I like $witch men and $ubmissive women || 29 || || I like the idea of gRape (CNC) || (Used to be WonderKittyB!tches95) I guess we are back to square one. My dm's are always open to those in need, please feel free to message me if you need to vent. I am mostly friendly.
The beast in a human skin suit that barely fits, bursting at the poorly sewn seams.
He's depraved, he's terrifying, he's ruthless. And he doesn't try to be civil, especially when his entire life has been anything but.
Now, that makes him sound like he's evil by intention. I mean, looking at him... you'd think little good of him before you're scrambling for the hills (given he hasn't decided to chase you, yet).
He's a stocky, broad shouldered man with generous layers of fat to pad him out just right, his build nothing short of predatory. His hands are meaty with thick, fleshy fingers and grimy fingernails that are always marinating in a fresh layer of an unfrotunate victim's blood. The very hands that wield a damn near ancient chainsaw with almost unsettling ease, unceremoniously driving the blunt, rusty teeth of the whirring machine deep into whatever poor thing is on the other end.
Not to mention the most obvious: a mask made of human flesh that wraps around his lower face and jaw, secured by a series of practiced stitches (some his own, others Luda May's handiwork.)
It's messy, it's unsettling and most of all, it's human.
In more ways than one.
But, surely, that's the worst part about him, right? It doesn't get worse than that... does it?
Oh, how wishful.
You haven't seen death until you've looked into those eyes (if they can even be called that). There's something about them that makes them seem less like complex sensory organs and more like confessions.
Sinful, quiet, blunt confessions that would send violent shivers cascading down your back. Confessions of his day's questionable 'work', confessions of his wrecked childhood, confessions of his most implicit thoughts.
His eyes themselves? They're hooded, obscured by dark, dense brows with circles underneath that look more like bruises.
And they damn well could be.
Deep, nebulae-like splotches of colour that bloom over his sunken undereyes, half-hidden by leather. And every time his calloused fingertips press down against them? A dull ache blossoms and pulses under his scarred skin, reddened by sunburn from the merciless Texas sun.
Each throb under his skin is a story with a bad ending, left behind by his last meal's sorry attempts to escape.
And let me be clear: they never escape.
Thomas Hewitt makes sure of it, personally.
creds: @mieluno thank u lots for such pretty dividers! ^_^
summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)
contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
The lamplit room is filled with Jack’s exclusion from it.
You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. You’re still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.
He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. He’d slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom — where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.
“Do you wanna order food?” you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.
“What?!” Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.
“I said, do you—” You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans he’d arrived in. He’s shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again — then he’s painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.
You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.
He never does.
More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”
Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.
“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.
“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”
You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”
“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”
Your frown deepens at his joke.
“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.
“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”
“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.
“I just gotta go now. Okay?”
At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”
Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.
You stew in his absence and forget to eat.
Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.
You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.
Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.
You don’t move for six minutes straight.
He timed it.
“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.
You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.
“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”
He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.
Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”
“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.
He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.
“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”
You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.
“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.
It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.
“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.
You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”
“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.
“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”
“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”
Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.
The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.
“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”
“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.
Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.
“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”
The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”
“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.
“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.
“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”
It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.
It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.
Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”
“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”
“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”
By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.
If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.
So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.
Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.
Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.
You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.
“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.
“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.
You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.
“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”
“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”
Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”
“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.
Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”
“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”
You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.
“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.
“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”
“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.
“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”
You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.
“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.
“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.
“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.
“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”
Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.
Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.
Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.
The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.
It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.
You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.
“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.
Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.
“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.
Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.
“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”
“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.
It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”
You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.
With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.
Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.
“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.
Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.
“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.
You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.
“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”
You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.
You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.
The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.
“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”
You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.
“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”
“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”
“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.
“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”
Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.
“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”
“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”
“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.
You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.
“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.
“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.
“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.
“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.
“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”
“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”
“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”
“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.
“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”
You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.
“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.
You nod once.
“What about a headache?”
“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”
“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”
You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.
“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.
Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.
“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.
“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.
“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.
You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.
“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”
“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”
He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Can I ask you a stupid question?”
“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”
“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”
“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.
“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”
You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.
“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”
Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”
“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”
Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.
His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.
You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.
“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.
“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”
“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”
“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”
“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”
“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”
“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.
“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”
“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.
He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.
You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.
Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.
“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.
“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.
“I’m sorry about, Louie—”
“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.
His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.
“Do what?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”
(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)
“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”
Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.
“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”
“I didn’t bail on you—”
“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”
“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”
“It wasn’t.”
“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.
“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”
“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”
You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.
Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.
“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”
“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”
“Because you aren’t acting like it—”
“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”
“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”
“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”
You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.
“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”
The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.
The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.
Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.
“What?”
“Honey.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”
“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”
“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.
You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.
“Ow,” you whimper.
“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”
“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”
“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.
“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”
You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.
“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.
summary: almost caught having a steamy makeout session with your older not-so-boyfriend boyfriend in the middle of the emergency department by a certain pretty D.Mohan, getting ushered out of the room to deal with a violent patient. Jack thinks he’s doing what’s best for you. (2.4K) (PART 1) part 2
Characters: Jack Abbot x fem reader , x platonic! dennis Whittaker, x samira mohan ( love her, mother)
Content: 18+, established relationship, jealousy, angst, no comfort yet! this is part 1, no spoilers for s2!, mentions of wounds and medical treatment, allusions to smut! MDNI
“ L/N, I've got the patients' charts right here—" Harmless eyebag Dennis calls, one of his hands holding the large ER tablet and his other hand gripping the room's curtain tightly. His tousled, dirty brown curls kiss his eyebrows, his now raised eyebrows. “Oh! Should I come back later? -” He immediately turns around, dropping the tablet onto the floor. “ Crap! Crap! Im so sorry!” Bending his knees with his head turned down, Denniss slender hands shakily grip the edge of the black cover tablet.
Your hand twitches, holding the needle holder in one hand and tweezers in the other. “Dennis-” You hiss through gritted teeth, tightening your grip on the utensils. “ How many times have I told you not to barge in when I'm doing sutures?”
The frustration begins to vibrate through your body, feeling it in your throat and head. Not literally. Just theoretically, with the way your throat is ready to produce the vowels for the meanest words within the English language and your head's evil, evil thoughts about the poor little Nebraskan farm boy. Who is now looking at you like a deer caught in headlights.
You part your lips, ready to bark at Whittaker, when you feel a rugged, calloused hand rubbing the side of your outer thigh. From the side, completely unknown to Dennis or anyone walking by, the fully pulled curtain to one of the ER beds.
The warmth from his fingertips seeps through your black scrubs, feeling it against your skin like hundreds and hundreds of tiny needles poking at you, so tenderly and so softly. It grounds you from the outburst you were about to spew at Dennis.
He clears his throat, trying to straighten his back. Failing miserably, the open wound on his back makes him furrow his pretty eyebrows. The sound that fell from his mouth was even prettier if that was possible. A deep, guttural groan makes your eyes widen, and your legs quite the opposite.
