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Simon just returned home from his last mission, exhausted and battered, and all he wants is his wife. He knows you’re asleep, he knows you have been for quite a while, but he also knows you like being woken up with his cock shoved so deep in your pussy it feels like he’s in your throat.
He stands at the edge of the bed after pulling the sheets off your body, his cargos and boxers around his ankles, his heavy cock resting in his palm while he strokes himself at the sight of you. You lay on your side, your knees curled up against your chest with your cheek pressed against the soft pillows. You look so peaceful as if you are waiting for him to ruin you exactly how he wants.
You wear one of Simon’s t-shirts and it drapes across your body, swallowing your curves and leaving everything to the imagination. He doesn’t miss how your nipples peak against the fabric from the cold breeze of the ac the second the sheets fall off you. A tiny cotton thong wraps around your hips, hugging your body tight, the soft fat of your ass and lower belly peeking out around it.
He groans while rubbing his tip, collecting the precum beading there, and running it down his shaft. Within seconds his clothes are off, the material begins to feel claustrophobic the harder he becomes, and he gets on the bed as silently as possible. It dips under his weight, but he holds you steady, so you don’t stir.
“Hey baby,” he whispers, running his hands on your lower belly, his fingers worshipping the stretch marks there only for a second before he moves his hand lower to be in between your thighs.
Two fingers rest against your clit, massaging it, rubbing slow, tight circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. He pushes your t-shirt up, admiring your breasts, watching the way your chest rises and falls with your sleepy breathing. Pinching, pulling, rolling your nipple between his fingers, your body begins to squirm, and whimpers begin to fall but you’re still fast asleep.
His aching cock rests against your ass, and he spreads your cheeks, gazing at your wet folds before sticking a finger in just to make sure. He curls his digit ever so slightly, loving the way your hips press back into him for more, loving the way your body responds to him despite not being aware of what he’s doing.
He pulls it out, his calloused finger glistening in the dim lighting of the room and sucks the slick off of him. The taste of you floods his mouth, musky and sweet, something he can never get tired of. If you were in a different position, he would’ve eaten you out until you begged him to fuck you, but this will do just fine.
Notching his head at your entrance, he leans down to take a nipple in his mouth, and while he sucks, he pushes himself inside of you. Deeper and deeper until he is nestled against your cervix and your body begins to wake up.
“Si…,” you ask groggily, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, unable to deny the sensations running through you from your husbands’ cock in your pussy.
“It’s okay baby. ‘s just me,” he replies, popping his mouth off your nipple, moving his lips to yours instead.
He kisses you soft and slow, his cock pumping in and out of you at the same pace, his hips rolling against your ass with a soft slap and squelch from how wet you are. You moan into his mouth, and he swallows it greedily while one hand latches on to the hair at his nape, and the other curls against the soft sheets.
The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, filling you up to the brim, leaving no room inside of you empty for long. Precum leaks out against your cervix and you clamp down on him, he pulls out until only the tip is inside and your pussy begs him for more. He rests his forehead against you, his warm, heavy breath hitting your skin and sending shivers down your spine while he fucks you.
“Feels so g-good,” you moan, arching your ass into him, doing your best to meet him for every single thrust he gives you.
“I know baby, I know,” he groans, his lips brushing against yours, the feeling of you so close is consuming him whole.
His hand moves between your legs again and they fall open for him this time. He gathers your slick before rubbing your clit, those same tight circles gliding against the sensitive bundle of nerves faster now as his pace picks up. His other hand holds himself up, his palm digging into the mattress where he fists the fabric, steadying himself when the feeling of your walls wrapped so tightly around him is almost unbearable.
Simon thrusts into you faster, harder, deeper, anything to feel your pussy clamp down on him as a silent beg for more. Your body writhes beneath him, your eyes shut tight with your mouth hanging open ever so slightly while moans and whimpers fall from your pretty, soft lips. Your hand moves from his nape and grabs your breast instead where you pull and pinch your own nipple in search of more stimulation.
His gaze falls to your small hand, touching yourself just the way you want, pleasuring your body at the same time as him, and he has to do everything in his power not to cum inside you just from that. Instead, he fucks you harder, hitting deeper, hitting spots only he can.
“F-fuck, Si,” you cry out when he angles his hips perfectly to hit your sweet spot.
Stars burst behind your eye lids, the feeling of pleasure coursing through your body, the feeling of your orgasm coiling tight in your lower belly as if it is ready to snap at any given time. You rock back against him, letting him reach even deeper inside of you, drunk on the feeling of his fat cock bullying your pussy.
“Yeah? That feel good,” he asks, doing it again, and again, and again until you can’t even form a single coherent thought.
All of it overwhelms you in the best way possible. His fingers working your puffy, swollen clit that begs for the attention he always gives it. Your hardened, aching nipples that you pull, and pinch, and twist to relieve the need to be touched there. His cock slamming into your cervix, hitting your sweet spot, rubbing your walls raw until you can’t hold back anymore.
“I’m c-cumming! O-oh Si,” you whimper, throwing your head back against the pillow, giving yourself to him in the most vulnerable way possible.
“Cum on my dick,” he growls out, pounding you harder, begging to feel you unravel all because of him.
The sound of skin slapping, moans, groans, and whimpers fill the room. The headboard slams against the wall, the bed creaks under the harsh movements and heavy weight. The two of you are consumed by each other, drowning in the feeling of pleasure and desire, both itching to feel the other.
“C’mon baby. Give it to me.”
You nod your head frantically, unable to say anything even if you try. Your body becomes rigid, your muscles drawing taut, and your orgasm rocks through you. Cum gushes from your pussy, leaking out around his length, leaving a white cream around the base of him. You cry out, your hand looking for purchase on anything, and when you land on his lower abdomen, your nails dig into his skin.
He grunts from the pleasurable pain of you, fucking into you deeper, watching you cum on him before he allows himself the same release. His fingers ease up on your clit when your body begins to twitch, when you keep repeating that you can’t take it anymore, but his cock still drives into your sensitive pussy over and over again.
“Gonna cum so deep in you,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges, laced with raw desire and the utmost passion.
He moves his hand from in between your thighs and uses it to spread your cheeks to watch the way your soaking pussy swallows him whole. The sight alone can have him cumming but when he looks up at you, he knows he’s done for.
Your eyes are on him, half-lidded and dazed while tears stain your cheeks. Your mouth is hanging open, lingering whimpers falling out, your lips swollen and pigmented from his harsh kisses. Drool drips from your chin, running down your neck and pooling in the dip of your chest where your breasts bounce with each hard thrust.
“F-fuck, you feel so g-good,” he stutters, his hips doing the same, his pace becoming frantic and unsteady.
With a few more thrusts he’s burying himself to the hilt and spilling his seed inside of you. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out from his tip against your cervix with every pulse of his cock, coating your walls in his release, leaking out with nothing else will fit. His cock slides in and out ever so slowly, letting every last drop fall inside of your greedy pussy, making sure to push it deeper inside of you.
Simon collapses on the bed beside you, even more exhausted and battered than before, but now feeling blissful after being with his wife. You roll over, sluggish and tired, just to place your body on top of his. His arms wrap around you, pulling you in, caging you against his sweaty skin and beefy body. He places a soft kiss to your forehead when you get comfortable on his chest, and he does it again, and again until he can hear your breathing even out and those soft sounds you make that you swear aren’t snores.
Sometimes you beat yourself up over it. In hindsight, though, it feels more like he chose you. Pushed himself into your life like a bull in a china shop, a big, daunting feeling that you've fallen in love with a man whose job will always be more important than you. And you're upset, because you know he's leaving.
He knows you're upset before he even enters the bedroom. If your shoes, messily thrown in the hallway, or the empty tub of ice cream on the counter weren't already an indication, then the fact that you're nothing but a small lump hidden underneath your covers definitely is.
Simon fights the smile.
He really shouldn't enjoy it so much when you're upset with him, but sometimes it's hard not to. Hard not to like it, when he gets to slowly pry the covers off you, like he's unwrapping a present. Hard not to like it when he sees the cute scowl on your face, even though you're steadily asleep.
Your anger isn't unjust. He knows that.
He's a shit boyfriend.
He disappears for weeks and months at a time, sometimes with less than a few hours' notice. When you ask him where, he mumbles about how it’s need to know, and kisses you instead of giving you the answers you want. He leaves behind pieces of himself all over your house in the shape of used boxers in your laundry basket and an indent in your mattress from where he usually occupies more than half your bed.
But most of all, the signs are quiet. Not just in the shape of a distinct lack of rumbles and grunts around the house, or heavy footsteps, or the endless snoring next to you, but your phone too. No calls, no texts. No nothing.
Sometimes you beat yourself up over it. Because you let yourself fall for the big brute, letting him talk you up at that bar, and despite his bluntness and obvious military background, letting him take you back to his place.
In hindsight, though, it feels more like he chose you. Pushed himself into your life like a bull in a china shop, a big, daunting feeling that you've fallen in love with a man whose job will always be more important than you.
And you're upset, because you know he's leaving.
His toilet bag is packed (the one that you bought him, mind you), his toothbrush and eight-in-one shampoo shoved in there. Military boots by the door, all his shirts washed and dried except one token sweater he always leaves behind like a keepsake for you.
You glare when he wakes you up, daring to interrupt your precious sleep now, when he's already interrupting the very rhythm of your life.
"Fuck off," you murmur, claws out before he's even said a word.
Simon smiles, scarred face making your stomach curl with something hot.
"Come on, lovie, none of tha' now," he replies, ignoring all warning signs as he lies down beside you, spooning you. He takes a whiff of your hair, humming in satisfaction. His body is like a furnace beside you, heat radiating off him.
It's comforting. It makes you angrier.
