister’s words yanked you out of your lust-soaked daydream.
“Hm?” You turned toward her with a confused look.
“Johnny,” she said with a knowing smirk. She knew you like the back of her hand. “He’s cute.”
You rolled your eyes and brushed her off. “He’s alright.”
“You’re sharing a bedroom tonight,” Phoebe teased, her grin widening.
“Excuse me?” you shot back, staring at her like she’d grown two heads.
She glanced to her right at your other sister, Naomi—who clearly knew something. Had they been plotting behind your back? Before you could question her, Naomi’s husband pulled her onto the dance floor, and she winked at you over her shoulder.
“It’s two twin beds, don’t worry,” your sister said, though her lingering smirk didn’t help. “He was supposed to share with our cousin Liam, but Liam brought a plus one, so they're getting their own room. You’re stuck with Johnny.”
“You gave my king-size bedroom to Liam and his fucking booty call? What the fuck?” you retorted, already pissed off.
You had dreamed about that room, you’d picked it yourself when Phoebe made the reservation. And now it was being snatched away because your slutty cousin decided to bring someone he’d known for barely a month to a wedding? What sort of bad karma was that?
“What other choice did I have? You wanted Johnny to spend the night with Liam and his girl?” Phoebe deadpanned, taking a sip of her cocktail while very obviously eye-fucking her wife across the room.
“I heard he’s quite the manwhore himself,” you shot back. “Maybe he would’ve joined them.”
“Well, you’re no better yourself,” your sister replied, bursting into laughter at your words.
Taking a sip of champagne yourself, you laughed along with her. Maybe there was a reason you were the only single sister out of the three of you. You were the youngest, and you liked to think you were far too young to settle down anyway. You imagined Johnny was the same—especially considering he’d been in the army.
It wasn’t entirely clear what he used to do, your sister never explained it well, mostly because she didn’t really know herself. She’d only told you he’d had a major accident—something that had nearly sent him to an early grave. It left him with a nasty scar—obvious to anyone's eyes—on the side of his skull, a temperamental knee, and damaged hearing. Yet somehow, he still looked so full of life.
It had been a couple of years ago, but you doubted experiences like that ever truly left you—not when you’d come so close to death.
“Come on,” Phoebe said eventually, setting her glass down and grabbing your hand, tugging you toward the dance floor.
For the next few hours, you danced, laughed, and drank some more. It was a perfect night, your family, your friends, everyone glowing with happiness.
So you weren’t entirely sure how you ended up back pressed against Johnny's chest, your hips moving with his as you danced together, his hands softly lingering on your hips. All the tension that had been simmering during dinner finally tipped over, helped along by the champagne and sheer joy of the night. His body was warm and solid behind you, his stomach firm—and yet soft—against your back as his movements synced with yours.
Johnny was exactly how you’d imagined he’d be. Over dinner he’d been funny and charming, and now, with his body pressed close to yours, he was everything you expected and more: perfect. Strong thighs dusted with freckles, just like his arms and probably his torso. A trail of coarse hair ran along his arms and legs, and a hint of it peeked from the open collar of his shirt. His hair had grown into a soft, fluffy mullet that suited him far better than the severe cut he’d had when you first met him—back in his military days.
His fingers were long and steady, a light sprinkle of hair across the back of his hands making you bite your lip. It was unusual for someone to hit you this hard—sure, you’d admired people before, but the way Johnny made your mind go warm and your body react was almost overwhelming. You’d never felt anything quite like it.
Blaming the alcohol clouding your thoughts, you shook off the spiral—trying to focus on the moment instead. And just then, the music shifted, and Johnny gently turned you in his arms, pulling you in against his warm chest.
A slow, intimate song filled the dimly lit room, casting a softer atmosphere over the crowd—probably the venue’s subtle hint that the night was winding down. It was nearly 4 a.m., after all.
With your cheek resting on his shoulder and his arms draped securely around your waist, you felt like an old couple swaying through memories neither of you shared yet—moving together as though you’d always fit this way.
Suddenly, you felt him lean down—just a little—to reach your ear, the one not pressed against him. “Heard we’re bunk buddies tonight.”
You scoffed. Of course he knew. And from the sound of it, he was enjoying the idea far too much. Honestly, so were you. It wouldn’t exactly hurt to see what he looked like in something as simple and intimate as a bedtime routine—hair mussed, face relaxed.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, pretty boy. Twin beds,” you shot back, teasing the very obvious thrill in his voice.
“Ye think I’m pretty?” he returned immediately, eyes finding yours with laser precision. “And dinnae worry, I’m behavin'. If I weren’t, trust me, ye’d ken.”
He grinned, leaning in just a touch closer. “Ye dae realize we dinnae wear much under these kilts… right?”
His tone was low, amused, and far too pleased with himself—just enough to make your stomach flip without saying anything he shouldn’t. He wore a smug grin on his lips, one of his hands gently rubbing along your back.
“Don’t think there’s much to feel,” you replied with a soft smile, stepping away from him before things got too charged.
You returned to your table, finished the last of your champagne, then switched to water. After a final bite of leftover cake, you decided to call it a night. When you glanced back toward the dance floor, Johnny was still standing there, watching you leave with a warm, lopsided smile.