“ Ja-” Clearing your throat, tilting your head to the side hurriedly. Ponytail swooshing in the air, brushing against his chiseled face. A breathy laugh escapes his chapped lips, a deep breathy chuckle that's sending butterflies swarming through the pit of your stomach and warmth to your face and hands.
“ Dr. Abbot, did I accidentally nudge you?” You murmur. Warm and gentle, almost melodic in a way. The kind of softness reserved for someone cherished and clement. Not for a deeply emotionally scarred man, built from restraint and trauma. Your attending. Much, much older attending.
“Don't worry about it, Dr.L/N, just keep..” He takes a deep breath in.
You watch closely, the way he draws in a deep breath, like a depraved woman. The slow drag of it. How his chest rises, pecs visible through his black scrubs. The way his tongue sweeps over his bottom lip. The same bottom lip you tug and pull with your teeth during late nights in the hospital bathroom. But never at home. Home is tightly restricted to shirtless him draped over your bed like a human heated blanket, with his biceps resting underneath your head. His salt and pepper hair toussled against your pillow. Your pillow, well, it has become his. Perfectly mended to his face, the same face you spend hours and hours staring at when you shouldn't be. Like now.
“ Just keep going.” He says, with a tight-lipped smile etched into his tired face.
You mimic his behaviour, also taking a deep breath in. Annoyance fills you as you look back at Dennis. But the annoyance quickly fades away when you look at his big blue eyes; he looks like a kicked puppy. Oh god you can't be mad at him. Poor little Hucklerry.
“ Just leave them there,” You point your elbow towards the workstation that's scattered with colorful pens and a notepad.
“ Right..right..right! I-ill just leave them right-right here!” Dennis plants the tablet onto the workstation, on top of your pens. This sends the pens flying off the table, scattering to the floor.
“ Just go, Nebraska!” You say, tightening your grip on the needle holder, as you tie another knot with the surgical thread.
That earns another unfortunate, fortunate for you, groan from the grouchy older man sitting on the hospital bed with his full-back muscles presented to you like a bucket of gold coins.
Dennis does a full 180 spin, stuffing his sweaty hands into the pocket of his black scrub pants. Your eyes immediately drop down to his ankles, his bare ankles. The hem of his pants hug the top of his ankles tightly, too tightly. Like he's scrunched them up to get ahead of a flood. Stupid idiot picked up scrubs 2 times smaller than his size. That earns a warm smile from you, losing the tenseness in your shoulders and back. Now, finally relaxing.
“ You gonna finish suturing this old man or are you going to keep me waiting?” Jack murmurs, his voice soft yet roughened on the edges. Like a shot of vodka sliding down you didn't know you needed on a Friday night.
“ Drop the attitude, and I might kiss it better.” You whisper softly, your forearm resting against his buff shoulder. You can feel him flex the muscle beneath you, cushioning the hands he loves so much.
He curls the corner of his mouth, letting out a quiet, tame chuckle. “You're gonna kiss me anyway, arentcha sweetheart?” Voice husky and breathy, each word sliding across you like heat. Tilting his head to the side, against your forearm.
You purposefully yank the thread into another knot, furrowing your eyebrows with your tongue sticking out the side of your lip. Peeking through the obvious grin on your lips.
He lets out a loud yelp, nuzzling his head against your forearm like a child. That earns a loud laugh from you, and you softly nudge your elbow against his head. “ Sit up straight! Or do you want your sutures to come out wonky? You're worse than a child, Dr Abbot.”
He traces your waist with his warm hands, sending shivers down your spine. Unconsciously arching your back a bit, leaning towards his touch without even realising.
“ Come onnnnn…” he drags the word out, breath thick with cigarette smoke and a sharp tang of nicotine gum. It makes you scrunch your nose and your eyes watery. Drawing your eyebrows together while pressing your lips into a tight line.
His midnight blue eyes, as if someone had bottled the ocean's deepest trench inside them, observe your face. He studies the way you just drew your eyebrows together, and how the little wrinkles appeared on your forehead. You were upset, and it was clear it was because of him.
“ No, no, no, come on, pretty girl..” He whispers under his breath. Wrapping his hands around your waist and pulling you in, against his face. He rests his face against your stomach, pressing his lips right above your bellybutton and peppering you with little wet kisses. So tender and so delicate, you could fall and swoon at his knees.
After every little kiss he leaves on you, he blows a bit of cold air. The burning tingling feeling from the nicotine mint gum he was chewing prior makes you jump. Heart racing and vision blurring with lust. You can feel the upset exterior you temporarily built, because let's be honest, it was never gonna stand with the way his hands just feel so right on your skin.
“ You told me you would quit Jack.” You mumble as you put the suturing kit down, finally finishing a task that should have taken you five minutes if it weren't for Huckleberry barging in like a toddler telling his mom he puked.
“ I know I know.. I'm so bad..I don't deserve to be kissed…I don't deserve you.” He whispers against your stomach, shaking his head as if he were the disappointed one. As if he wasnt the one who broke a promise, a sworn pinkie promise made in an alleyway of a bar right in front of the ER. A promise made almost a year ago.
Placing your gloved hands on his shoulders, you attempt to push him off, but fail miserably as you feel his strong arms engulf your sides. Eyes widening and head shooting towards the closed curtain of the hospital room, so afraid that anybody could just yank them back and catch the sight of a resident and an attending getting cozy. During their shifts.
He takes your jawline in his calloused palms. The contrast of his rough skin against the softness and delicacy of your skin sends shivers down both of your spines. Unconsciously leaning your face deeper into his palm as your eyes lovingly bore into his. It's so unbelievably intimate that you both draw in deep breaths and close your eyes.
Both of your lips meet halfway, hands coming up to thread through his dark hair flecked with grey, soft yet telling of the years he's experienced before you. His hands find their way to grip the skin on your waist tightly, as if you could slip away at any time. And you could. It's happened before, steamy makeouts in the hospital staff lounge or bathroom being forcibly interrupted by loud pagers blaring through the hot wet kisses or Robby's voice vibrating through the Pitts ' walls calling for rounds or discussions. He is trying to get as much as you as he possibly can before his fantasies are ripped away from his fingertips, not that this wasnt already a fantasy…
And, then just like clockwork, the curtain gets pulled open.
But not before Jack's military-trained eyes spot the pair of black surgical clogs against the floor, peaking beneath the orange curtain. His once soothing, sensual grip is now distant and echoing through your body like a distant call. The force with which he had pushed you off sent you stumbling back, almost slipping on the scattered pens. Courtesy of Mr Whittaker's foolishness and idiocy.
Tan's hands wrap around your waist to stabilise you. It doesn't feel the same as the hands that were gripping onto you a mere three seconds ago. Not like Jacks hands, hands that have memorised every curve, and inch of you. Their hands feel foreign and distant, like a key fitting into the wrong lock.
“You okay there Dr. L/N?” An airy, silky voice cuts through the sweaty tension in the room. You part your lips in shock and embarrassment, immediately stepping to the side and turning your head towards Dr Mohan.
Her eyebrow raised with a lopsided smile framing her soft face, shes waiting for you to respond.
“ Yeah! Yeah, sorry, I was just picking up my scattered pens.” You say, clearing your throat as you crouch down quickly and let your hands pick up the pens that have canvased the ER floor.