"You're gonna fuck off soon anyway," you murmur, accepting your fate and melting into him. "You already shaved your head,"
And that is true. Blonde locks that had actually managed to grow somewhat long in the past since the last time he left are short again, the buzz now showcasing his cauliflower ears and scars like they're all one big caution sign.
He huffs behind you, and the arm wrapped around your waist pulls you tighter, till you physically can't get closer to him.
"There's still three days left, dovie," he says. You sigh, shaking your head.
"Right, until your captain calls you because there's something urgent and he needs you right now, oh, Ghost, please come save us all— auch, what the fuck, you—"
Sharp teeth sink into your shoulder halfway through your complaints, and an involuntary whine leaves you as you squirm to get away from him. The complaints are useless, as you're flipped onto your back, Simon now looming over you like you're prey.
"You think too much," he states, as a matter of fact, before he begins to kiss down your throat. "And while I'm sure the captain would love to hear your iteration of how much he depends on me—"
A kiss on your collarbone. Another. He doesn't bother tugging your camisole away, simply opting to kiss your chest through the white fabric. His eyes seem to pierce you when you make eye contact.
"You knew what you were gettin' into, love," he murmurs, kissing your stomach.
A lie, though. Entirely unfair of him, too, because Simon knew the moment you walked into that bar years ago that he'd have you.
He keeps kissing all the way down, till he's right where he wants to be, suffocating between your thighs. Seems like a fair enough trade off after all he's put you through.
Being gone the very next morning seems cruel, even for Simon. You sit in your bed, taking in the realisation as you lose track of time, before pushing yourself out of bed. You take a shower, ignoring the fact that his toothbrush is gone.
In the kitchen, you scoff, realising that he even took out the trash on his way out.
Stupid, inconsiderate prick.
At the start, back when it was new, he used to leave you notes. Little scribbled apologies and explanations, always void of any real details, but still. His handwriting was dogshit, but it still comforted you.
You don't know when he stopped leaving them, you don't even know what you prefer. Apologies and explanations become dull once you keep repeating the same actions over and over again.
You eat breakfast in silence, and then you go to work. When your coworker asks you if you're alright, you nod, smiling. Your response does nothing to diminish her worried gaze, but she doesn't push the topic.
It's on day eight of monotone autopilot that you decide to break the cycle. You sit up from your couch and pause the pointless reality show on your TV, grabbing your phone.
With a weird sense of accomplishment already brewing in your chest, you google the nearest locksmith and dial their number.
"What the fuck,"
Simon grunts, jamming his key into your door.
Technically, he has his own place in the shitty part of Manchester. It's a two-room flat, on the third floor. He's lived there since he was twenty-one, and since the landlord doesn't ask too many questions and the rent is cheap, he's never bothered finding anything else. He pays in cash, and the lease just has his unintelligible signature. No name.
Technically.
Really, he's been living at your place for at least the past three years or so, barely even bothering to stop by his own place first.
Except today his key won't fucking work.
He frowns, stepping back. Looking around, he notices a few passersby glancing at him. He's not an idiot, he knows how he looks: a big bloke dressed all in black, scars all over, trying to seemingly knock down your door.
You're not rich, but your job pays well, and the house you rent showcases that as well. When he first started coming around, he had to school himself into not scowling at all the posh people walking down your street. While he personally couldn't care less, it would overcomplicate things if your neighbours hated him.
"You little vixen," he huffs.
He can't help but grin to himself. He knew that after that last stun he pulled, he wouldn't exactly be welcomed home, but changing the fucking locks is a new low, even for you. In a way, he's proud of your sheer spitefulness.
Sighing, he grabs his bag and walks around your house to your back door. He doesn't have to push himself against the door more than three times before the door gives, allowing him entrance. He frowns as he shuts the now broken door as much as it'll give behind him.
He'll have to fix that before he leaves. Can't have it so easy for just about anyone to get in.
The rest of your place looks exactly like it always does. He makes himself comfortable, grabs a beer from the fridge, and settles on your couch.
You changed the locks, but you didn't bother throwing out the beer he left in your fridge. That has to count for something. Especially when you always complain that the beer he drinks is awful.
"Not even a dog would drink this stuff, Si," you said one time, scrunching your nose in disgust. He had smiled and taken a big swig before kissing you silly.
You sense it the second you walk up your front porch. You don't know how, you just know that he's here. Like a fucked up sixth sense, an alarm in the back of your head that tells you Simon Riley is ready to bulldoze your life again.
Already angry, you unlock your front door, ready for the fight you're about to have. When you find him on your couch, so at home, your mood only worsens. You ignore the pointed ache in your chest, as well as the relief of finding him still alive after months of silence.
"Six months, Si," you say, arms crossed over your chest. "You've been gone for six months,"
Simon lazily looks over his shoulder, taking you in. He shamelessly lets his gaze roam, memorising the shape of you. The furrow between your brows, the curve of your hips. The way you're so sexy when you're mad at him.
"Right," he says. "So tha' it, then? You're done."
It's cruel, the way he makes it sound like it's somehow your fault. Your glare sharpens, and you shake your head.
"How did you get in?" You look at the floor, seeing the dirt his boots had tracked in. Annoyed, you make your way to the back door, jaw dropping when you see the way it's barely hanging onto its hinges.
"Si, you stupid-"
You turn back to him, still lazily spread on your couch. He shrugs.
Angrily, you grab a book from your bookshelf and hurl it at him. He barely dodges before you're throwing yet another.
"Aight, love, I'll fix it," he says, dodging book after book. “It was too flimsy anyway, it's far too easy for an intruder to get in.”
"The only intruder is you!"
You glare, reaching for another book, ignoring the warning in his eyes. It looks ridiculous the way the big man on your couch scowls as Pride and Prejudice hits him right in the face.
"Tha's it,"
He stands up, barely flinching when Little Women, quickly followed by Crime and Punishment, hits him in the chest, and next thing you know, he's on you.
"Gonna need thicker books than tha, dove," he says, throwing you over his shoulder. You trash as he takes you to his bedroom in long strides, before you're thrown on the bed.
"A bible might help," you bite, and he scoffs, shaking his head.
"You and I both know we're way past that sorta thing,"
You whine when he smashes his lips to yours, swallowing up your curses. He pushes his tongue into your mouth, and you bite angrily. He draws back, cursing, before he pulls your jeans off you. You tug on his shirt in response, and he doesn't hesitate to throw it over his head.
The next kiss is violent, both of you fighting to take the lead. You run your hands through his choppy short hair, and he puts a hand on your throat while the other is on your hips.
Despite promising he'll stop, he still tastes like cigarettes, and you pull him closer, angry that he's managed to wrangle himself into your bed again.
"I hate you," you say, gasping when he pulls your top and bra down, your tits spilling out. He groans, wrapping his lips around one nipple before quickly moving to the other.
"Love your tits," he states, ignoring you completely as he presses his face to them, groaning with relief. "Goddamn, soft as pillows,"
You roll your eyes, yet he manages to pull a surprised moan from you when he sucks a hickey on the sensitive skin, grinning at his art.
"Tell me, lovie," he says, while his stupid, big hands paw all over you. "What exactly made you think a little lock could keep me away?"
You're about to snap back, explain to his thick head that it's meaning behind the lock, but he thumbs your clit, and your jaw goes slack. Six months of nothing but your fingers and your vibrator does wonders to make you extra sensitive to Simon's calloused hands.
You remember in the early months of your relationship, how he loved it, how he'd edge you for hours.
Tonight, he groans at how slick you already are as he pushes two fingers into you. Your grip on his biceps turns sharp, and your back arches. You bite your lips to keep your moans, and Simon frowns as he uses his free hand to tug your lip free. You bite down on his thumb, and he nearly howls, pulling his hands back.
You smile, but your face twists in pleasure when he curls his fingers just how you like it, while scissoring you open.
"You're so wet, love," he grunts, getting down on his stomach in front of you. You gasp when he noses at your clit, groaning. "Fuck, I missed ya,"
You scoff, but any retort dies on your tongue when he dives in. He eats you out with a fervour, his big hands digging into the meat of your thighs as he moans into your cunt, licking and sucking. You whimper when he sucks on your clit, and his grip on you tightens. You'll surely have bruises tomorrow, but right now all you can focus on is the fire that's slowly building in your gut.
Your eyes roll back when he prods his fingers at your entrance again, reaching deeper than you've ever been able to on your own.
"Simon," you sob, digging your heels into his back. He moans, and when you meet his eyes, he's already staring, taking in your pinched expression and trembling lips.
He takes his mouth off your clit, instead using a rough thumb to make messy circles on your clit. You break with a cry, back arching as you struggle to keep your eyes open.
"That's it, love, there you go,"
Wet, salty tears stream down your cheeks, and you whine when he bites the inside of your thigh, before immediately smoothing his tongue over the irritated skin. For a second, you just watch each other as he kisses the insides of your thigh. Then he pulls himself up and collapses on top of you. The weight calms you down, and an involuntary sigh leaves you.
"That was a big one, huh, baby?" he murmurs, wiping the tears off your cheek with a rough thumb. You hiccup, grabbing his hand and intertwining your fingers.
"I'm still mad at you," you say, playing with his fingers. You can feel his erection poking your side, but neither of you addresses it.
"And you have every right to be, love," he says, kissing the back of your hand.
"But you're not gonna change," you say.
There's something heavy in Simon's eyes. He looks at you for a while, neither of you saying anything.
"No," he says. "I can't."
A fresh set of tears appears, and you bite your lip, looking away from him.
"That's cruel."
abrupt ending i know but this was all i had in me . first posted simon fic how are we feeling. (good hopefully???) i have like four more drafts for this guy, so let me know what you think!!!!! thank you for reading, i love youuuuu!!!
also go listen to lizzy mcalpine <333333 my muse, my lover, my inspo for half of my angst fics.