After giving the newlyweds one last hug, you made your way toward the old farmhouse where all the rooms were, your overnight bag in your hand. Your sister had pressed your room key into your hand earlier, winking far too cheekily as she mentioned there was only one key and that you’d need to wait for Johnny. But you didn't care about that, it's not like you were going to sleep straight.
Stepping outside, even for a few seconds, was awful. Your dress was thin, and your coat barely helped against the brutal Highland wind. You hurried toward the entrance, too focused on surviving the cold to notice the fast, heavy footsteps catching up behind you.
“Leaving without me? I thought we were having fun,” Johnny called out, making you gasp from the sudden sound and the mild heart attack he gave you.
Rolling your eyes, you gave him only a teasing smile before stepping inside the building. It was huge, and apparently built like a maze, because you and Johnny got lost almost immediately in the winding hallways. You’d slipped off your heels, and he’d snatched them right out of your hands to carry them himself, holding them like you’d handed him a fragile, priceless artefact. You rolled your eyes again but your thighs definitely betrayed you, squeezing to release some pressure.
Traitors, the both of them.
Still, it was fun. The two of you stumbled around, bumping into the occasional piece of antique furniture, trying random doors that were very obviously not yours. It felt like being teenagers sneaking back home after slipping out past curfew.
Finally, you found your room, and were met with a very big surprise.
Inside, instead of the two twin beds your sister had promised, sat the bedroom you’d chosen originally. And right in the middle of it was a large king-size bed. If you were honest with yourself, the pictures hadn’t done the room justice. The bed looked even more comfortable in person, and you couldn’t wait to collapse into it.
The only issue was… it was the only bed.
When you turned back toward Johnny, he turned at the same moment and your eyes met. You’d never noticed just how blue his eyes were, but with the exhaustion, the leftover champagne, and the soft lighting, they looked like an endless stretch of sky.
Snapping yourself out of the little trance they’d put you in, you spoke—just as he did.
“It’s okay, we’re adults, right?” “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”
You both stared at each other in surprise. Why would he think you’d make him sleep on the floor? That was ridiculous. You were both grown adults, well over twenty-five. It was no big deal. Right?
“Why would you sleep on the floor?” you asked, cringing and looking at him like he was the irrational one.
“Well, there’s only one bed?” Johnny replied like you were the irrational one.
“What are we, twelve?” you shot back, heading straight toward the bathroom with your bag.
For the next twenty minutes, you let the hot shower melt the day off your skin. Then you sat at the fancy vanity, taking in just how luxurious everything was. The brides clearly hadn’t held back on spoiling their close family and friends—this was easily the nicest place you’d ever stayed.
After your skincare and a quick pass with the hairdryer, you looked down at your “pyjamas.” An oversized T-shirt. Panties.
In your defence, this was your year-round sleep uniform. Not even when you were dating someone did you bother with matching silky pyjama sets. Buying them always felt pointless, the T-shirt worked just fine.
Now, though, it felt a tiny bit more complicated. You didn’t have bottoms, and you weren’t about to sleep in the jeans you’d set aside for tomorrow.
Shaking your head, you put on what you had. You were adults. It was fine. You both had self-control.
“Your turn,” you said, not looking at him.
You went straight to the bed—the side farthest from the door—and dropped your things on the floor. You couldn’t care less where they landed. All you wanted was sleep, your body felt wrung out from the excitement, dancing, and hours spent in heels.
Faintly, you heard the shower turn on. Johnny hadn’t fully closed the bathroom door, and from where you lay, you could see the blurred silhouette of his shadow on the opposite wall. The steam and shifting shadows almost looked artistic, the outline moving like something from a painting.
You shook your head, shut your eyes, and let out a long sigh as you sank into the mattress. Every ache in your feet slowly melted away. You’d been standing far too long tonight.
The door slid open, and you peeked one eye open. He’d been much quicker than you.
The sight was… unfair. Steam trailed after him as he stepped inside, his chest still damp while he ran a towel through his hair. Baggy sweatpants hung low on his hips, and it was clear he had no intention of putting a shirt on.
When he finished, he tossed the towel onto the floor—right beside his shoes, which were already abandoned in the middle of the room. The place looked like a mess, and you’d only been here less than an hour. Normally that might have bothered you, but exhaustion had stripped away your usual need for order. You simply didn’t care.
Once he switched off the lights and you felt the mattress dip behind you, you shifted onto your side, facing away from him. The bed was big enough that you wouldn’t touch, but his warmth still spread across the space like a quiet presence settling in.
You tried to turn on the heater earlier, but it hadn’t worked. The room wasn’t warming up anytime soon.
It was nearly impossible to fall asleep with how cold it was. The sheets were icy, the air bit at your skin, and the wind rattling against the window only made it worse. What made it infuriating was hearing Johnny’s breathing slowly even out, apparently he wasn’t struggling at all.
Of course not. Men ran warm like it was some kind of built-in cheat code. Creatures of Satan, the lot of them.
You couldn’t take it anymore. You sat up slightly, lifting the blankets from your upper body. Johnny was lying on his side with his back to you, but you saw his head tilt just a fraction, like he was trying to figure out what you were doing.
“You have another pair of joggers?” you whispered into the quiet.
“No,” he answered simply.