You were about to open your mouth to start spewing excuses for your ill ability to see patients waiting in the waiting room when you were quickly forced to shut your mouth.
“ You okay there, Dr Abbot?” Dr Mohan asks, tilting her head to the side, her beautiful dark eyes gazing at his figure. Her eyes so deep you could not tell when the pupil ended, the kind of darkness that holds warmth and a magnetic pull of something you just cannot name.
He nods his head, his hands itching to start gathering the pens with you. His fingers flex against his palm, as if it's physically hurting him to not be able to help you or hold you. His dark blue eyes gaze into hers. And just like that, you feel as though you have disappeared. In his eyes.
“ Dr L/N was just patching me up. Got hurt in combat-” She cuts him off.
“ Oh no lets take a look.” Her long, slender fingers grab the blue elastic gloves and yanks them out of the box. Her hands almost melodically slip the gloves on, like a symphony shes performed hundreds of times. And she has, but each time it just seems to mesmorise you more and more. Apparently not just you.
“ Oh, I have already looked over and suttured him, Dr Mohan-” Standing up with fifteen pens gripped tightly in your fist, with a few slipping to the floor from how quickly you were to react to her words in haste.
“Didn't Dr Whittaker need you, Dr L/N? There is no need to worry, Dr Mohan here is said to have the stealthiest hands for sutures.” Jack says, his lips pressed into a tight-lipped smile. Lips that were just connected to yours a mere five minutes ago, unforgiving and ravenous against yours. Now smiling at someone else.
Was it just you who still felt the ghost of his lips trailing along your body and lips? Or did he feel it too? Does he feel you as deeply as you feel him? What are you saying? Are you overthinking? Of course he does. Right..? No yea right.
So why is he so entranced with her? While you're stuck on the floor picking up scattered pens like a child.
You watch him lift his shirt, revealing another wound. A wound which he didn't tell you about or show you when you immediately dragged him into this room after seeing his beaten figure walk into the ER. Eyes widening and lips parting in surprise and hurt. Did he not trust you to suture well enough? Is he questioning your ability to suture as a resident?
His eyes immediately find yours after Dr Mohan's short, quiet gasp; he can see the hurt that's momentarily washed over your eyes. But he doesn't say anything, too afraid to get caught or be seen by Dr Mohan. So he just chooses to ignore you. Great choice. Not like you were flying in over your head, a million insecurities rushing through your mind. She's older, far more experienced, not only in the medical field but also socially, romantically, shes just so much cooler and funnier. And god her hair-
“ Dr L/N, are the pens covered in butter?” Dr Mohan attempts to lift the tension in the room by cracking a little joke, earning an awkward chuckle from Jack.
You lick your lips in embarrassment as you squint your eyes shut, clammy, sweaty hands grabbing the remaining pens that keep escaping your wet grip.
“ The Kraken needs a change. Would you mind, Dr L/N?” She asks as her fingers graze Jack's abdomen, where his wound lies.
“ No no no. Not at all!” You respond as you turn around and yank the curtain open, but not before looking into Jack's eyes. Eyes that are now looking at her.
Ghost insists adamantly, passionately, and with the conviction of a man who’s sustained multiple traumatic brain injuries that he fell in love with you at first sight.
Because Ghost had eyes on you for approximately ten seconds before you broke his nose and he fell in love.
It happens outside a cafe on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, the kind of day where nothing interesting is supposed to occur, where the universe is contractually obligated to be boring. You’ve got your headphones in, keys jangling in one hand, iced coffee in the other, walking home in that autopilot mode where your body knows the route but your brain is thinking about literally anything else.
That’s when your wallet slips from your pocket. Honestly, you don’t even notice, because you’re deep into a true crime’s podcast and fully dissociated from reality.
Ghost spots it, picks it up, and jogs after you.
He says something. You don’t hear it. He says it again, louder. Still nothing.
So he taps your shoulder.
Big. Mistake.
You spin around like a woman possessed, adrenaline spiking, fight or flight activating, and throw the most righteous, unholy, devastatingly perfect punch of your entire life. It’s the kind of punch that would make your self defense instructor weep with pride. The kind of punch that deserves a plaque. A statue. A national holiday.
The sound is wet. The crunch is immediate. The impact is biblical.
Ghost drops like a felled oak tree and a bag of bricks. He goes down hard wallet still clutched in one hand, skull mask knocked crooked, eyes blinking slowly up at the sky like he’s trying to remember what dimension he’s in.
You stand there frozen. Horrified. Keys still dangling. Headphones half out. Coffee somehow still intact.
The rest of Task Force 141 who have been standing several feet away, look like they just watched God Himself get smacked into next week.
For a moment, there’s only silence.
Then Soap breaks.
He howls. He’s doubled over, hands on his knees, tears streaming down his face, making noises that aren’t even human anymore. He’s gone. Transcended. Ascended to a plane of pure, chaotic joy.
“SHE DECKED HIM!” he wheezes, gasping for air. “She- she knocked the GHOST out! FULL CONTACT! FULL KO! I’M- I CAN’T- “
Gaz follows immediately, wheezing, clutching his ribs. “Mate- mate- she dropped him like a sack of potatoes! One punch! ONE!”
Price just sighs. Long. Deep. The sigh of a man who’s too old for this, too tired for this, but also, somewhere deep down, a little bit impressed.
“Bloody beautiful form,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Textbook right hook. Could’ve been in the ring.”
You’re panicking. You’re hovering over Ghost, babbling apologies, hands fluttering uselessly. “Oh my god- oh my god- I’m so sorry! I didn’t know- I thought you were- are you okay? Do you know what year it is? How many fingers am I holding up? Should I call someone? Do you need a hospital? A lawyer?! Please don’t sue me.”
Ghost doesn’t answer. He just groans. Long. Low. Like a haunted house sound effect.
Then, through the blood and the daze and the clearly scrambled neural pathways, he mutters “…angels.”
“What?” you squeak.
“I see angels,” he slurs, eyes glassy and vaguely pointing in your direction. “Pretty ones.”
Soap loses it again. He’s on the ground now. Literally collapsed. Gaz has to step over him.
By the time the ambulance arrives (called by Price) Ghost is propped up against the curb like a discarded mannequin. His nose is absolutely destroyed. His mask is half off. There’s blood on his jacket. His eyes are glassy and unfocused.
But he’s smiling.
And he’s staring at you like you personally hung the moon, invented oxygen, and solved world peace in one punch.
“You hit like a tank,” he says faintly, dreamily, voice slow and thick with what is definitely a concussion. “Bloody beautiful. Strong. Could probably crush a man’s skull. Lovely hands. Great form. You single?”
“You are concussed,” you reply, voice shrill, face burning. “You need a hospital.”
“Maybe,” he agrees, nodding slowly, then wincing because nodding hurts. “But I’m also in love.”
Soap is dead. Flatlined. Gaz is leaning against a lamppost for support, tears streaming. Price is- oh god- Price is taking a video.
“Incident documentation,” he says flatly when you stare at him in betrayal like he isn’t planning on immediately sending it to Laswell.