— cw: established relationship; smut and fluff; domesticity; wc: 5.5 k
— S. RILEY:
Simon loves handling knives. It’s one of his specialities after all. And he’s caught you watching him multiple times; whether it was him cutting vegetables for supper, cleaning his combat knives, or shaving with a razor blade.
So, when you pad into the kitchen in nothing but his shirt and ask him to help you shave, he doesn't even blink.
“Where?”
You tug at the hem. He follows the gesture, and his expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes does.
“Right.” The chair scrapes over the tiles as he rises to his full height, rolling his shoulders. “Bathroom. Now.”
He has you up on the counter with your legs spread before you can overthink it. Clinical and efficient, like he’s done this a thousand times.
“Hold still,” he commands, lathering soap between his mammoth hands. “Squirm and I'll nick ya.”
You snort, “Reassuring."
“Wasn’t meant t’be.”
His hands are rough but warm and deliberate as he works the lather over you, one palm flat against your lower belly to keep you pinned. He tilts his head, surveying you like a problem he is solving.
He clucks his tongue, “Not takin’ it all off.”
And you blink owlishly, “Why not?”
“Because I like it.” He drags his thumb through the dark curls at the apex of your cunt, appraising. “Leavin’ a clean strip. You'll thank me later.”
The razor comes up before you can argue. First stroke—slow, precise, the blade gliding through lather and coarse hair with a control that makes your stomach flip. His jaw is set, focused, and there is something unbearable about how steady his hands are when yours are gripping the counter edge so hard your knuckles ache.
He rinses the blade. Goes again. His knuckles brush bare skin this time and your thigh jerks involuntarily.
“What’d I say?” His voice is low, flat; his eyes almost bored as they flick up to meet yours.
“Sorry—”
“Don’t apologise. Stop squirmin’.” He resettles his grip on your thigh, firm enough to bruise. “Almost done.”
But you’re not making it easy on him and he knows it. He can see it—the flush creeping down your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, the slick gathering where his hands keep almost-but-not-quite touching.
“You’re wet,” he remarks, the same way he’d say It’s raining.
“Can you blame me?” you squeak.
“No.” Simon finishes the last stroke, rinses the blade, sets it aside. Then he runs his thumb along the neat strip of hair he’s left, then lower, over smooth sensitive skin, checking his work. “Did a bloody good job, if I say so myself.”
His thumb drags lower. Slides through the slick with zero hesitation, and you gasp loud enough to echo off the tiles.
“Responsive,” he murmurs, smug. He does it again—slower, more deliberate, watching your face like he’s taking briefing notes. “All this from a shave, love?”
You nod, voice thick, “From you.”
Something shifts in his expression; shifts to something darker, hungrier. His free hand grips the inside of your thigh and pushes it wider, and he drops to his knees on the bathroom floor like a man settling into a foxhole.
“Si—”
“Shut up,” he growls against your skin. “Let me admire my work.”
His mouth finds you—hot and wet, and completely unhurried. He licks a long, flat stripe over the freshly shaved skin and groans low in his throat like he’s tasting honey on a warm, buttered toast. Your hand flies to his head, fingers digging into the short hair, and he lets you.
Then he pulls back, and you almost whine, but he’s not going anywhere. He brings both hands up instead, spreads you open with his thumbs, rough callused pads pressing into soft skin, holding you apart so he can see everything.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, low and self-satisfied. “All swollen already.”
Your hips buck, but his sheer strength keep you pinned to the counter. “Simon, please—”
“I heard ya.”
But then Simin leans back in and his tongue finds your clit—not a broad stroke this time but a quick, focused flicker, right over the swollen nerve. Your hips buck harder and his grip tightens, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your pussy lips, keeping you spread wide and pinned open.
“Stay. Still.” Spoken directly against you, the vibration making your thighs shake.
He does it again—that precise, maddening flicker—and you make a sound that’s closer to a sob than anything dignified. He rewards it with a low hum, adjusting the angle, working the tip of his tongue in tight little circles that make your vision blur.
“Knew you’d be like this,” he groans, pulling back just enough to watch your clit twitch under his breath. His thumbs spread you wider, obscenely so. “All wound up from a fuckin’ razor and a steady hand.”
Your cheeks are burning while your hole clenches around nothing. “You’re so full of—oh—”
“Myself? Yeah.” His tongue flattens against you, then flickers again, fast and relentless. “And you love it.”
You can’t argue. You can’t do anything except grip his hair and hold on.
He doesn’t let up. That maddening flicker becomes a rhythm—tight, relentless circles over your clit with the tip of his tongue while his thumbs keep you spread open and pinned like a butterfly under glass. You’e shaking, thighs trembling against his hands, and every sound you make earns you another low hum of approval that vibrates straight through your whole body.
“Simon—Si—I’m going to—”
“Then fuckin’ do it.” His tone is flat as ever, impatient, like you’re wasting his time by holding back.
His tongue presses harder, faster, and you come with a choked cry that bounces off the bathroom tiles. He works you through it—slower now, lapping at you in long, lazy strokes while your legs twitch and your fingers go slack in his hair.
And then you hear it before you see it—the sound of his joggers being shoved down, the slick rhythm of his fist. You lift your head, still dazed, and look down to find him on his knees with his fat cock in his hand, jerking himself in hard, fast strokes while his mouth stays pressed against your inner thigh.
“Simon—?”
“Shut up.” His voice is wrecked now. Rough. Nothing clinical about it anymore. “Needed this since I fuckin’ started.”
He’s close already. You can tell from the way his breathing fractures, the way his free hand grips your thigh hard enough to leave fingerptints. Simon pulls back, angles himself forward, fist working fast and tight, and his eyes are fixed on the mess he’s made of you, all puffy and slick. The neat landing strip dark and matted with your wetness against flushed skin.
“Fuck,” he grits out, low and broken. “Look at you.”
He comes across your cunt in hot, thick stripes—groaning through his teeth, forehead dropping against your thigh as his hips jerk into his own fist, massive shoulders shaking against the onslaught of pleasure. You feel it land on smooth skin, on the strip of hair he insisted on keeping, dripping down between your folds, and the sound he makes is almost pained.
He stays there for a moment. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your leg.
Then he straightens up, tucks himself away methodically, and surveys the damage with the composure of a man reviewing a mission report.
“There,” he says, dragging his thumb through the mess on your skin. His and yours, mixed so prettily. “Payment for services rendered.”
Your eyes roll with fond exasperation as your head tips back to rest on the counter.
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re welcome, love.” He leans in, presses a single kiss to the landing strip, and stands. “Clean yerself up. Dinner’s in twenty.”
— K. GARRICK
Kyle notices things. It’s what makes him terrific at his job—reading a room in mere seconds, clocking the miniscule details everyone else always misses. So, when you come home looking like the week has chewed you up and spat you out, he’s already running the bath before you’ve kicked off your shoes and put down your bag.
“Self-care day!” he announces. “You. Me. Bathroom. Now.”
“Kyle, I’m fine—”
“Didn’t ask.” He’s already steering you by the shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you, yeah? Let me do this for you, baby.”
And that’s the thing about Kyle. He doesn’t ask permission to take care of you—he just does it, like breathing, like it’s the most natural and obvious thing in the world.
He starts with your arms.
You’re sitting on the edge of the ceramic tub, warm water lapping at your calves, while Kyle kneels beside you with a fresh razor and a bottle of fancy shaving oil he warmed between his palms. He lifts your arm above your head, long and gentle fingers circling your wrist, and works the oil into the hollow of your underarm with slow, thorough strokes.
“When’s the last time someone took care of you properly?” he asks casually, like small talk.
“You did. Last week,” you deadpan, brows furrowed.
He grins brilliantly. “Doesn’t count. That was just sex.”
You snort softly, “Just sex, he says—”
“Hush now.” He draws the razor up in a smooth, careful line. Rinses. Again. His touch is absurdly gentle for hands that can strip a rifle in seconds. “This is different. This is maintenance.”
“You make me sound like a bloody car.”
“Nah.” Kyle kisses his teeth, then switches to the other arm, lifting it with the same easy confidence. “More like a classic bike. High-performance. Needs the right hands.”
You snort again, but your skin is already tingling where he’s touched—warm oil sinking in, the faint sting of freshly shaved skin, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist while he works.
Your legs take longer. He’s thorough about it—kneeling on the tile floor, one of your calves propped on his shoulder, dragging the razor from ankle to knee in long, unhurried strokes. He takes his time with the oil after, working it into your skin with both hands, thumbs pressing into the muscle of your calf until you groan.
“Good?” he asks, gauging your reaction, and there is something darker in his voice now. Something paying attention.
“So good,” you breathe, eyes closed in bliss.
He slides higher—past your knee, along your inner thigh. Still massaging, still working the oil in, but his fingers are brushing territory that has nothing to do with shaving. He watches your face the whole time, reading every micro-expression, cataloguing what makes your breath hitch, what makes your muscles relax.
“One more spot,” he murmurs, hands settling on your inner thighs. “Yeah?”
You nod. Your mouth has gone dry.
“Need words, love.”
And you nod more enthusiastically, “Yes. Please.”
His smile is warm, but his gaze is filthy.
Kyle repositions you gently, guiding you back against the fluffy towels he’s already laid out on the bathroom floor like he planned this from the start. Probably did. Kyle Garrick is always three steps ahead.
He settles between your thighs and takes his time with the oil, working it into the soft skin of your mound with his fingertips. Not rushing. Letting you feel every slow circle, every press of his thumb, until you’re breathing hard and your hips are shifting restlessly.
“Easy, my love," he says softly, one hand flat on your belly. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.”