“Fuck,” you whispered back, thinking hard.
Maybe you could sneak into the common room and hunt for extra blankets, or a heavy throw—anything to get warmer. Before you could commit to that plan, Johnny shifted, rolling onto his other side until he faced you. His eyelids were heavy, like he was fighting sleep just to pay attention.
“We’re adults, right?” he murmured, throwing your own words gently back at you.
Frowning, you hummed at his question, too sleepy to try deciphering whatever he meant. You weren’t in the mood for a long conversation, you just wanted warmth and sleep. Who in their right mind got married in the Highlands in winter, right before Christmas?
“Lay down then,” Johnny said. He didn’t ask, he commanded.
Something in his tone flipped a switch in your brain, and you found yourself lying back down without a second thought.
Within seconds, his strong hand guided your shoulder, easing you onto your side before pulling you gently but firmly toward him. And you’d been right: he was unbelievably warm. His body heat spread across your back and shoulders, sinking through your cold skin like relief itself.
During the dance earlier, you’d felt hints of the firmness in his arms and the soft warmth and fat of his stomach—but now, with him pressed close behind you, every bit of that warmth doubled. One of his legs slid naturally between yours, sharing heat, and you instinctively tucked your icy toes against the edge of his lower leg where his sweatpants had ridden up.
Johnny hissed softly at the cold.
“Bloody fuck, ye’re freezing,” he murmured into your shoulder, pulling you even closer, wrapping you in his warmth like a blanket, his hand settling on the fat of your stomach, not caring one bit.
It worked almost immediately. Your eyelids grew heavier with each passing second, your body finally relaxing as the cold faded away. You placed your chilly hand against his bicep, giving it a small squeeze in silent thanks before sleep began tugging you under.
Soft groans and quiet whines were the first things you woke up to. Still foggy with sleep, your whole body reminded you just how little rest you’d gotten. From the heaviness in your limbs alone, you’d guess you’d slept maybe two or three hours. Which would make it… what? Seven? Eight in the morning? Far too early to be conscious.
The brides had planned a late brunch at 1 p.m. for all the guests staying in the house. You should have had plenty of time to sleep in.
You closed your eyes again, ready to sink back down, when the sound came again—behind you this time. The warm body pressed to your back was still whining softly, but now it was also moving. Slight, controlled, almost tentative rolls of his hips. Like he was trying not to wake himself.
Except you did feel it, the firm, unmistakable press of something hard against your ass.
“Johnny,” you murmured, hoping to calm him.
“Sorry,” he mumbled right into your neck, breath hot against your skin.
So he was awake. It wasn’t himself he was trying not to wake, it was you.
“Ye’re just so soft and warm,” the old military man whispered, a low, needy sound trailing after his words. “And ye smell so damn good.”
He actually whined, and it shouldn’t have made you throb the way it did. But the idea of a big, disciplined, battle-hardened man rubbing against you because he couldn’t help himself—because you were undoing him—was intensely erotic. Your brain went hazy with it. You’d dreamt of him being in your bed more times than you’d ever admit. Waking up like this felt like a small miracle.
“Put it in,” you breathed, voice thick with need. At this point, you weren’t falling back asleep until this ache was dealt with.
“What? Really?” Johnny whispered, barely audible, like speaking any louder might break the spell or change your mind.
“You scared, soldier?” you teased, pushing your hips back so your ass slid firmly against his hardened length.
You didn’t need to tell him twice, apparently. With messy, sleep-heavy movements, he shoved his joggers down—and you discovered he’d worn nothing beneath them—while his skilled but gentle fingers slid your panties aside. You expected him to push into you immediately, but he surprised you.
His fingers lingered first, brushing your entrance, already soaked, and he let out a soft, helpless whine at how wet you were for him. Then he circled your clit, slow and tender, drawing shivers from your still-waking body.
When you let out a needy whine of your own, you felt the curve of his smirk against your shoulder, right where your neck met skin he’d been kissing lazily for minutes now. He withdrew his fingers, shifted his leg between yours the same way you’d fallen asleep together, and eased forward.
The thick, warm head of his cock pressed into your wet heat.
Even with only the tip, you could feel how thick he was—girthier than anyone you’d ever had. But you wanted him. God, you wanted him so badly it bordered on irrational. Once he was fully inside you, his thick thighs pressed against the backs of yours, and both of you let out soft, breathy moans. Nothing loud, sleep still clung to your minds, but it felt good.
“I was dreaming about ye,” he murmured into your neck, his hips beginning a slow, lazy rhythm. “Had ye exactly like this in my dream.”
“Is it just as good?” you asked, voice catching on a little moan. The thought of him dreaming about you like that sent another warm pulse through you.
“My dream dinnae even compare,” he breathed, and the little Scottish rasp made you melt. “Ye’re so warm and wet, God.” He whined the words into your neck and pressed a firm, needy kiss against your skin.
His hips never sped up. The pace stayed steady, unhurried, each slow stroke angling perfectly against your G-spot. It wasn’t wild or overwhelming—it was soft, deep, intimate. Far too intimate for two people who barely knew each other. But you didn’t care. It felt right, like a warm, lazy build of pleasure that wrapped around both of you.