“DELETE THAT!”
“Can’t. Evidence.”
When the paramedics finally load Ghost onto the gurney- still loopy, still bleeding, still smiling like a man who’s discovered enlightenment- he reaches out and grabs Soap by the shirt with surprising strength for someone who’s been recently KO’d.
“Johnny,” he slurs, deadly serious. “Johnny. Listen t’me.”
“Aye, LT?”
“Get her number.”
“…Ghost, you need medical-”
“Swear it.” His grip tightens. His eyes are wild. Desperate. “Swear it on your life, Johnny. On your mum. On your beloved hair gel. Get. Her. Number.”
Soap, choking back laughter, wipes his eyes and salutes. “Aye, big man. I’ll get it. Scout’s honor. Right after I get the CCTV footage and frame it for the barracks.”
“You’re a good man, Johnny.”
“I’m really not.”
Ghost gives you a dazed, lopsided thumbs up from the gurney as they wheel him away, and you’re left standing on the sidewalk- wallet finally back in hand, face the color of a tomato, dignity in shambles- wondering how in the hell you managed to accidentally concuss a six-foot-four man into romance.
Soap sidles up next to you, grinning like the devil himself.
“So,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Can I get that number? For medical purposes. And also because he’ll actually haunt me if I don’t.”
You stare at him.
He waggles his eyebrows.
“…Fine.”
Somewhere in the ambulance, Ghost smiles.
You had a shit day. You were pissy, you were sassy, you were mean.
And König didn't know how to deal with it! So now you're on the bed, scrolling through TikTok or whatever reels caught your attention when the door opens, steam pooling out the bathroom.
"Liebling," his voice cuts through, making you look up, "Tell me what to do and I'll do it."
What?
So you look up at him, an eyebrow raised, before he says, "Is it baby week? Is it hunger? Cramps? How do I fix this?"
Baby week--König struggles to remember the word "ovulation" so he says "baby week."
You sigh, "Yes. I'm ovulating."
He nods simply, and drops his towel. You sit there, bewildered by the response, "Kö? What're you doing?"
He pulls your legs do you're hanging over the edge of the bed, causing you to gasp. "This will help," he mutters, pulling your pants down, then your panties with his teeth.
He kisses your entrance, before guiding your legs, "Wrap them around me, come on.." he mumbles, kissing at your mound, just gentle pecks.
The feeling makes you giggle, it's quite ticklish to feel his stubble brushing your lips, tongue prodding in carefully. He licks a stripe up your cunt, glancing at your expression just long enough before giving in to practically make out with your clit.
He sucks and licks and circles your clit, letting out a few grunts but mostly listening at your mewling whines. He feels a hand grasp his hair and he just works harder, licking down then back up your cunt, listening to your desperate moans as he sucks faster.
The sick fuck knows you can't go on much longer, not when he's really going at it, swirling his tongue around your clit like his life depends on it.
And when you do cum, legs tight around him, squeezing him, he moans into your pussy, lapping some of it up.
Yeah, there's no way he's finished with you after that.
꒦꒷ SizeKink!König loves the difference in your sizes, you being so much smaller than him...
contains: sexual content. size kink. könig speaks german. brief underwear sniffing.
a/n: sorry i've been gone for so long, this fall semester is kicking my ass. hopefully this will hold you guys over... TT
"fuck, oh fuck!-" you cry out, big fat tears streaming down your face as your head bounces on the mattress below.
Your trembling fingers were grasping at König's big forearms, nails digging into his rough skin hard enough to leave indents.
"shit- please, s-slow down," you whine desperately, heavy-lidded eyes glancing down to see where you and König were connected.
His hips didn't stop their movement though, so he kept pushing his thick cock inside of your gooey warmth which was so fucking tight around him.
König had you trapped against the door when you had gotten home from work, and you practically cowered under his intense stare. Especially when he said, "undress." in a tone that brooked no argument.
Ever since he came home from base he's only been lounging around the house, watching tv, and eating whatever he can find in the pantry or fridge- it was often you woke up in the middle of the night, bed empty, just to find him standing in front of the fridge, just stuffing his face was shredded cheese.
"protein," he'd mumble before holding his hand out, offering you some. You would shake your head with a sigh.
He's also been exploring, opening cabinets in the bathroom to see what you've bought while he was away. Even sifting through drawers in your guys' room and picking out pieces of your clothes that were still strong with your scent.
There have been a few times- not any he would ever admit- where he would pick up your underwear and bring it to his nose to smell it. His mouth watered, cock growing painful in his sweats.
That deed only sparked him to go through your laundry basket to find more.
But as König jerked off to your dirty bras, shirts, and underwear, he realized how small the clothing was. How small you were.
Everything felt so little in his hands. It stunned him. How had he never realized how much smaller you were than him?..
Somehow the thought made his cock jump with excitement, looking angry and red as it throbbed with need.
And thus… it began.
Every moment König would get, he'd tip toe around you, staring in a way that was making you confused. You'd ask what was wrong, for him to respond with, "nothing, you just look very pretty today, liebe," and place hand on your waist.
His eyes darkened as he stared at how his large hand much-as-well dwarfed your waist.
At night, he would place his whole palm on your thigh, saying, "look schön… I can grab your whole thigh,"
You laughed softly, placing your hand over his own, "it's not surprising," you hum, pressing your fingers into his skin, "you're much bigger than me," your soft tone was the reason you ended up in this position.
With your back into the mattress, legs spread, and pussy being split open by his massive girth.
König watched with enamored eyes as his thick cock was slowly being swallowed by your dripping wet cunt.
Every inch made him drool. Every inch made you swoon.
"how does it feel?" he whispered, leaning down to kiss your tears away, "tell me, hübsch, wie fühlt es sich an?"
Your eyes roll back into your head as the rotund creamy head of his cock kissed your service lightly, "g-good.. s-good.." you whimpered, completely out of it.
König smiled then grabbed your waist with both of his hands, squeezing slightly before slamming his hips into you, "good? shit.. you like this, schön? like being f'ck-f'cking split open on my cock?"
He didn't even need to find your g-spot to make you feel good. With his length and girth just filling you completely, he was able to reach every deep sensitive spot inside of you. Was able to make your mind blank.
Make you forget your own name.
m.list
please do not copy or repost on any platforms without my permission
Joel prides himself on his patience, but that little sundress of yours that you’re wearing to the summer solstice? It’s his undoing. He does his best to behave...until he gets you alone.
|| smut mdni 18+, he sure does fuck you in the sundress, pinv, f!receiving oral, teasing, pussy pronouns whoops, daddy kink, pet names praissseeeeeeee kinkkkkkkk, joel is in love, jackson!joel, established relationship, I pictured game!joel but you do what ya want ||
Inspired by these wonderful requests x x
If you found this before I updated the banner sry
First and foremost, Joel was a polite man.
He was raised to say yes ma’am and no ma’am, never forgetting his please and thank you’s. It was something a Southern man like him held onto, even after the world had gone to hell.
Respect came first. Restraint. Control.