The razor is careful. Feather-light strokes, angled perfectly, his free hand stretching the skin taut with a confidence that makes heat pool low in your stomach. He shaves you bare, all of it, pausing to rinse the blade and check his work with the pad of his thumb.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs thickly, and means it.
Then the oil comes back. Warm from his hands, drizzled over freshly shaved skin, and he starts working it in with both thumbs in long, slow strokes down either side of your slit.
Your thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he does.
“Sensitive?” he asks teasingly, voice low. Eyes crinkling with mirth.
“Kyle—”
“That’s not an answer.” But he’s smiling, thumbs pressing a little firmer, gliding through the oil and spreading you open slowly. “Tell me how it feels.”
You swallow hard, but your voice still comes out raspy, “Like you’re trying to kill me, baby.”
He laughs; warm, genuine, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Not yet.” His thumbs drag inward, slicking through the oil and your own syrupy wetness now, framing your clit without touching it. “We’re getting there, though.”
Kyle starts massaging in earnest then, and it’s devastatingly precise. Both thumbs working slow circles over your outer lips, pressing and releasing, coaxing blood to the surface until everything is swollen and throbbing and so slick you can hear it. He watches your face the whole time, dark eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every bitten-back sound.
“There she is,” he praises when your hips start rolling into his hands. “There you go. Just let it happen, baby.”
And he slides one thumb between your folds—just one, dragging through the mess—and your whole body arches.
“Fuck, Kyle—” you mewl, and Kyle mutters a curse under his breath, pupils blown.
“Yeah, I know.” He does it again, slow and firm, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb while his other hand keeps you spread open. “You’re soaking my hand, love. That all from the shave, or you just like being taken care of by me?”
“Both—God—both!”
“Greedy.” He says it fondly, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. Then he sinks a finger into you—one, then two—curling them forward, and your back comes off the floor.
“Oh—oh—fuck!”
“Right there?” He crooks his fingers experimentally, finds the spot that makes your vision white out, and presses more firmly. “Yeah. Right there.”
He starts working you open with slow, deliberate thrusts—two fingers buried deep, curling against that front wall, while his thumb keeps circling your clit in a rhythm that’s going to end you. His other hand is on your hip, holding you steady when you start to writhe.
“Don't fight it,” he reminds you, and then his mouth replaces his thumb—hot and wet, tongue lapping at your clit in broad, flat strokes that make your thighs clamp around his head.
He groans against you and his fingers pick up the pace, curling and pressing in a rhythm that builds something white-hot at the base of your spine. You can feel it coiling, tighter and tighter, different from a normal orgasm, deeper, more urgent.
“Kyle—Kyle, I’m gonna—”
“I know.” He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing your clit while your inner muscles clench and flutter around his pumping fingers, urging him deeper. “I can feel it. Let go.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His fingers press harder, faster, rubbing firmly against that swollen spot inside you. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”
His mouth seals over your clit and he sucks, gentle and persistent, while his fingers thrust up hard until something inside you breaks. And you come with a sound you don’t recognise; your whole body locking up and then releasing in a hot, pulsing rush that soaks his hand, his chin, the towels underneath you.
“That’s it. Fuck, baby, that’s it—” Kyle’s voice is wrecked, awed, his fingers still working you through it as you gush and squirt over his knuckles, soaking the towels. “Christ, look at you. So fucking beautiful.”
You’re shaking. Trembling all over, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, and Kyle is already there to catch you; easing his fingers out gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip, the curve of your quivering belly.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, gathering you up against his lean chest. “I’ve got you, love. You did so well.”
You bury your face in his neck and he holds you. Always solid, warm, and steady. His hand strokes your back in slow, soothing circles while your breathing comes down.
“Self-care day,” you mumble against his throat, chuckling softly.
He laughs, quiet and fond. “Told you I’d take care of you.”
— J. PRICE
John finds you standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fresh from the shower, towel discarded on the floor like an afterthought. You’re turning sideways, then forward again, fingers tugging at the dark curls between your thighs with a frown he recognises immediately.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watches you for a moment.
“Don’t even think about it woman,” he says gruffly.
You jump, because of course you didn’t hear him coming. The man moves like smoke when he wants to. “Jesus, John—”
“I know that look.” He nods toward your hand. “You’re thinking about shaving.”
You tut. Caught again. “It’s gotten—”
“No.”
He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room, calm and unhurried, the way he does everything. Like the world operates on his schedule and it knows better than to argue.
“You nicked yourself last time,” he reminds you, stopping behind your back. You can feel the warmth of him through his shirt, his breath against the top of your head. “Bled all over the damn bathroom. Looked like a crime scene.”
You frown. “It wasn’t that bad—”
“It was exactly that bad.” His steely eyes meet yours in the mirror. Steady and final. “You want to be smooth, I’ll do it. End of discussion.”
That tone from your husband. The one that ends briefings and closes arguments. It mean Captain Price isn’t asking.
He takes his time setting up, because John Price has never rushed anything important in his life and he’s not about to start with a blade near your precious skin. Warm water in a bowl. A fresh razor—not the one you butchered yourself with last time, but his, the good one he keeps in the leather case. A flannel. Shaving soap that smells like sandalwood and menthol.
“On the bed,” he orders. “Edge. Legs apart.”
“John,” you try to reason again.
“Did I stutter?” And he gives you that look. The head tilt forward to look down at you.
And you sit obediently. He pulls the ottoman over, settles onto it between your knees like he’s sitting down to a job that requires patience and precision. Which, in his mind, it does. He drapes the warm flannel over you first—pressing it gently against the curls, softening the hair—and the heat makes you exhale slowly through your nose.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, absent and fond. “Just relax.”
He works the soap into a lather between his palms, and his hands are broad and rough and unhurried as he spreads it over you. Fingers moving through the hair with a kind of proprietary ease, like this is his to manage. His to maintain. You watch him from above—the focused set of his jaw, the silver threading through his full beard, the absolute steadiness of his hands.
You exhale slowly, willing yourself to relax while heat starts pooling low in your belly. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupts calmly, picking up the razor. “I want to. Difference.”
The first stroke silences you. Slow, precise, the blade drawing a clean line through lather and hair. His free hand pulls the skin taut, and his eyes never leave his work with the same concentration you’ve seen him give to maps and mission briefs in his office.
He rinses the blade in warm water. Goes again.
“You’re quiet,” he remarks eventually, a hint of amusement buried under the gravel.
“Hard to be mouthy when your husband’s got a razor on your—”
“Careful.” But he’s smiling, just barely, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Good time to practice some of that restraint I’m always bloody on about.”
Stroke by stroke, he clears the hair away. Thorough. Methodical. He tilts your hips when he needs a better angle, adjusts your thigh with a tap of two fingers like he’s positioning you on instinct. There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing performative—just a man doing a job properly because it needs doing and he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right.
When he’s finished, he sets the razor aside and wipes you clean with the warm flannel—slow and careful passes that make your freshly shaved skin prickle and sing. Then he sits back, hands on your knees, and surveys his work.
“There,” he murmurs, thoroughly satisfied. “That’s how it’s done, woman.”
“Thank you.” And when you try to close your legs to get up, his hands stop you.
“I’m not finished.”
Your breath catches. He hasn’t moved—still sitting on the ottoman, still between your thighs, still looking at you with that calm, unhurried authority. But something’s shifted in his expression. His gaze has darkened, and you very well know what that means.
Your stomach swoops. “John?”
“Lie back.”
And you do obediently. Again. Not because he has ordered you to—though he has—but because when John Price uses that voice, your body just listens. Your back hits the duvet and you stare at the ceiling, heart hammering, while he pushes your thighs wider with both hands.
“Smooth,” he murmurs absentmindedly, running his palm over you, feeling his own handiwork. His thumb traces the edge of your slit; barely there, maddeningly light. “Soft.” His eyes flit up to look at you, almost smugly. “See what happens when you let me handle things?”
But you’re still staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re wet.” John mentions it plainly, like a field observation. “Have been since I started. Thought I wouldn’t notice?” He snorts.
Your eyes close slowly, praying for patience. “Was hoping you wouldn’t.”
“I notice everything. Especially about my wife. You know that.” He leans forward, presses a kiss just above your mound. Utterly deliberate and proprietary. His beard scratches against the smooth skin and your hips jerk. His eyebrow raises. “Sensitive?”
You exhale a breath. “Your beard—”
“Mm.” He does it again—drags his jaw across the freshly shaved skin, rough against smooth, and the noise you make is mortifying. “That’s bloody new. Like that, do you?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just settles in, hands hooking under your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed and into his mouth like he’s sitting down to a meal he intends to take his time with.
The first broad stroke of his tongue makes you arch clean off the mattress. He grunts, low and satisfied, and pins your hips down with one forearm.
“Stay put,” he mutters against you. “I mean it.”
And then he takes you apart.
It’s not frantic. It’s not teasing. It’s thorough. The way John does everything. Long, slow drags of his tongue from entrance to clit, tasting every inch of smooth skin, learning the new terrain with the same patient focus he gave the razor. His beard scrapes against your inner thighs, your lips, the crease of your legs, and the contrast—soft warm tongue, rough stubble—has you writhing within minutes.
“John—John—”
He hums against your clit and the vibration shoots straight up your spine. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you closer, burying himself deeper. He sucks your clit between his lips firmly and flicks his tongue over it in a tight rhythm that makes your hands fist in the duvet.
“Oh God—oh fuck—”
He pulls back. Just enough. Lips still brushing you when he speaks.
“Language, darling.”
“You’re eating me out!” you whine helplessly.
“And you’ll still mind your mouth in my house.” But there is a rumble underneath the words—amusement and bone-deep arousal, barely restrained—and his tongue is back on you before you can fire back, licking into you with a hunger that contradicts every ounce of composure in his voice.