Little breathy moans and faint whines slipped out as your bodies rocked together under the blankets. The gentle motion, the pleasure, his lips brushing your neck, and his hand laced with yours… all of it began to lull you back toward sleep. And from how sloppy and slow his thrusts were getting, you could tell he was fighting the same pull.
“’M sleepy…” you whispered, sinking your head further into the pillow.
“Me too, bonnie,” Johnny murmured, still pushing his hips forward even as fatigue tugged at him. “Could fall asleep just like this.” His breath warmed the side of your neck, his voice thick with exhaustion and bliss.
The only answer you managed was a soft hum as you finally lost the fight against your heavy eyelids, letting them fall shut. His hips had slowed to a near-stop, but the warm weight of him inside you brought a comfort you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.
You tightened your grip on his hand, pulling your intertwined fingers closer to your chest. He squeezed back weakly. The soft kiss he pressed to your neck was the last thing you felt before sleep pulled you under.
You pushed the salmon toast into your mouth—way more than you could reasonably handle—but you were starving.
Waking up with Johnny still inside you, already getting hard again, had led to… interesting events. Ones you were still feeling between your legs. Now he was sitting across from you at the long table, looking annoyingly handsome, his foot brushing yours under the table every so often like he couldn’t help himself.
Your sister, Phoebe, sat right beside you, and you could feel her eyes flicking toward you again and again. It was getting on your nerves. As soon as you swallowed the last of your toast, you turned toward her.
“What?” you said, still chewing a bit.
“Slept well?” she asked, wearing that knowing smirk you’d hated since childhood.
You narrowed your eyes. She knew something. She definitely knew something. That look of hers—like she saw straight through you—was unmistakable.
“Sure. Bed was comfortable,” you said, waving the question off and turning back to your plate.
“Oh, I bet it was,” she laughed, lightly mocking. “Liam was pissed this morning.”
“Really, why? Didn’t get his dick wet?” you muttered, rolling your eyes, not connecting anything at all.
If you and Johnny got the original bed, then your cousin Liam had ended up with the room with the twin beds. That made sense. You were just tired—and maybe still a little cock-drunk—to catch the implication behind Phoebe’s tone.
“Well, I know someone who did,” she teased, the smirk growing by the second.
You frowned, turning to her. “Phoebe, I don’t need to know what you did with—”
You stopped mid-sentence when you noticed her gaze wasn’t on your face. It was fixed on your neck. Specifically, the side Johnny had been sucking on for hours.
“Oh.”
Heat rushed up your cheeks. You yanked your sweater higher over your shoulder—where it should’ve been the whole time. It must’ve slipped down.
Across the table, you heard Johnny’s quiet chuckle. Phoebe let out a full, delighted laugh. You shot her a murderous look before scanning the table to make sure your parents hadn’t noticed. Thankfully, they were wrapped up in a conversation at the far end.
Just as you were about to tell your sister to shut up, she leaned in and placed a hand over yours.
“You’re welcome,” she said, giving your hand a little pat.
You're usually padding down the stairs in search of coffee by the time he's leaving for work, still sleepy eyed and yawning. Adorable.
But this morning, there's no creak in the bottom step, no sound of Duchess's collar jangling as she follows behind you.
He frowns.
Takes the steps two at a time, worry starting to grow in his gut, an unsettling feel spreading through his bones. Even something as small as this, probably inconsequential, is enough to knock him askew.
You're a lump under the blankets, curled into a ball with your nose tucked down into his pillow.
"Hey baby," he gently squeezes your shoulder, holds the back of his hand against your forehead. No fever.
"Hi daddy." Your eyes blink open, cracked into slits before fully coming around, and you yawn. "What time is it?"
"Almost eight. You didn't come down for breakfast. Feelin' alright?" A little frown tugs at your lips, wrinkles your brow.
"Yeah, sorry, don't know how I slept through my alarm." You yawn again. You seem fine. Eyes clear, color good, no fever. There's nothing he can see that would suggest you're sick.
"You sure?" Maybe he should stay home. If you're on the verge of coming down with something, he should be here when it hits.
You nod and reach for his free hand, twisting your fingers through his with a short pulse.
"'m sure, go to work." His eyes narrow.
"Since when do you give the orders around here, little girl?" Your giggle is like glass, icicles in winter, clear and perfect.
"I'm okay daddy, I promise." He presses his lips to your forehead, and then your nose.
"Call me if anything changes." You nod.
"Yes daddy."
Things do change.
At lunch, his phone rings. He's just walking back from overseeing a drill when it starts to vibrate in his pocket, your name flashing across the screen. His stomach twists.
"What's wrong?" He bites into the phone, shoulders immediately tensing.
"It's nothing," you croak, "I just started my period early." He's in his office now, closing up his laptop and sticking files back into his drawers, work saved for tomorrow.
"I'm sorry baby. I'll be home soon."
"It's okay. You don't have to." Your voice is thin, fragile. You get cramps in your thighs, your belly, your back, bad enough you end up in bed for the first two days, unable to really function. You've assured him it's normal, just another unfortunate symptom of PCOS, but he can't stand to see you suffer.
"I'll be home soon," he repeats, closing his door, nodding to a few privates as he makes for the parking lot. "Stay in bed." You sigh.
"Okay."