But then spring came to Jackson, and your layers of clothing started to shed. Bit by bit, the cold loosened its grip, and so did his discipline. Your neck was no longer hidden beneath those thick scarves you loved, your arms bare when the sun was shining, and every so often, he caught a glimpse of soft, warm skin—the dip of your lower back, the curve of your stomach when you stretched to reach something, the way your t-shirts lifted just enough to tease.
He told himself it was nothing—just the natural way of things. He’d seen you naked in his bed enough times to know your body like the back of his own hand. Cherished and kissed and loved every inch. Warmer weather just meant lighter clothes, more sun on skin.
Nothing to make a man lose his damn mind over.
And then—Christ—summer arrived, and he was no better than any other man.
Somehow, this was worse. Because now, that soft, sun-kissed skin he worshipped in the quiet of your home was everywhere.
Teasing him.
Tormenting him.
Joel had spent the whole morning baking under the sun, sweat clinging to his skin, dust settling in the creases of his shirt. The construction site had been brutal—hauling lumber, setting up new fencing, fixing the shit that kept breaking down in town. His muscles ached, his skin was hot, and by the time the afternoon rolled around, all he wanted was a cold beer and a quiet place to sit.
But Tommy had other plans.
“C’mon,” his brother had grinned, clapping him on the back as they finished up for the day. “Solstice picnic’s startin’.”
And as Joel opened his mouth, about to argue that he needed to get back to you, Tommy had cut him off, already a step ahead.
"She’s already there. Maria put her to work stringin’ up lights and pickin’ flowers or somethin’. Now get movin’ before she starts wonderin’ if you forgot about 'er."
Joel grunted, stripping off his work gloves and tucking them into his belt. His palms were rough, lined with grit, and as he wiped the sweat from his brow, he swore the damn heat had sunk into his bones.
Wouldn’t be the first time he showed up to one of these things straight from work, sweat-streaked and worn. No one gave a shit. So he walked beside his younger brother, looking forward to getting through another one of the town's little parties.
That was when he saw you.
That little sundress. White, lacy, soft. Light enough that it barely touched your skin, the summer breeze slipping beneath it and lifting the fabric just enough to reveal the bare skin of your upper thigh.
Joel swallowed hard, the heat rolling through him having nothing to do with the damn sun.
You were glowing—golden in the late afternoon light, hair catching in the breeze, your smile easy as you laughed at something Maria said. Just standing there, sipping something cool, completely oblivious to the way he’d stopped in his tracks the second he laid eyes on you. Tommy excused himself as they arrived, saying a short ‘catch up with you later’.
Joel made himself move, rolling his shoulders, setting his jaw.
Polite, he reminded himself. Gentle.
Joel had been raised right, after all.
So when he walked up to you, he made it seem easy, effortless. Like his hands weren’t itching with the need to touch. Like his pulse hadn’t just kicked up something fierce.
“Hey, baby,” he murmured as he approached behind you, his wide grip settling low on your hips.
You twisted around to face him, eyes lighting up at the sight of him. “Hey, handsome.” Your hands slid around his neck as you pressed up for a kiss—soft, warm, sweet with the taste of iced tea and that cherry chapstick you always wore.
Joel had to fight with every fiber of his being not to haul you over his shoulder and carry you straight home.
Didn’t help that you hummed against his lips, content and tender, fingers brushing at the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck.
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself before he pulled back just enough to murmur, “Pretty thing like you’s got half of Jackson lookin’.”
You grinned, fingers still playing lazily with the curls at his nape. “That so?”
Joel huffed, the corner of his mouth tilting up, but there was something weighted behind the way his fingers flexed against your hips, pressing in just a little firmer.
“Mm,” he hummed, voice dipping low. “S’pose I can’t blame ‘em.” His thumb brushed the fabric of your dress, right where it pressed into the soft skin of your waist. His restraint was hanging by a thread. “Ain’t their fault you’re the prettiest thing out here.”
“You’re sweet,” you said, a tinge of pink painting your cheeks.
His hand squeezed at your hip, just once, and then he exhaled sharply, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before finally—finally—forcing himself to step back.
Because if he didn’t, this picnic was about to end real fast.
You turned to grab him a beer from the cooler, Tommy’s homemade brew—practically gold now that the days were creeping past eighty degrees. The glass was cool against your fingertips as you popped the cap and turned back, pressing it into Joel’s waiting hand.
“Figured you could use one.”
Joel took it with a small nod, taking a slow sip. “Thanks, darlin’.”
His voice was warm, easy like he hadn’t spent the last several minutes imagining what he planned to do you tonight.
You tilted your head, teasing. “Anything for you, cowboy.”
His mouth quirked up at the corner, “Don’t say that just yet,”
Something in the air shifted, something subtle, something unspoken but you felt it coursing through you, a warmth that brought a flush to your neck.
Joel’s eyes lingered, dark and steady, holding yours like he had all the time in the world. A slow, searching kind of stare, like he was committing the sight of you to memory, like he had something he wanted to say if you were surrounded by a crowd.
You felt the heat of it traveling from your cheeks to your stomach with toe curling intensity..
The fire crackled nearby. Someone laughed in the distance. The music played on.
But before either of you could say anything else, someone clapped him on the back—Tommy again, grinning, dragging him into conversation with a few others, leaving you standing there with a knowing little smirk.
Still, you stayed close.
And so did he.
The afternoon passed in a slow, easy blur. Music drifted through the warm air, laughter rang across the field, and Joel—Joel was everywhere.
His hand at your lower back as you walked through the crowd.
His arm slung over the back of your chair when you sat beside him at one of the makeshift picnic tables.
His fingers brushing over your thigh when he leaned in to murmur something low in your ear, just for you.
It wasn’t deliberate, at least not in the way most folks would notice. But you felt it—felt the way his touches lingered a second longer than necessary, the way his gaze dropped to your legs when the hem of your dress rode up just a little, the way his jaw clenched whenever you gave other men any of your attention–as kind and endearing as you were. It wasn’t your fault. You were kind, warm, effortlessly magnetic. People were drawn to you, it was just who you were.
Joel Miller was trying to behave.
And failing miserably.
By the time the sun had long dipped below the mountains, the stars shining in the dark blue sky above, he was done pretending.
You were settled on his lap, your bare legs draped over his, firelight flickering against your skin. The air was balmy, thick with the scent of burning wood and cool summer breeze, but your skin was warm against him.
His hand rested easy on the outside of your thigh at first, a casual thing, his fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin. But as the fire burned lower, so did his restraint. Slowly, lazily, his palm inched higher—skimming up, up, until his fingers slipped beneath your dress, disappearing into the soft folds of fabric.
And then he gripped you, fingers pressing into the juncture of your thigh and ass, squeezing like he just needed something to hold onto.
You jolted slightly, a sharp breath slipping past your lips as you swatted at his arm. “Joel.”
“Hmm?” He didn’t even pretend to be innocent, his fingers flexing again, kneading the flesh beneath his palm.
You tried to glare, but the traitorous smile pulling at your lips ruined the effect. “Behave yourself.”
Joel huffed out a quiet chuckle, looking up at you with something wicked in his eyes. His hand stayed exactly where it was.