John brings a hand up and slides two thick fingers inside you without preamble, curling them forward, and the sound you make is broken and loud and not remotely dignified. He groans at the feel of you clenching around him, and you feel it everywhere.
“That’s it,” he groans, low and rough. “That’s my gorgeous girl.”
He fucks you with his fingers—steady and deep, curling against the spot that makes your thighs shake—while his mouth works your clit in slow, sucking pulls. He’s not rushing but savouring. Taking you apart piece by piece with the same relentless patience he applies to everything, and you couldn’t stop the orgasm building in you if you tried.
“John—I’m close—”
“I know you are.” He doesn’t change pace. Just keeps that maddening, steady rhythm. “Come when you’re ready. I’ll be here.”
It hits you like a wave. Slow and devastating, rolling through you from the inside out. Your back arches, your legs lock around his wide shoulders, and you come on his tongue with his name in your mouth. John works you through every second of it, fingers still moving, tongue still pressing, until you’re shaking and pushing weakly at his head.
When he finally pulls back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks up at you with dark, satisfied eyes and a beard that’s matted and glistening with your come.
“See? That’s why you let me handle things.”
You can’t even argue with that. Not right now at least. You’re boneless, spent, staring at the ceiling while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh and stands—unhurried as ever, straightening his shirt like he didn’t just ruin you for the rest of the day.
“I’ll make us a tea,” he calls from the doorway, completely composed. “You’ll want a biscuit after that, because I’m going to fuck my wife later.”
— J. MACTAVISH
“Nae, hen.”
Like every time before, Johnny straight up refuses when you ask him to help you shave your bush.
He takes one glance at it and his pupils blow up like an IED, swallowing the baby blue of his irises within milliseconds.
“Why?” you whine, stomping your foot like a petulant bunny. “Johnny, pleeease! I can’t do it on my own! I cut myself last time!”
And you cross your arms, frowning at him, and hoping it’s enough to make him cave. But, alas, it is not.
“Good,” he retorts, turning back to the telly where some Premier League match is playing that he’s barely watching anymore. “Maybe tha’ll teach ye to leave her alone.”
Her.
“Johnny, it’s hair.”
“Aye, it’s hair. Her hair. And I fuckin’ like it.” He slings his arm over the back of the couch, manspreading like he owns the entire living room, eyes fixed on the screen with a kind of stubbornness that makes you want to scream. “End of.”
“You don’t get to decide what I do with my own—”
“Never said I did,” he interrupts flatly, then glances at you sideways, grinning. “I said am no’ helpin’. Big fuckin’ difference, lass. Ye want to hack away at yerself in the bathroom again, be my guest. I’ll be here Mournin’.”
You cross your arms, scoffing, “You’re mourning my pubic hair.”
“Aye. She’s a right bonnie. Deserves better than some dull razor and yer shaky hands.”
You gape at him. He takes a slow sip of his beer, utterly unbothered, eyes back on the match. The audacity of this man. The sheer, Scottish audacity.
“Fine,” you snap, and yank your leggings down right there in the living room. “Look at it then. Look. It’s a mess, Johnny!”
That gets his attention.
He turns his head slowly, beer bottle halfway to his mouth, and his eyes drop between your thighs. The grin slides off his face and something else replaces it—something hotter, sharper. His jaw works. He shifts in his seat.
“Come here,” he demands suddenly.
“No. You said no.”
“I said come here.” He pats his thick right thigh. “Need a closer look, don’t I? Cannae make a proper assessment from across the room.”
You know it’s a trap. You know it is. But he’s looking at you with those baby blue eyes and that crooked, shit-eating smile, and your feet are already moving.
He pulls you onto his lap the second you’re within reach—hands on your hips, spinning you so your back is against his chest, your bare arse settled right over the growing bulge in his joggers. He spreads your thighs with his knees, hooking your legs over the outside of his, opening you up.
Your eyes widen. “Johnny!”
“Shh, hen. ‘M assessin’.”
Johnny looks down over your shoulder, chin resting against your temple, and his hands slide down from your hips to your inner thighs. He spreads you open with both thumbs and makes a low, appreciative sound that vibrates through his chest and into your spine.
“Aye, see?” he says, voice dropping rougher. “Look at her. She’s fuckin’ gorgeous. All soft an’ warm." He drags his fingers through the curls, tugging gently, and your hips twitch. “Why would ye want to get rid of this?”
“Johnny, I just—”
“Nah, hold on, ‘m talkin’ to her, no' you.” He dips his head lower, mouth against your ear, but he’s addressing your exposed cunt like it’s a separate entity. “Don’t listen to her, sweetheart. She doesnae know what she’s got. Ye’re perfect.”
You sigh deeply, lips pursing. “You’re literally insane.”
“Aye, she says thank ye,” he continues, ignoring you completely. His fingers stroke through the hair again, lower this time, brushing your outer lips. “She’s happy. See? Nice and warm in her wee fur coat. Ye want to take that away from her? In this economy? In this weather?”
“It’s literally June, Johnny.”
“Could get cold! Ye don’t know!” His thumb grazes your clit—barely, just enough—and you gasp. He grins against your ear. “Oh, an’ she’s awake now. See that? She heard ye talkin’ aboot razors an’ she got scared. I’m just comfortin’ her.”
“You’re the worst person I’ve ever—hah—”
His thumb presses down, firm, and circles slowly. “What was tha’?”
“—ever met in my entire—fuck—”
Johnny chuckles with dark satisfaction. “That’s more like it.” He circles again, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world, like the match is still the most important thing in the room. His other hand holds your thigh open, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Look at ye. All wet already and I’ve barely touched her. She likes the bush, babe. She’s tellin’ ye.”
Your eyes squeeze shut, trying not to make another sound. “That’s not—that’s not how that works—”
“No?” He sinks a finger into you—just one for now, thick and rough—and you clench around him so hard your vision blurs. “Feels like it’s workin’ to me.”
He starts a rhythm—slow, dragging thrusts with his finger while his thumb circles your clit—and you’re melting into his chest, head falling back against his shoulder. The telly is still on, some commentator yelling about a foul, and Johnny’s watching the match over your shoulder like he’s not knuckle-deep inside your hairy cunt.
“Johnny—fuck—pay attention to me—”
“I am payin’ attention. Multitaskin’, lass. Top o’ ma fuckin’ class.” He crooks his thick finger, and you nearly come off his lap. “Ooh, there she is. Found the spot, aye?”
“Please—”
“Please what? Please shave ye?” He tsks, adding a second finger, stretching you. “Still nae. But I’ll make ye forget why ye wanted to in the first place. Deal?”
You whimper. He takes that as a yes.
Then he pulls his fingers out, and you do whine, loud and needy, and before you can protest, he’s lifting you off his lap and onto your feet. You sway, legs shaking, and he grins up at you as he slides down the couch, lying back with his head on the armrest.
“Come here,” he demands again, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it. He folds his muscular arms behind his head, looking up at you like he’s ordered room service. “Sit on my face.”
“You—what?”
Johnny snickers at the dumbstruck expression on your face. “Ye heard me.” He licks his lips. Obscenely slow and deliberate. Like a wolf licking its chaps. The bastard. “Bring her up here. I want to have a proper conversation.”
“A conversation,” you repeat, not amused.
“Aye. With my tongue. Now get up here before I drag ye.”
Your thighs are still trembling as you relent with a groan and climb over him, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his head. You hover, suddenly self-conscious, and he rolls his eyes.
“Oh, fer fuck’s sake—” His brawny hands grip your hips and yank you down onto his mouth.
The first thing you feel is his groan—deep, guttural, vibrating against your cunt like he has just taken a bite of the best thing he’s ever tasted. His tongue drags through your furry pussy lips, broad and flat and filthy, and his fingers dig into the meat of your arse hard enough to leave bruises.
“Johnny—oh my God!”
He can’t answer with his mouth full of you, but he slaps your thigh once—hard—and you jolt. And the message is clear.
You roll your hips against his face, tentative at first, then harder when his tongue licks your clit and flicks over it in rapid, relentless strokes He’s making sounds beneath you, groaning into your cunt like he’s getting off on it as much as you are. Perhaps more. His nose presses into the curls he refused to shave and he inhales deeply, moaning like he’s dying.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles against you, pulling back just long enough to breathe. His chin is soaked, his eyes are five shades darker, and he’s grinning like a maniac. “Ride my face, sweetheart. Fuckin’ use me.”
His mouth seals over your clit again and he sucks hard, and your hand flies to the armrest for balance because your legs have stopped working entirely. He’s licking into you with his whole mouth now, tongue fucking you, slurping, then dragging back up to your clit, alternating between sucking and flicking in a rhythm designed to make you lose your mind.
“I’m—Johnny, I’m going to—fuck—!”
He pulls you tighter against his mouth, both hands gripping your arse and leaving finger-shaped marks, and his tongue works your clit in fast, tight circles while his nose presses against your mound and you come so hard your thighs clamp around his head and your whole body convulses.
He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it—slower now, gentler, long lazy strokes through your slit while you twitch and shake above him. When you finally collapse sideways onto the couch, boneless and gasping, he wipes his face with the back of his hand and sits up looking thoroughly pleased with himself; face shiny and mohawk wild.
“So,” he says, reaching for his beer on the side table like nothing happened. Like his grey joggers don’t have a large, damp patch on the front where his hard cock presses against it and reeks of his cum. “Still want to shave?”
You throw a cushion at his head.
He catches it, laughing—that big, stupid, full-body laugh that crinkles his whole face—and pulls you into his buff, hairy chest.