You're tucked up in the middle of the bed, Duchess curled up at your back. He has to practically force her away, stubborn thing, and your lashes are wet with tears when he turns you onto your back. "Oh sweetheart."
"I don't feel good." Your lower lip trembles, and he drags you to his chest, palm cupping the back of your head.
"I know baby, I know." There's a towel on top of the sheets underneath you, and he skates a hand down the bed to your underwear, feeling for the edge of a pad. "It's okay." He tucks you back in, kisses your cheek. "Stay put." He knows you wouldn't move regardless, but the direction, the command, it helps. Sorts you out. You sigh.
"'kay."
The first thing is a heating pad. He grabs the one from the bathroom and plugs it in beside the bed, pulling the cord long to snake it under the blankets and fold it against your belly, the tops of your thighs, sliding the switch to medium heat. Not hot enough to burn or irritate your skin, while still enough to get you some relief.
"Did you take anything?" You shake your head, and he goes for the muscle relaxers, the prescription you have specifically for this. He sits you up gently, as carefully as he can manage. "Open." You do, sticking out your tongue, and he places the pill on it, grabbing for the glass of water on the bedside table, lifting it to your lips. "Drink," you swallow greedily, and guilt twists beneath his ribs, your empty water bottle glaring at him. "Good girl, that's it." He lays you back into the pillows, pulling the blankets down just enough so he can get a good look at you, the blood on your thighs. You don't always catch it in time, and by then you've already started bleeding, but you're in too much pain and too drained to do much more than stick a pad to your underwear and lay down on top of a towel.
He stays right there next to you, waiting for the drugs to kick in, stroking your back until you turn truly limp, pliant and he hauls you up. You blink in confusion. "Daddy?"
"Shower, sweet girl." He swings your feet to the floor, and pulls you up to stand. "C'mon, I've got you."
He sits you on the toilet for a moment while he rifles through a drawer. You immediately cover your face with your hands when he drops into a crouch in front of you, a soft pat to your thigh. "Lift up."
"Daddy-" He raises an eyebrow, and you swallow your protest as he pulls your underwear and heavy pad down your legs, throwing them towards the laundry basket to deal with later. Your knees knock together immediately, and he shakes his head.
"Spread your legs baby," you're wet with blood, his fingers staining as he swipes his thumb through your folds, up towards your clit.
"I'm b-bloody..." embarrassment flares in your eyes, and he shakes his head, thumb rolling over your clit in a circle. "Daddy-" you protest, fingers curving around his wrist. "It's... it's gross." He kisses the inside of your thigh.
"Whose pussy is this?" He pushes your legs open wider, teeth nipping at your skin. When you don't answer right away, he bites, and you tremble.
"Yours," he flicks your clit, pinches it, and you whine. "It's your pussy, daddy."
"That's right." His finger slides inside you, slowly pumping in and out, building in an easy rhythm, one that makes you flutter around him. "It's daddy's pussy. Can you tell daddy not to touch his pussy?" You shake your head, and he rumbles his approval. "Good girl. I'm going to make you come, make you feel better." Your instinct is still to try to close your legs, shame trying to beat out everything else, and your knees instinctively jerk towards one another when a second finger pushes inside you. "Keep your legs open sweetheart, nice and wide."
"I'm trying," you groan, lashes fluttering.
He works you up easily, building and building the tension in your muscles, gently encouraging you to let go, to let him make you feel better, his mouth now on yours with soft, tender kisses. This isn’t urgent or fiery or intense, it’s care. Methodical, intentional care, the kind that turns you boneless. When you come, it isn’t with a scream, just a shudder, a languid whimper and a pant, eyes half lidded and locked on him. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, pulling his hand free to unwrap the tampon he pulled from the drawer. “One more thing and we’ll get in the shower.” Your blissed out smile turns downward just a bit and you wriggle in his hold. “Easy baby, almost done.” You don’t fight him as he notches the applicator inside you and inserts it, tossing the leftover plastic and wrapper in the trash. “Good job. Ready for your shower?”
“Mhm.” You nod into him, and it doesn’t take too much to get you up and in the shower, your body still limp in his hold, docile as he massages soap into your skin, gets you cleaned up.
After that, it’s a slow walk through getting you dried off, into your favorite pajamas, and back in bed with the heating pad. You’re almost asleep when he slides in beneath the blankets and pulls you to his chest, back to front, his mouth just over your ear. “Sweet dreams baby.”
“Love you daddy.” You mumble, and he presses one last kiss to your temple before you drift off.
Probably will hate Mr. Riley himself after this but HEY.. me personally I would've fucked him up
You can feel it before he even opens his mouth. That something-isn’t-right feeling. That cold, heavy pressure in your chest. Like the air’s gone stale. Like the earth’s tilting and no one told you to brace yourself.
He’s standing in the doorway, hands clenched at his sides. Boots still on. Jacket unzipped. Like he couldn’t decide if he was coming or going, just ended up here out of instinct.
Your place. Yours. The only place he’s ever been able to breathe.
“Hey,” you say, voice tentative, because he hasn’t looked at you yet. “Everything alright?”
His jaw ticks. Just once. He finally lifts his head. Looks at you. And that’s when it sinks in. No, it’s not alright. Matter of fact, everything is far from alright.