“You gon’ make me?” he murmured, voice low, rough enough to leave goosebumps in its wake.
Your breath hitched. And then, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—like it had slipped past his lips before he could stop it—he exhaled, voice all gravel and want:
“This dress.”
His hand beneath your dress slid back down, fingering at the hem of the white lace, so pale now compared to your warm skin.
Your breath caught, eyes flickering down to where his fingers toyed with the fabric. His own gaze stayed locked on your face, watching every little shift, every little reaction.
When his thumb ghosted over your kneecap, you swallowed hard, thighs pressing together instinctively.
“Look so pretty, baby,” he murmured, voice thick and rough with want as he leaned into the shell of your ear. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were tryin’ to drive me outta my mind.”
And maybe you were.
You knew how much Joel loved you in dresses. It was something about the way they softened you, how the fabric clung to your curves just right, how effortless and feminine you looked draped in lace and light cotton. He never outright said it, but you saw it in the way his hands lingered, in the way his eyes darkened whenever you wore something delicate—something that made you look like you were made for pretty things.
Joel might have been a rough man, all grit and strength, but it was the softness that undid him.
Your back arched into him just an inch, barely anything, but enough that he felt it. Enough that the warmth of your body, the scent of you, the soft brush of your hair against his cheek made his brain go sluggish, thick with something hot and needy.
And then you looked at him.
Heavy-lidded, dazed, lips parted just slightly—like you were already halfway gone before he’d even laid his hands on you. It made something tighten in his chest, made his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thigh, an involuntary reaction to just how badly he wanted to feel more of you.
Your hand came up to his face, and before either of you could think twice, you were leaning in.
The kiss was nothing like the ones you’d shared earlier—no teasing, no gentle sweetness. This was urgent, all heat and hunger, your tongue kitten-licking at his bottom lip, testing, tasting, making his half-hard cock twitch beneath his jeans. He nearly groaned, nearly let it slip from his throat, but his grip on control was thin, fraying at the edges.
Because when you pulled away, instead of giving him space, you leaned in, lips brushing his ear, your breath warm and an octave lower than your usual sweet lilt.
“Let's go home,” you whispered, kissing along his earlobe, voice barely there—but it hit him like an electric shock.
That was all it took.
Joel was like an animal waiting for his trigger word, waiting for the command to be free, to take what he wanted.
He stood slowly, deliberately, trying to keep himself cool, calm, polite—saving face only because he owed that to you. Not because he cared what people thought. Hell, half of Jackson already had enough to say about him.
But he behaved for you.
For his girl.
Joel stood slowly, setting your legs down gently as he rose, his palm grazing the small of your back—just barely, just enough to feel the warmth of you beneath his fingertips. You stayed close, bodies still humming from the heat of each other, lingering even as you murmured your goodbyes.
But the further you got from the crowd, the needier your touches became.
Your fingers curled around his arm, holding tight, your body leaning into his, pressing into the solid warmth of him with every step. And Joel—Joel wasn’t any better. His hand had already found its way around your waist, fingers spreading over your hip like he couldn’t stand not touching you.
It wasn’t until you turned the corner onto your own street—finally alone—that Joel came to a sudden stop.
Your brows furrowed, about to ask what was wrong, but before you could even get the words out, he bent down and hauled you over his shoulder in one smooth, effortless motion.
A sharp gasp left your lips. “Joel!”
“Shoulda done this an hour ago,” he muttered, not even remotely apologetic. His grip tightened around the back of your thighs, adjusting you against him like you weighed nothing. And then—just to make sure you knew exactly what kind of mood he was in—his palm slid up the back of your legs, landing a sharp swat against the bare skin of your ass.
A squeak slipped from your throat, your fingers digging into the back of his shirt as you squirmed in his hold.
“Joel!” you hissed, but he could hear the grin despite the scandalized tone.
“Shh…” He chuckled, his grip tightening around your thighs as he strode up the porch steps. “Don’t want the neighbors pokin’ their heads out, do ya?”
The wood groaned beneath his boots, but he didn’t so much as hesitate, not even as he crossed the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him without breaking stride. He had one thing on his mind.
One destination.
You barely had time to process the familiar path of your home before Joel was hauling you up the stairs like you weren’t even there—still slung over his shoulder, still gripping onto him as your laughter mixed with the sound of his heavy footfalls.
And then suddenly—you were airborne.
A startled gasp left your lips as he bounced you onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath you, breathless and winded. You propped yourself up on your elbows, hair tousled and wild, looking up at him as he stood at the edge of the bed, staring you down like he was about to devour you whole.
Your chest rose and fell, your pulse thrumming with a mixture of anticipation and amusement.
“What’s gotten into you, old man?” you teased, breathless but grinning.
Joel exhaled hard through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he pulled off your boots. Once discarded, he hooked his arms under your knees, dragging you down the mattress, pressing you into him. The motion sent your dress hiking up around your waist, leaving you spread open beneath him, your panties on perfect display.
“Oh, hunny,” he drawled, looking at the damp patch on the fabric, “you keepin’ this from me?”
Before you could answer, he leaned down, hands trailing up your thighs, easing them over his shoulders. The first brush of his lips against the fabric was slow, deliberate—a kiss to your panty-clad mound, soft but enough to make you shudder.
Then he kept going. Mouth trailing lower, teasing.
Your head tipped back at the feeling of his beard grazing your sensitive skin, a breathy moan slipping out as your elbows gave, dropping you onto the bed completely. One hand found his hair, gripping, your fingers tangling in the dark curls streaked with silver. He watched you, eyes drinking you in.
“N-no,” you breathed, “Always yours, Joel,”
“I know, baby, I know.” he cooed, voice softer now, full of reverence. He reached up, gripping the gusset of your panties, wrapping a thick finger around the damp fabric, tugging it to the side to reveal exactly what he wanted. His beard scraped against you when he kissed the skin of your thigh, sending a shockwave through your body, making you twitch beneath him.
A whimper left your lips, your hips lifting without thinking.
Joel chuckled, low and knowing, watching as your pussy clenched around nothing.
“Aw, she’s flirtin’ with me, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, pressing another slow, deliberate kiss against you. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open, keeping you exactly where he wanted. “Wish you could see just how pretty she looks right now.”
“Joel.” It was a whimper, a plea, a warning.
His lust blown eyes flicked up to yours, his mouth still hovering just over where you needed him most. “What is it, baby?”
You swallowed, hips shifting, heat pooling low in your belly.
“Please.”
Joel hummed, dragging his mouth closer but still not giving you what you wanted. “Please what?”
Because hell, he’d spent all damn day watching you, aching for you, burning with want while you smiled and laughed and let that damn dress drive him to madness. If anything, he deserved to have his fun now. He needed to hear you say it.
Your fingers flexed in his hair, a little tug, a little desperation, “Please touch me, Daddy.”
Joel’s blood turned molten. Heat roared through him so fierce, so instant, it nearly knocked the air from his lungs. And maybe you knew exactly what that word did to him.
He dipped his head back down, tongue sliding through your folds, groaning against you as he finally gave in. You were so warm, so slick, so ready for him that he had to take a second just to breathe, just to let himself have this.