“That’s what I thought.” He presses a kiss to your hair. “Now let me watch the fuckin’ match, ye silly lass.”
sex with jack abbott is needy and passionate. his thrusts never seem to be lacking love and force. his kisses are always filled with intensity and desire, teeth and clashing tongues.
it’s you both whispering reassurances to each other, you telling him you love all of him, regardless of his ailments; and him telling you he loves you regardless of true age gap or your own insecurities. “so fuckin’ pretty honey, didn’t-didn’t know it could fuck-feel like this”
sex with jack abbott is waking up at sunrise because he thinks sex in the early mornings keep the relationship alive. his tip kisses your cervix and keeps sleepy moans whimpered out of your mouth. “that’s right baby, time to get up. need me for everything, gotta wake you up with an orgasm everyday-shit”
sex with jack abbot is getting a text after his shift saying “be ready”, knowing it means he expects you kneeling behind the welcome mat inside the house wearing that outfit he loves; a pink lingerie mini dress, knee high socks, and a bell collar that he bought you when he introduced you to his world. “nothing-nothing will ever compare to that s-sweet pussy if yours, but your mouth sure as hell tries hard” he says this with a disbelief filled chuckle.
sex with jack abbott is bdsm and kink filled but never lacking love and intimacy. he fucks like he’s angry with you but also like he needs and craves you. Jack abbott is a desperate man with vile needs.
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ryland grace being a crier during sex.
he gets overstimulated easily, clinging to you when you stroke him gently. “mnnghh baby..” he starts off whining. he’s backed up against the headboard of his bed while your seated perpendicular to his hips on your calf’s. your hand’s on his cock, using his excessive precum to your advantage, spreading it around his tip. his hips lift off the bed when your squeeze him a little before he’s keeling over himself. “please, please—“ he starts begging with a moan cutting him off. that’s when his tears start developing in the corners of his eyes.
“please what?” you tease him. he’s always so needy when you’re touching him. even when your not touching him, when he’s jumping your leg at night when you’re ‘too tired’ to assist with his desires. when you’re only talking him through his orgasm and he’s drinking your every word. your voice gets him going like a dog at your beck and call.
“please help me cum. i need it, please, baby” he’s full on crying and you’re living off it. seeing him like this, admittedly, gets you sinfully turned on. his red cheeks glistening with every tear that falls. and when he looks up at you with his mouth agape it’s like you’re dreaming.
you test his limits further, “lemme see you hold it a little longer. can you do that for me?” to which he nods with a choked sob-moan. “good boy. you’re always so obedient for me.” and he was. you’re good boy. you lean forward to kiss and lick at his tear stained cheeks which gets him all the more red. his meeks moans send ripples through your core and he’s barely containing himself.
“can i now? can i? i’ve been good, you said so!” he grabs at your arm, gently, and your shirt, pinching the plush of your boob not-so-accidentally. you continue to work him, twisting your wrist and making designated stops at his tip, stimulating the vein that starts right under it. it makes his eyes roll to the back of his head.
“cum for me, ry” you whisper into his neck as your peppering kisses to it. his face is all twisted, red, and wet when white hot ropes come sputtering out of him. it’s a lot and it gets all over your hands and his thighs. after a few tens of seconds he’s spent and sticky, heavily breathing out ‘thank yous’ like you granted him his one wish willow.
“what do you say about going one more time? with me on top?” you suggest. you guys spend the rest of the night doing “intensive exercise” and expecting noise complaints from ryland’s neighbors.
Thinking about single parent!reader and ghost accidentally bonding with your two kids...
He knows of you vaguely as the apartment two doors down from his that's always toeing the line of some sort of noise complaint. two small kids, four and five respectively. Cute things he sometimes passes in the stairwell since the elevator broke.
"Ewwww!!! What is that!!"
Like now, for example. Arms full of grocery bags, ghost turns the corner to the next flight and finds the wee ones crouched in a corner pointing at something. You sit a few steps up, bags next to you and seemingly taking a breather from the multiple flights.
"Morning, Mr riley." You smile, exhausted. Ghost nods back, then curiously glances over the kid's shoulders when they beging loudly pondering.
"It's an alien!!" Your little girl says, poking at it. "Alien–"
"That's a proper millipede, innit." Ghost grunts above them. He knees down between the two, and lets the long insect crawl onto his hand, holding it up for your kids. "S' the flat face? An' the multiple legs on each segment? Millipede."
You daughter gasps in amazement at the same time your son asks "does it bite?"
"Only kids who don't do their chores." Ghost snorts, then holds it out and gently strokes a single finger along its back "you can pet it."
Which is how your tiny ones end up asking ghost what seems lile a hundred questions about millipedes, then centipedes, and bugs in general.
He answers each one, and after some time sets the bug back down and says "I'll show you more bugs if you help carry groceries in, yeah?"
While your kids grab one bag each, ghost insists on carrying the rest in addition to his own, has the audacity to glare at you when you reach for some.
That night, your kids beg to go to the library to pick out books about bugs, wanting to impress their new friend mr simon.
Of all the people they could like...they chose the weird silent scary guy....at least they're learning stuff, you suppose.
inspired wholly by this hard of hearing!simon by @ynstark — i’ve been plagued by the thought ever since
cw: suggestive
he hears the kettle just fine when it whistles, and he hears the front door when it slams with the wind. what he doesn’t hear, almost ever, is you.
“john,” you call.
you get nothing in return. he’s got his feet up on the coffee table, his reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, some dense paperback open in his hands.
“john,” you try again, huffing.
still nothing. the corner of the room he’s not facing may as well be another county.
you cross to the sofa and stop right in front of him until the shape of you finally registers and he looks up over the rim of his glasses, eyebrows lifting like you’ve appeared out of nowhere.
“what?”
“i called for you twice.”
“did you?” he asks, lips pursing slightly.
you’ve been dealing with this for a long while. over dinner, leaning across the table, repeating yourself, watching him nod at the wrong moments and answer questions you never asked. in the kitchen, talking to his back, getting no reply. in bed, breathing his name against his neck, not getting the same response from him you would’ve got a few years ago.
decades of gunfire and breaching charges and the thumping punch of helo rotors, year over year. by the time anyone thought to check, preserving it was out of the question because the damage was already there. the audiologist had been matter-of-fact about it. showed him the chart, the slope of it dropping off. he nodded along like it was someone else’s ear.
the hearing aids have been sitting in the dish by the bathroom sink for weeks, untouched. they’re good ones too. tiny things. they sit down in the canal, you’d have to be nose-to-nose with him to spot the little nub of them, and even then you’d have to know to look. nothing hooks over the ear or catches in the light.
he just wont wear them.
“i’m not seventy,” he’d said the once you really pushed it. “m’not puttin’ in hearing aids.”
“you’re wearing them, john. you already had them fitted.”
“i don’t need them,” he’d protested. “not day to day.”
which is how you ended up here, two weeks later, watching the back of his head while he reads and ignores the sound of you existing.
so you change tactics.
you don’t say his name again. you take the book out of his hands gently, dog-ear his page with your thumb, set it on the table next to his feet. and before he can do more than open his mouth you climb into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, settling yourself down onto him.
his hands land on your hips instinctually, his whole expression changing. the annoyance smooths out and something warm comes up slowly in its place, you can read his thoughts as clearly as if he’d said it out loud — ‘well, this is alright’.
“well, hello,” he says low, hands sliding up your sides.
he thinks he’s won something. he’s already tilting his chin up for you, lips looking for yours.
you reach into the pocket of your cardigan and pull them out, cupped in your palm where he can see, and his face drops.
“oh, you’re joking,” his shoulders sink with disappointment.
“hold still,” you grumble, leaning forward.
“i was comfortable,” he complains.
“john.” you get the first one in before he can turn his head, fingers careful at his ear, and he huffs through his nose like a dog that’s been told no. “other side.”
“this is entrapment.”
“mm-hm.” you fit the second one in, tucking his hair back where it’s gone astray. you sit back against him to look with your hands resting on his chest. “there,” you grin, satisfied.
“i was reading.”
“and you weren’t hearing a single word i said all night.”
“i can hear!”
“so you’re choosing to ignore me then?”
“i wasn’t— i just—,”
“you answered ‘fine’ when i asked if you wanted chicken or fish for dinner.”
his jaw works. he doesn’t have anything to say to that. “they itch,” he tries instead, pressing a finger against the front of his ear, rubbing the cartilage there.
“they don’t itch. you’re being dramatic.” you shift your weight, just slightly, settling in more solidly against him, and watch his breath catch. “tell me they itch now.”
he’s still scowling, but his hands have tightened on your hips. “i don’t see what hearing’s got to do with this…” he looks down at where you’re pressed to him.
you roll your hips down against him, folding forward, letting your mouth go to the side of his face, right up close to his ear, and you breathe out — soft, the smallest sound, half a moan and half a laugh because you can’t help yourself.
you feel him go still beneath you.
you do it again. rocking down against the shape of him through his trousers and let the noise come up out of you naturally, quiet and close and meant only for him, the kind of sound you make without thinking when his hands are on you. his fingers flex and splay and grip harder, his head turns toward you like it’s being pulled.
“there you are,” you murmur.
“…christ.”
“you hear that?”
he doesn’t answer. his eyes have gone heavy lidded and his hand’s come up into your hair and he’s turned fully into you now, chasing it, the small wet sounds of your breath against his ear, the catch in your throat when you press down and he pushes up to meet you.
these little intimate things he stopped hearing a long time ago and never noticed he’d lost because of how gradual it happened. this way you sound when you want him, the quiet things. the things you only ever say just for him, the things you’ve been saying into the dark for a year now with no return.
“say my name,” you breathe.
“…what?”
“in bed. i always say your name and you never—,” you rock against him and his breath stutters, “you never answer anymore.”
his hand comes up to the side of your face. he pulls back just far enough to look at you, and there’s something that’s gone serious under the want, something that’s caught up with what you’re telling him.