You sit up straighter on the couch. The TV still flickers behind you, some movie you stopped paying attention to ages ago. The whiskey glass in your hand suddenly feels too warm. Too small. Placed aside subconsciously.
And then he says your name. Soft. Brittle. Like it’s the first time it’s hurt him to say it.
“I need you to let me say this before you say anything back.”
You freeze, just accepting this would be the kind of confession that might shatter whatever world still exists between you.
“I’ve fucked up before,” he starts, voice low, cracking just slightly. “I’ve made bad calls. Hurt people. Lost people. But this—”
He drags a hand down his face. Rubs at his eyes like he’s trying to scrub them clean of the last twenty-four hours. Of the weight he’s carried into your home.
“This is different.”
“There’s someone else,” he says.
You stare at him. You stand up, your body moving faster than your mind ever did. You just step back, and stare at the man in front of you, hoping he doesn't say the words you thought you’d never hear.
The syllables echo. Empty. Hollow. Until they start to land—sharp, jagged pieces breaking open inside your chest.
He sees it. Hears the sharp breath you take, the soundless recoil. But he powers through it, like a man walking into the fire he lit himself.
“She doesn’t mean anything to me. I need you to know that first.”
“It was one time. One night. After a deployment. We weren’t... We weren’t good then. I thought—” He cuts himself off. “No excuses. Just the truth.”
You blink, slow. Your body’s trying to catch up with your mind. But your mind is... blank. Like your brain short-circuited and your heart got left to bleed out on the carpet. You breathe in and press your hands to your thighs like grounding will stop the shaking.
It doesn’t.
He finally meets your eyes. And his voice gets even quieter. “She’s pregnant.”
Silence. That’s all there is. Thick and awful and final.
You feel heat rise to your face. Not anger. Not yet. It’s just humiliation.
Because you didn’t see this coming. Because you let yourself believe he was yours. Because somewhere deep down, you believed that what you had was... solid. Sacred.
“She told me last week,” he says. “I needed to be sure before I came to you. Got the test. It’s real. I’m gonna be a father.”
You tilt your head down and laugh. Disbelief. A sharp, empty exhale that surprises even you. But nothing’s funny. It’s shock.
The tears don’t come right away. They just build like pressure, like static. Like grief. Grief for something that hasn’t even ended yet, but already feels dead.
“I didn’t love her. I don’t love her. I’ve only ever—” He steps forward. “It’s always been you.”
And when you finally speak, your voice isn’t cruel. It isn’t screaming. It’s quiet. Hollow. You look at him, theres nothing behind your eyes, he’s not used to it. Never seen it before. Like he just blew the fuse holding you together.
“Why are you here?”
His eyes widen. “Because I—”
“No,” you cut in. “Why are you here, Simon?”
He finally kneels in front of you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can see the rawness in his eyes. The pain. The regret. The shame.
You look at him now—really look. His face, the lines in it, the panic behind his eyes. You’ve never seen him like this. And somehow, it makes it worse.
“Are you here because you love me?” you ask, voice tight. “Or because you’re scared of what loving her would mean?”
He shakes his head, fast, like denial alone could fix this.
“There is no her,” he says. “There never was.”
“Except now there is,” you snap, and your voice finally breaks. “Because you made sure of that.”
He goes silent.
And you hate how much he still looks at you like you’re something he wants to protect.
“This isn’t about my career. Or my past. It’s about us,” he says.
“Do you know what it’s like,” you say, the tears finally slipping free, “to stand here and feel second to something that should’ve never happened?”
“I’m man enough to own this, but I’m beggin’ you—don’t walk away without hearin’ me say it one more time. I love you.”
“I waited for you,” you whisper. “I chose you. Again and again, even when you were hard to love, even when you disappeared into yourself and left me wondering if I was enough.”
“You are enough,” he says, voice breaking.
You shake your head. “Not if I have to compete with a fucking baby, Simon. Are you even hearing yourself?”
He swallows hard. Looks down at his hands—those same hands that held you, protected you, pulled you out of every fight like you were something sacred.
Now they just tremble.
The silence that falls is different now. It’s loud. Thundering. Your voice drops to a near-whisper.
“I would’ve taken anything from you, Simon. Anything. Pain. Distance. Even heartbreak. But not this.”
You don’t realize you’re moving until your legs carry you. He doesn’t follow.
Good. Because if he touches you now, you don’t know what you’ll do.
“You broke something,” you say, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you’re holding your ribs together. “And I don’t think you even understand how deep that goes.” You feel physically sick.
He opens his mouth.
“No,” you say quickly, backing up a step. “Don’t. Not right now.”
He’s still kneeling, still watching you like he’s waiting to be punished.
And that makes you ache in some twisted, wrong way, because you can see how sorry he is.
But sorry doesn’t put your heart back together.
Sorry doesn’t unmake a child.
Sorry doesn’t mean he’s not hers now too.
You walk past him. Not fast. Not loud. Just... done.
You pause near the hallway, hand resting on the wall to steady yourself. Your chest rises and falls with the effort of holding it together.
“You need to go,” you say softly.
He still doesn’t move.
“Please, Simon.”
It’s the “please” that does it. The crack in your voice. The finality.