His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft flesh as he held you open for him, his mouth working slow, savoring. You shuddered beneath him, your fingers twisting into his hair, your body already arching toward his mouth like you couldn’t help yourself.
His tongue flicked against your clit, lazy at first, teasing, before dipping lower to drink you in, groaning as he tasted you properly. Slow and deep, his tongue pressed inside you, inching in, sliding out, before licking back up and pursing his lips around your clit, sucking and grazing his teeth, making your hips jerk against his mouth.
His beard scraped against your thighs, rough and warm, the contrast making you tremble harder beneath him. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried, like he was relearning you all over again, savoring every sound, every twitch, every sharp gasp that slipped past your lips.
Joel’s hands flexed against your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin, grounding you as his mouth worked you into a pliant mess.
“Need to get her ready for me,” he murmured, voice muffled against you, words spoken more to himself than to you. His mouth never left you as one broad hand slid between your legs, and you gasped as his fingers traced over your entrance, prodding the pool of arousal there.
“So damn soft,” he muttered, dragging his mouth down to kiss the inside of your thigh, his breath hot against your slick skin. “And already so wet for me. She likes it when I take my time, don’t she, baby?”
You could barely think, barely breathe, too lost in the slow, perfect way he touched you.
You only nodded, voice failing you as his finger finally pushed inside—just one at first, easing in with aching patience, stretching you open. A ragged moan left your lips, fingers twisting in his hair as he curled it just right, pressing against that spot inside you that made your whole body shudder.
He hummed in approval, lips finding your clit again, his tongue swirling slow, matching the rhythm of his fingers.
“You make the prettiest noises for me," he murmured against you, his voice thick and rough with hunger. He slid another finger in, stretching you wider, pumping them in and out in a slow, steady pace, feeling the way your walls fluttered around him.
Your body was already tightening, your thighs trembling, your breath hitching into soft, broken whimpers. You couldn’t stop yourself from rocking into him, chasing that feeling, your pleasure building with every slow, deliberate stroke of his fingers, every teasing flick of his tongue.
Joel could feel it, the way you clenched down around him, the way your legs shook against his shoulders.
“There she is,” he murmured, pressing a kiss right over your clit before sucking it back into his mouth, his fingers pressing up into your soft, velvety walls. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me feel her.”
That was all it took–your body tensed, the pleasure cresting and crashing all at once as you came around his fingers, a sharp, broken cry slipping from your lips. Your thighs squeezed around his head, but Joel didn’t stop, didn’t slow, working you through it, his tongue lapping up everything you gave him.
He groaned low, almost like he was the one falling apart, dragging his fingers slow as he eased you down, his lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh.
“So goddamn sweet for me,” he muttered, voice wrecked, his breath warm against your sensitive skin.
Your body was still trembling, the aftershocks rolling through you as Joel pressed one last lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh before pulling back.
He looked wrecked.
His beard glistened, slick with your release, lips swollen and parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, drinking you in like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.
His hands slid up your legs, slow and deliberate, until they gripped your waist, spreading you open beneath him as he crawled over you, pressing his weight into you. The fabric of your dress was still bunched around your hips, the lace soft beneath his calloused hands, but he liked that you kept it on.
Something about how pretty you looked in it, something about knowing he was the only one who got to see you like this.
His hands found your face, cupping it, tilting your chin up, and then his mouth was on yours. Hot, deep and unyielding.
You moaned softly into the kiss, your fingers sliding into his hair as he stole every breath from your lungs. You could taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue, his beard damp against your chin as he pressed in harder, hungrier. It was so much—too much and not enough all at once.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, you were looking up at him, your thumb brushing against the slick sheen on his jaw, your heart pounding.
"Can I take care of you, daddy?" you whispered, voice warm and so damn sweet it made his chest ache.
But he was already shaking his head, already unbuckling his belt, already too far gone to let you do anything but take him.
"Not tonight, baby," he murmured, his low drawl barely audible. His belt hit the floor, his jeans sliding low on his hips as he leaned down, pressing another kiss to your lips, softer this time.
"I need to feel you," he admitted, his voice quieter now, more raw. His hand ran down your thigh, fingers pressing into soft skin, feeling you, grounding himself in you. "If you put that pretty mouth on me, there won’t be a chance in hell I get to feel you cum on my cock, ‘cause I’d be done in minutes with the state you got me in."
You let out a breathy laugh, eyes warm as your hands smoothed down his sides, fingers dipping into the waistband of his jeans, helping him push them lower.
"That bad, huh?" you teased.
Joel exhaled a shaky chuckle, dropping his forehead to yours, barely holding himself together as he pulled himself free.
"Worse," he admitted.
His cock was thick, flushed, leaking, the head dragging through your slick, teasing you. Joel groaned low at the feeling of your slick arousal coating the tip of himself, his lips brushing against yours as he lined himself up, his voice just a whisper.
“Gonna let Daddy take care of you?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
You arched your back into him, the flimsy straps of your dress slipping down your shoulders as you reached for him, arms winding around his neck, legs hooking around his waist like you couldn’t stand the thought of space between you.
Joel sucked in a sharp breath as you pulled him in, his body pressing flush against yours. His one handed planted by your head, the other guiding the wide tip of his cock at your weeping entrance, then slowly sank into you like he’d been starving for it all damn day.
He had, in fact.
“Jesus,” he rasped, voice strained as he bottomed out completely, a moan tearing through his throat as his forehead dropped to your shoulder. He held still for a second, letting you adjust, letting himself breathe before his lips brushed against your ear. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Always take my cock so good,”
You were breathless, feeling split in two around him, your lips parted, jaw slack, head falling back against the bedspread. Joel took his time kissing along your jaw, lips trailing soft and slow as he felt the way your body tightened around him. His cock twitched despite how patient he was trying to be.
“Daddy,” you breathed, voice barely there, and as he pulled out inch by inch, he watched your eyes flutter shut, your body clenching down on him like you never wanted to let him go. Joel groaned, pushing back in, slow but deep, not stopping until his hips were pressed flush to yours.
And when he pulled out again, the obscene, wet sound of your slick walls taking him made you both moan in tandem, his agonizingly slow pace making every sensation sharper, every sound deeper, more electric.
Joel kissed the corner of your mouth, voice thick. “Doin’ so good for me, sweetheart. S’like she was made to take me, huh?”
You whined softly, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, legs tightening around him, desperate for more.
“Need—need you to—” you tried, but your mind was foggy, wrecked, gone. You needed more. Needed him to let go, to take it. Needed to feel the weight of all that pent-up frustration from the day, from the way you’d teased him with every flash of your thigh, every fleeting touch, every slow, knowing smile.
Joel kissed your temple, his hands roaming, soothing, adoring, wanting. “Tell me, baby,” he murmured, “tell me what you need.” His lips brushed against your ear, his voice low and full of something tender. “I’ll give you anything—give you the whole damn world if you asked.”
Your heart swelled, warmth pooling in your chest before another wave of want took over. You smiled up at him, fingers smoothing up his back, knowing exactly what you wanted to hear from him.