“m’so sorry, love,” he nudges his nose under your jaw, kissing the soft of your neck. “say it now. again,” he says, rough. “go on.” he’s gone hard under you, rolling his hips up, hands keeping your hips down. the seam of his zipper pushing through the thin cotton of your joggers
“john,” you breathe.
he hears you and you watch him — watch his eyes close for a second like it’s gone straight through him.
“yeah,” he says, his thumb moving slow against your cheek. “heard that.” then your name unfurls from his tongue and you kiss him before he can pretend he wasn’t affected, and his arms come all the way around you, and he doesn’t say a single word about the hearing aids again.
john wears them after that without making a fuss over it. just puts them in every morning before you’re up. you never mention that you notice. don’t wanna spook him.
cw: so it's casual but not at all. all i'm saying is undertones (but they're not all that subtle)
it doesn't matter where you are, as long as jack is with you, his hands are on you somehow. whether his palm rests on the small of your back or his fingers curl into the nape of your neck, he guides you through the crowd with a stern look on his face.
to jack, the sidewalk rule might as well be holy scripture. when you cross the street, he immediately switches sides with you. his girl is not walking right where the cars speed past, not when he has seen how quickly an accident can happen.
when it gets dark, jack’s chest puffs out a little more the moment you walk past a group of people, especially if it’s a group of men. he’ll step in front of you like a human shield. should anyone dare to look at you the wrong way, he'll let go of your hand, and instead he'll wrap an arm around you, flexing the muscles beneath his shirt purposefully
food groups—jack makes sure your meals are up to his standard. while he can get away with drinking coffee for breakfast, you best believe he won’t let you out of the house without getting some protein and fiber in you. he even cuts your food for you if you’re too tired, no matter how much you complain about being treated like a kid. (maybe a part of you secretly likes it.)
he doesn’t say anything about the length of your skirts or shorts, but he keeps an eye on them when you’re out together. he’ll pull the fabric down when it rides up or step behind you, should you bend over to pick something up. he glares at anyone whose eyes linger a little too long on your exposed skin, even if it’s “just” your thighs.
when you can’t decide what to wear, he’ll pick for you.
“the purple top looks good, sweet pea. wear that with the black skirt. no, no, the silk one.”
he’ll nod approvingly, hands wandering immediately. his fingers will dig into the flesh of your hips, holding what is his while he takes you in.
“such a pretty girl, mhm?”
jack plans. he organizes dates, makes reservations and picks out the perfect spots for you. he’ll tell you to be ready at seven and then makes sure you are actually ready.
“attagirl”
“good job, baby”
“you’re doing so good”
he likes using those phrases against you because he knows how much they mess with your praise-starved mind. you’ll hear him whisper one of them to you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, when you do even the simplest task.
jack sometimes picks you up randomly. just to show you that he can. he doesn’t grunt or struggle but makes it seem like the easiest thing in the world—because to him, it is.
placing you on the kitchen counter while you cook together, throwing you on the bed (gently, of course), or carrying you over a big puddle so you don't get your shoes soaked--he loves the startled shriek he manages to pull from you every time.
when you watch a movie together, he’ll scratch your head until you practically purr.
“you like that, baby?”
“just relax. but don’t fall asleep, sweet pea. keep those eyes open f’me.”
it’s your weak spot. the second his fingers thread through your hair, you’re jelly in his hands. his husky voice doesn't help keep your mind focused on the movie at all.
Summary: You and Jack shared a night together. He left. Here is the aftermath.
Warnings: Angst. A lot of angst. Yearning. Idiots in love. Hurt/comfort? Emotional hurt/comfort? Mentions of sex. An almost offensive amount of yearning. Miscommunication? Insecurities. Mentions of death of a spouse. Mentions of being an amputee. Older man x younger woman trope (unspecified age gap). No use of Y/N. Not beta’d. Whatever else I failed to mention.
Author’s Note: I do not own The Pitt in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owner(s). Similarly, I don’t own any the gifs or pictures used for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.
Word Count: 6,240
Series Masterlist || Masterlist
Next Part ->
You should’ve expected it, honestly. Thinking he’d stay. Letting yourself believe that maybe there was actually something between you beyond lingering looks and late-night conversations in empty hallways.
You felt stupid.
Waking up to Jack’s side of the bed—your bed—cold and untouched, with no note, no text, nothing to indicate he’d even been there after you’d finally fallen asleep.
Your stomach dropped so hard it made you nauseous.
For a few seconds, you just stared at the empty space beside you, blanket wrinkled where he’d been hours earlier. The faint smell of his cologne still clung to the sheets, stubborn and cruel. Your chest ached so suddenly your eyes burned.
Rolling onto your back, you looked up at the ceiling and swallowed hard.
You should’ve seen this coming.
You should’ve known better than to read into it.
Jack was kind. Attentive. Easy to fall for if you weren’t careful. And you hadn’t been careful at all.
A shaky breath left you as you dragged a hand over your face. God, this was humiliating.
You’d spent so long wanting him that somewhere along the line, your brain had started turning every small thing into something bigger. The lingering touches. The way his voice softened around you. The looks that lasted just a second too long.
And last night—
Last night had felt real.
Not rushed. Not careless. He’d touched you like you mattered. Like he wanted to memorize you. Afterwards, he’d stayed tangled up with you beneath the blankets, warm and half-asleep, his hand resting lazily against your waist while the early morning light spilled across your apartment.
You’d let yourself think maybe this meant something.
Maybe that had been your mistake.
Letting out a heavy sigh, you finally forced yourself to sit up. The apartment felt too quiet now, almost painfully so. Your eyes flicked toward the bedroom doorway half-expecting him to appear somehow, apologetic and disheveled, explaining that he’d just gone to grab coffee or something equally stupid.
But the apartment stayed silent.
Of course it did.
You pushed yourself out of bed and grabbed some comfortable clothes before heading to the bathroom. The floor felt cold beneath your feet. Everything did.
The shower steamed quickly, fogging the mirror while you stood beneath the hot water longer than necessary, trying not to think about him.
It didn’t work.
Your mind replayed everything anyway.
The way he’d looked at you across the room for weeks now. The hesitant flirting. The tension that had built so slowly it almost felt inevitable. The way he’d kissed you last night—careful at first, like he was giving you the chance to stop him.
You’d liked Jack for God knows how long. Longer than you wanted to admit.
And stupidly, selfishly, you thought maybe he felt the same.
You thought last night had been some kind of turning point at the very least. That maybe things would be different now.
He’d been everything you imagined. Gentle when you needed him to be, teasing when he noticed you getting nervous, warm in a way that made you feel safe enough to forget yourself for a while.
Which honestly just made this hurt worse.
Maybe it was for the best that he wasn’t there.
Because if he had stayed only to tell you it didn’t mean anything, you weren’t sure you could’ve handled hearing it out loud.
As you stepped out of the shower, warm steam curling around the bathroom, you reached automatically for the towel hanging nearby and wrapped it tightly around yourself. The fabric clung damply to your skin while you stood there for a moment, staring at your blurred reflection in the mirror.
God, you looked exhausted.
Maybe it was a good thing you had today off.
At least this way, you didn’t have to walk into work pretending everything was fine. You didn’t have to deal with knowing looks or questions or the possibility of running into Jack before you’d figured out how to act normal again.
The thought alone made your stomach twist.
You could stay home. Hide for a day. Nurse your wounded ego in private.
Because really, what had you expected?
That he’d stay the morning? Make coffee? Kiss your forehead before leaving? Maybe linger awkwardly in your kitchen while the two of you tried to navigate whatever this was supposed to become?
The more you thought about it, the more embarrassed you felt for ever imagining it in the first place.
Jack hadn’t promised you anything.
That was the worst part.
He hadn’t lied. Hadn’t manipulated you. He’d just…left.
And somehow that hurt more.
You wiped a hand across the fogged mirror before looking away again almost immediately. Your chest still felt heavy, weighed down by the kind of disappointment you couldn’t even fully justify.
Because technically, nothing bad had happened.
Two adults slept together. That was it.
Except it hadn’t felt casual to you.
That was the problem.
Drying off slowly, you tried to focus on anything other than the memory of him in your bed. The warmth of his hand against your waist. His tired voice sometime in the middle of the night asking if you were okay. The way he’d looked at you like you were something fragile and precious all at once.
Your throat tightened.
You needed to stop replaying it before you drove yourself insane.
Today would be easy. Quiet. You’d clean the apartment, maybe order takeout, maybe sleep half the afternoon away. Anything to keep your mind occupied long enough for the ache in your chest to dull into something manageable.
You could get over one stupid night.
You had to.
* * *
Jack couldn’t get rid of the lump in his throat.
It sat there heavily as he drove, fingers tightening against the steering wheel every time his mind drifted back to the night before—which was constantly.
Your smile.
Your laugh.
The way you’d looked at him like you actually wanted him there.
And then the memory that followed immediately after: slipping out of your apartment while you slept peacefully in bed behind him, too much of a coward to stay long enough to face the morning after.
Jack Abbott wasn’t going to sit there and pretend he hadn’t enjoyed himself.
He did.
God, he did.
He was with you.
That alone had felt dangerous enough.
But sometime during the night, after the adrenaline and want had settled into something quieter, something softer, panic started creeping in beneath his ribs. Slow at first. Then all at once.
The intimacy. The closeness. The domesticity of it all.
Your head resting against his chest. Your sleepy voice mumbling his name. The way you’d curled closer to him in your sleep like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It started to suffocate him.
Not because he didn’t want it.
Because he wanted it too much.
Jack liked you—a lot more than he should’ve allowed himself to. And that was exactly the problem.
There were too many things stacked against this from the beginning. The age difference. His leg. The baggage he carried around everywhere no matter how hard he tried to bury it.