He rises slowly, like gravity’s doubled in strength. You don’t turn around, but you hear the door open. Hear him hesitate. And then you hear it close.
You sink to the floor. With a fucking knife to your chest.
Hello hello hello!! This is my brain vomit of the day. GN!reader!
Simon finds pleasure in being called a pervert.
He hates when you wear perfume, when you wear deodorant — makes his nose itch. Of course — when you two go out to events, he reluctantly lets you out of the door, smelling like flowers, or sometimes like vanilla, something other than the sweet smell you naturally have.
Simon loves how you smell. He’s a disgusting, disgusting man when it comes to you — when he creaks open the front door after a long mission, just to smell perfume, or the detergent of your clothes, the shampoo of your hair… Don’t get him wrong, those all smell amazing too — but not as good as his lover. Those smells make his nose turn up.
You don’t even get a word in to him, a hello, before he’s holding you close, stuffing his nose into the corner of your neck, breathing in your scent like he’s snorting drugs.
Because to him, your scent is his drugs.
Despite the complains loosely falling from your lips, he’s still breathing you in, holding his breath like he holds you in his arms — and only breathing out when you push yourself from his arms. Not like he cares. He’s already harder than metal from the familiar scent alone.
And forbid he’s home when you get back from the gym.
He’s holding you down the moment you walk in the door, smelling your sweat, smelling you — oh, but don’t you worry, he’ll make sure you don’t have anywhere to go tomorrow.
Because even if you had somewhere to go, you definitely won’t have the legs to walk. He’ll eat you alive, devour the scent from your body, and rinse and refresh the next day.
Because he knows you. You love how he gets. And hell if he doesn’t love you too.
—
Thank you for reading my very first post here 🙂↕️🙂↕️ I have requests open but I am new to tumblr so it will take a while for me to learn the basics!!
He is a sniffer, not drugs or anything, but your underwear, panties and bras, he loves them and whenever he does the laundry or finds some scattered around your bedroom floor he puts them to his nose and inhales deeply
He also sometimes steals all your panties and pants so you are forced to wear a skirt/dress withnothing underneath, then his fingers somehow always find their way to your pussy under the dinner table
the smelling is to an extend where he especially loves your underwear after you went to the gym and its all drenched in your sweet scent
also, Simon LOVES falling asleep with his fingers in your pussy, just the way you would move around them in your sleep and the smell they have in the morning, did I mention he likes smelling you?
he doesn’t even look up from his phone when he says it.
just sprawled across the couch, one arm behind his head, legs spread like he’s on a throne instead of a beat-up cushion that still smells like smoke and sweat.
“ya know, if you’re gonna walk around like that, you oughta be ready to get fucked.”
you freeze. halfway across the living room, wearing nothing but a big t-shirt and the tiniest pair of shorts you forgot you even owned.
“like what?” you ask, already feeling the heat crawl up your throat.
he finally lifts his gaze.
smirks.
“like a mouth-watering little tease,” he says. “jesus. i can see the crease of your pussy from here.”
you make a shocked sound—half gasp, half laugh—and wrap your arms around yourself like that’ll help.
he scoffs.
“don’t act shy. you bent over the fridge earlier like you wanted me to notice. ass all high, thighs squeezin’ together like you were tryna get off on the cold air.”
you open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, lazy and cruel.
“if i pulled your shorts down right now, you’d be wet already. bet your fuckin’ panties are stickin’ to you.”
you stare. breath caught in your chest.
he grins wider.
“c’mon. lemme see. won’t even touch. just wanna take a look. see if i’m right.”
his eyes drop, heavy-lidded and hungry.
“you do like it when i talk like this, huh? your nipples are hard.”
you cross your arms tighter, turn to walk away, but his voice chases after you—
low and amused and absolutely depraved.
“run off if you want. just know the second i hear that shower start, i’m gonna be sittin’ here jerkin’ off with the door open. loud. so you know what you did to me.”
// 18+ ,, mentions of stalking, breaking and entering, implied improper usage of a pen, male masturbation
No one had ever seen Simon like this. Vocal, excited.. It was out of character and frankly, terrifying. He was always going on about some girl. No one even knew he had a girlfriend but he talked about you all the time.
About how you’d always forget to lock your car at night but that was fine for when you left things inside so he could get them! About how much he liked the way you smelled, even your dirty clothing was still sweet smelling. About how you slept so deeply you didn’t even notice him crawling into bed with you.
And that was the thing about you…you didn’t even know how perfect you were! How otherworldly. A piece of trash to you was a relic to him. Something touched by your lips, held between your fingers, stained with the ghost of your warmth.
Simon stared at the gum wrapper in his hands as he stroked his cock painfully fast, his eyes dilating as the image of your tongue dragging up the paper filled his eyes., The way you took the strip into your mouth before tossing the scrap into the trash can.
Did you always do it like that? Lick your gum wrappers like a cock hungry whore as you popped it into your mouth? He’d have to teach you not to do that. Imagine how many other people would see you..
His pace increased, almost painful as he hunched over the wrapper. His forehead resting against the desk.
It made it worse that he KNEW you. That you smiled at him when passing him on the way to class like he was just Simon, sweet, harmless Simon. You shared playlists, swapped notes in class, even brought him to your dorm to study. Friends… that’s what you were. That word made his skin crawl with hunger.