"Want it harder, Joel." Your voice was thick as you swallowed, mind finally clearing enough to put your need into words. "You were so good all day, even when you knew I was teasing."
You heaved a breath as his eyes opened fully, locking onto you, dark and unreadable as he listened.
"So polite," you murmured, pressing a slow kiss to his lips before your fingers slid into his hair, tightening just enough to make him exhale, "Such a gentleman. Show me, Joel—show me what you wanted to take all day."
His eyes twinkled with amusement for a brief second—right before you clenched down around him, your walls fluttering, pulling him deeper. His cock twitched, stiffened, his breath stalling as his fingers dug into your skin.
"You want me to fuck you stupid, baby? That what you need?" His voice was low, wrecked, something dark laced in it now. "Cause all I wanted to do all damn day was bend you over and shove my cock in you so goddamn bad. Show you exactly how crazy you make me."
"Show me," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his chin, his beard tickling your lips as it trailed along his jaw. "Please, Daddy. Let me feel it."
Joel didn’t hesitate.
His hands tightened at your waist, steady and commanding, before sitting up and rolling you onto your stomach in one fluid motion. His cock stayed inside you, the shift in position knocking the air from your lungs, the new angle making you feel every inch of him in a way that had your fingers digging into the sheets.
Before you could even process it, his palms pressed between your shoulder blades, guiding you down until your chest met the mattress, ass lifted, legs spread, completely open for him.
That’s when you felt the delicate lace of your dress catching beneath his knee, the soft fabric now bunched awkwardly between you.
Your breath wavered. Fingers twitching against the sheets, you hesitated before murmuring, "Should I take this off?"
He smoothed a hand over your ass, his other gripping the bunched-up fabric of your dress so it was pulled into his fist.
"You're keepin' it on," he murmured, his voice edged with something rough, something final. The way his fingers tightened in the fabric told you just how much he'd already thought about this moment—how long he'd wanted it, pictured it, waited for it, "want you just like this."
You barely had time to whimper before he pulled you back into him, sinking deep, stretching you open all over again.
Joel groaned, a long, deep, guttural noise from his throat, his one hand at your waist, the other pulling you back via his fist in your dress as he set the pace. He was slow at first, making sure you felt every thick inch, every ridge and vein of his throbbing cock before pulling out and snapping his hips forward again.
"Christ," he rasped, his free hand sliding up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, holding you steady as he leaned over you a bit, "You feel that, baby? Feel how fuckin' deep I am?"
All you could do was nod, moaning brokenly as he buried himself to the hilt, again and again, dragging you back onto him each time.
Joel groaned, dropping his head forward for a second before his grip tightened on your dress again, using it to pull you back into him.
"Greedy little thing," he murmured, his fingers gripping tighter at your waist as he rolled his hips deeper. "That what you wanted, baby? Want me to fuck you just like this?"
"Yes," you gasped, voice breaking on the word. "Just like that, Joel."
Your breath came rough and uneven, and then his grip on your dress tightened, fingers bunching up the fabric at your waist. He used it to pull you back onto him, meeting each thrust with an unrelenting force, his other hand splaying across your back to keep you steady.
"Look at you," he muttered, almost to himself, his voice thick with something wrecked and reverent all at once. "Takin’ it so good. My perfect girl."
The praise sent heat licking up your spine, your body tightening around him in response. He felt it, too—felt the way you clenched down on him, the way your legs trembled as he drove into you harder.
"Fuck, baby," he groaned, leaning over you as his hand slipped under you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, teasing circles that made your breath hitch. "You gonna come for me again? Hmm?"
You nodded frantically, pushing back into him, desperate for more. "Please, Joel," you whimpered. "Need it."
"Yeah, I know," he murmured, his voice softer now, lips brushing the back of your shoulder, his thrusts still deep but growing rougher, more urgent. "Gonna give it to you, sweetheart. Gonna feel you come all over me."
His fingers pressed firmer against your clit, circling in a perfect rhythm as his cock dragged against that sweet spot inside you, his name slipping from your lips in a broken moan as the tension in your belly tightened, ready to snap.
"That's it, baby," Joel groaned, voice ragged. "Come for me, let me feel her on my cock."
And with the way he was moving, the way he was touching you, the way he was whispering those wrecked, adoring words against your skin—you had no choice but to let go.
Pleasure sparked white over you in waves, your walls fluttering around him as your body shook, your voice lost in a strangled cry. Joel cursed under his breath, his thrusts faltering for a moment as he felt you unravel around him, his hands gripping you tight, holding you through it.
"That's my girl," he muttered, voice thick, pressing soft kisses to the back of your neck as he kept moving, chasing his own release, determined to follow you over the edge, "Good fucking girl,"
Joel’s thrusts turned sloppy, desperate, deep, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release. His grip on your waist tightened, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
“Fuck,” he groaned, voice thick and wrecked, his body locking up as he buried himself to the hilt, pressing deep, holding you there.
And then he was gone.
A deep, guttural moan tore from his throat as he spilled inside you, heat flooding you as his cock pulsed, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he rode it out. He pressed his forehead against your back, breath warm against your skin, hands smoothing over your hips as if grounding himself, holding you tight, keeping you close.
He stayed there for a moment, still inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back, lips trailing soft, absentminded kisses along your shoulder as he caught his breath. His hands never stopped moving, stroking your skin with quiet adoration.
"You okay, baby?" he murmured into your hair as he placed a kiss on your head, voice low and tender, so different from the way he’d just wrecked you.
You nodded, still catching your breath, body still trembling from the intensity of it all.
Joel pressed a final kiss to your cheek before slowly, carefully pulling out, groaning low at the sight of where he’d filled you up, his release already starting to slip out of you.
"Made a mess of you, darlin’," he muttered, his voice warm, affectionate. "Stay right there."
You barely had the strength to move, muscles still loose and spent, but you felt the bed shift as Joel slipped away. You blinked sleepily as he disappeared into the bathroom, only to return a moment later with a damp cloth.
His hands were gentle, reverent as he cleaned you up, taking his time, murmuring soft words of praise under his breath.
"There we go, baby," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your lower back as he worked. "Always take care of my girl."
Once he was satisfied, he reached for the bunched-up fabric of your dress, his fingers sliding beneath the hem.
"Let’s get this off you, sweetheart," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion but still warm, still full of something tender.
His touch was unhurried, guiding the fabric up your body, letting the fabric peel away from your skin, soft and slow. as you held your arms up for him. He didn’t rush, didn’t let the moment pass without appreciating you all over again.
Once it was gone, he tossed it aside and crawled up beside you in the bed to pull you into his arms, rolling you onto your side, tucking you against his chest.
His arms were strong, solid and warm, one hand smoothing up and down your back, the other tangling in your hair as he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
"You still with me?" he murmured, lips ghosting over your temple.
You hummed softly, pressing closer, letting yourself melt into his embrace.
"Good," he sighed, voice low, spent, but content. His fingers traced slow, aimless circles along your spine, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath your cheek, anchoring you to him, "Love you, sweetheart,"
"I love you, Joel." you murmured, your voice barely there, the warmth of him pulling you under into a deep sleep.
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