Because friends didn’t get to see what he saw. Friends didn’t memorize the way your lips curled when you said his name, or mark the exact time your bedroom light flicked off each night. Friends didn’t track your scent between classes, didn’t pocket your hair ties, didn’t lie awake rehearsing the moment they’d finally tell you, SHOW you… just how much you meant.
He convulsed against the desk, knuckles white as his release spilled into his hand. His breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving, the gum wrapper pressed flat against his tongue. A poor imitation of your mouth, but close enough to make him shudder. Like a kiss he’d stolen.
What Simon didn’t know was that you knew about the gum. And the panties he’d stolen from your laundry basket, the key he had made for your car, and the real reason your ex boyfriend mysteriously had a broken leg and decided you two needed a break.
He didn’t know you’d pocketed a pen in the midst of a study session and..imagined it was more than a pen.
You’d been following him for months, far longer than he’d been following you.
And now, watching him fumble nervously with that gum wrapper in his hand, you felt a dark satisfaction settle deep in your chest. You’d hoped he’d pick it up, after all. Though, you didn’t expect him to use it as jerk off material. God, he gets cuter everyday.
cw : fucking john !! slight somno and toxicity, age gap
you’re restless. you’ve been restless, ever since everything just disappeared. you didn’t even realize how much you relied on your sex toys until you overheard simon telling john about his little scheme, how you won’t find out necessarily quickly until you really need it. need what? you blocked out the sound of his voice, not to even get a hint of what the hell he could be talking about.
so you lay in bed, for the seventh day since, just staring at the ceiling. your fingers don’t work like they used to—had it really been that long? you sigh at your stupid college brain, you could’ve atleast gone out every once in a while to get fucked, but what would you get out of that if john was home? your thighs squeeze at the thought. it’s not too late—only about eleven p.m. he could still be up. all those subtle touches and gentle strokes of your clit couldn’t just be friendly, he’d wanna help you.
the hallway is dark, simon isn’t home, but the faint blur of the tv’s light catches your eye. you walk to the living room, gripping the edge of the wall, just to peak. inhaling sharply, john’s body is lying lazily on the couch, pull-over blanket just draped over him while his arm rests above his head. but his eyes are closed and his chest is rising slowly, you catch your breath.
he’s asleep, and you’re hesitant. he comes to you when you're sleeping, and you’ve never winced, never turned him away.
what’s the worst thing he could do? maybe laugh in your face, but maybe this is what simon was talking about.
you walk up to his resting body, they have to be messing with you for a reason,
but even if they weren’t—after pulling the covers off of him—this is what they get for throwing all your shit out, you sit on him. your thighs on either side of his burly lap. your cunt swells at the sight of him, you grind down and bite your lip at the slight groan he lets out.
you’re falling for it.
you lean down and press kisses. romantic kisses, it’s been romantic all this time, at least you hope for it. and it’s been so long, you hope you remember how to kiss properly. part of you hopes he’ll wake up, to show you how. how to move your lips to make him feel good, hold your hips to grind down on him in a way you’re connected. you lean back up, back arching at the way you’re slowly rubbing your clothed pussy against the hidden girth below his jeans. you wanna get him all comfy, so that he feels no shame falling asleep in a shared flat with just his boxers on—both simon and john. you squint, peeping down at his tired face, imagining his cock underneath is all leaky and hard because of some soft grinding. you study his face some more, his coming face must be so fucking hot—
“mmhm…birdie..? is tha’ you?”
“john—’msorry–i—”
he just groans, right after getting a tight hold of your hips and humping right back up into your mound. you squeak, squeezing his shoulders as he moves his hips in waves, trying to hit your vulva’s sweet spots with the zip of his jeans.
“what’s the matter, love? need to let off a bit o’ steam?” he sits back better, straighter posture with his hands rubbing gently on the fat of your waist, as if he wasn’t trying to replicate fucking you. and it’s working, he’s got you like a kitty in heat. you slide your needy hands up his neck, feeling the light scruff there on your fingertips, only making you more feral, “you know what it is, john.”
of course he knows, and what he does is give you a light grin, just behind his mustache. maybe softening his touches like before, you’ll comply, like warm butter on his skin and you’re just ready to melt. it’ll hide the fact he’s been overzealous, it’s a fucking miracle he’s been able to control himself for this long. just finally, he has his hands on you with the intention to break you open.
so what if you’re not a virgin, you certainly felt the fear creep back to you when you fished out his heavy cock. absolutely like nothing you’ve seen and awfully perfect. he squeezes your face like the greedy brat you hide, “what’s it you want, hmm?” you look at him, in slight disbelief considering his hard cock is in your hands, as if your drooling cunt isn’t raw and dripping on the leather couch. “answer me, bon. i don’t take silence for an answer.” hasn’t it been obvious this entire time? “baby, you know it’s better not to make me wait.”
your mouth drops gently, “your cock. want you—want this.” he smiles back like it was just common sense, he takes you carefully, hovering over his thick length. don’t have to worry about lube or spit to fuck ‘er open, he thinks, practically drooling all over me. for me.
taglist :: @thbidkbutok
thankq for all the positive feedback on the last one hehe !!