And then there was the biggest thing of all.
His wife.
Even now, years later, the word still hollowed something out inside him.
When he lost her, it felt like losing entire pieces of himself alongside her. She’d been sick for so long that grief had settled into their home before death ever officially arrived. By the end, everything smelled like hospitals and medication and exhaustion.
He remembered sitting beside her hospital bed late one night, her hand frail and cool in his while machines hummed softly around them.
“You can’t hide behind me forever,” she’d said quietly.
Jack’s throat tightened painfully at the memory.
Her eyes had been glassy with exhaustion, but she’d still managed that stubborn little smile he used to love so much.
“You will find someone else,” she told him. “You will be happy. You will live. Do you hear me?”
He remembered shaking his head immediately. Like the idea itself offended him.
But she’d squeezed his hand with surprising strength.
“Jack.”
He’d tried.
He really had.
He went through the motions after she died. Learned how to exist again. Learned how to go to work and laugh at jokes and survive holidays and come home to an empty house without feeling like he was drowning every second of the day.
But moving on?
That part felt impossible.
Because every time he started wanting something again—wanting someone—guilt wrapped around his throat like a hand.
And with you, it was worse.
You made him feel calm in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Less exhausted. Less haunted. You made him feel like himself again, or at least a version of himself he thought had died alongside her.
That terrified him more than anything.
So he ran.
Like a coward.
Jack grimaced, dragging a hand down his face as he stopped at a red light. He could already picture your reaction when you woke up. Confusion first. Then hurt.
Maybe embarrassment.
The thought made his chest ache.
You probably thought he regretted it.
Maybe part of him did—not because of you, never because of you—but because now there was no pretending this was harmless anymore.
He’d crossed a line emotionally long before last night. Sleeping with you had only made it impossible to ignore.
Jack would understand if you hated him after this. If you decided you wanted nothing to do with him anymore.
He left without a word. Without an explanation. Without even giving you the chance to wake up beside him.
Who does that to someone they care about?
The answer came immediately.
Someone selfish.
Jack let out a humorless laugh under his breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting behind his eyes.
Maybe being alone was just something he deserved.
* * *
By the time Jack’s shift rolled around, he still felt like shit.
Barely slept. Barely ate. Spent most of the morning replaying every stupid decision he’d made in the last twelve hours until his head hurt.
And somehow, walking into the hospital made it worse.
Because there was a very real chance he’d see you.
“You look awful,” Robby stated casually as he fell into step beside him toward the locker room.
Jack snorted dryly, shrugging his bag higher onto his shoulder. “How nice of you.”
“I’m serious,” Robby said, glancing over at him. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Feel like it too.”
Robby let out a quiet hum before smirking slightly. “What’s gotten you all pissed off? Didn’t you go home with Honey last night?”
Jack’s throat tightened instantly at the nickname.
You.
The memory hit him hard and fast—your laugh at the bar, your hand brushing his arm, the way you’d smiled against his mouth later that night like you couldn’t quite believe this was happening either.
His chest twisted painfully.
“Nothing happened,” Jack lied.
The words came too easily. Too practiced.
Robby shot him a look that practically screamed bullshit.
Jack avoided it, jaw tightening as he pushed through the locker room doors. He could already feel irritation prickling beneath his skin, sharp and restless. Mostly at himself.
“Really?” Robby followed after him, unconvinced. “Because at the bar, you guys were practically all over each other.”
Jack said nothing, yanking open his locker harder than necessary.
“Not to mention all the flirting before that,” Robby continued. “I mean, everyone’s been noticing it for—”
“Can we just drop this?” Jack snapped.
The harshness in his voice cut through the room immediately.
Robby blinked, caught off guard.
Jack exhaled sharply through his nose, already regretting it, but the guilt and anxiety clawing around inside him had left him with almost no patience for this conversation.
For any conversation, honestly.
Robby studied him for a second longer, expression shifting from teasing to something more cautious.
“…Okay,” he said slowly. “Jesus.”
Jack dragged a hand down his face and looked away, shoulders tense. He could feel Robby still standing there beside him, probably trying to figure out what the hell had happened between last night and now.
Jack wished he knew too.
Because last night had been good. More than good.
It had felt easy being with you. Natural in a way that scared the hell out of him. Somewhere between your apartment and waking up beside you this morning, something inside him had started spiraling.
And now he was here, exhausted and miserable and completely unraveling.
“Look,” Robby said after a moment, voice quieter now. “Whatever happened…you should probably talk to her.”
Jack’s stomach dropped.
He busied himself changing into his scrubs just to avoid reacting.
“Yeah,” he muttered eventually, though the word sounded hollow even to him.
Because he should.
But he had no idea what he’d even say.
* * *
You were sprawled across your couch by the time evening settled in, takeout containers scattered across the coffee table alongside crumpled napkins and a glass of water you kept forgetting to drink.
The apartment was dim except for the television casting flickering light across the room.
You’d spent most of the day trying not to think.
It hadn’t worked.
Every distraction eventually circled back to Jack somehow. Folding laundry reminded you of him leaving his shirt on your bedroom floor. Making coffee reminded you that he hadn’t stayed long enough for morning coffee in the first place. Even the silence in your apartment felt wrong now, too big and empty after having him there the night before.
It was pathetic, honestly.
One night.
That was all it took to completely throw you off balance.
You flipped absently through channels, not really watching anything. Some sitcom laugh track filled the apartment for a few seconds before you changed it again with a grimace.
Nothing held your attention long enough.
Your chest still felt bruised.
When your phone buzzed loudly beside you, you startled slightly before grabbing it off the couch cushion. Trinity’s name lit up across the screen.
You let out a dramatic groan before answering.
“Hello?” you muttered, already exhausted.
“You sound like shit.”
Of course it was Trinity.
You closed your eyes briefly, sinking further into the couch. Her shift would be ending around now, which explained the call. Apparently your misery had become detectable through the phone.
“What do you want?” you sighed. “It’s late.”
“It’s seven.”
You groaned louder this time, dragging a hand over your face.
“Fine, whatever,” you mumbled. “What?”
“Just checking in on you.”
“Oh, I’m doing great,” you replied flatly, stabbing your takeout with more force than necessary. “Absolutely fantastic.”
Trinity hummed knowingly on the other end of the line.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I can tell.”
You shoved food into your mouth mostly to avoid talking.
For a second, neither of you said anything. The quiet stretched just long enough to make your stomach tighten uneasily.
Then—
“Look,” Trinity started carefully, “I saw Abbot come in.”
Your grip tightened around the fork immediately.
“He looked awful.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully at that, equal parts concern and anger.
You hated that you still cared.
“Did something happen?” she asked gently.
You stared blankly at the muted television.
A couple on-screen laughed at some joke you couldn’t hear.
“I don’t really want to talk about him,” you said quietly.
Trinity paused.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “That bad?”
You let out a humorless laugh under your breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.
The embarrassing part was that technically nothing catastrophic had even happened. No screaming fight. No betrayal. No cruel words exchanged.
Jack just left.
And somehow that hurt enough to hollow you out anyway.
“I overheard him talking to Robby earlier,” Trinity continued cautiously. “He told him nothing happened between you guys.”
Everything in you went still.
Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost hurt.
You stared down at your untouched food, throat tightening painfully as heat rushed to your face.
He said that?
For a second, you genuinely thought you might be sick.
“Is that true?” Trinity asked carefully.
The silence on your end probably answered for her.
You swallowed hard, trying to force your expression back into something neutral even though she couldn’t see you.
“Yeah,” you stammered finally, your voice sounding thinner than you intended. “Nothing happened.”
The lie scraped against your throat.
Trinity immediately caught it.
“Okay, no,” she said firmly. “I know that voice.”
You pressed your lips together hard enough for it to ache.
“Look, if he did something—”
“He didn’t,” you interrupted quickly. Too quickly. “I promise. I’m fine, okay?”
Fine.
Right.
You were currently sitting alone in your apartment trying not to cry over a man who apparently told people nothing happened between you after spending the night in your bed.
Fine wasn’t exactly the word for it.
Trinity went quiet for a moment.
When she spoke again, her voice softened.
“I’m coming over.”
Your eyes widened immediately. “Trin—”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not in the mood,” you said quickly, sitting upright now. “Please don’t.”
“Huckleberry will survive one night without me.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly at the mention of Dennis.
It disappeared just as quickly.
“Trinity,” you sighed tiredly. “I really just want to be alone right now.”
“No,” she replied bluntly. “You think you do.”
You dropped your head back against the couch cushion with a frustrated groan.
“I’m coming into work tomorrow,” you muttered weakly, like that somehow fixed things.
“So am I.”
“I mean it,” you said, exhaustion bleeding into your voice now. “Can you just leave me alone?”
The question came out quieter than you intended.
Smaller.
And that seemed to hit Trinity immediately.
Her tone gentled again.
“You’re in the middle of a crisis,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
Your throat tightened so painfully you couldn’t respond.
Because that was the worst part, wasn’t it?
You felt ridiculous for hurting this much.
Nothing had happened.
Except everything had.
* * *
You didn’t even bother trying to look presentable by the time Trinity showed up.
There didn’t seem to be a point.
You were still wearing one of your oldest oversized shirts, exhaustion sitting heavy beneath your eyes. The takeout containers were still scattered across the coffee table exactly where you’d left them, the television still playing quietly in the background more for noise than entertainment.
The knock at the door came sooner than you expected.
You opened it slowly, immediately spotting the duffel bag slung over Trinity’s shoulder and the look on her face.
A mixture of concern and irritation.
Your stomach twisted.
“You’re fine my ass,” she said the second she stepped inside.
You rolled your eyes weakly, stepping aside so she could enter.
Trinity brushed past you into the dining area like she owned the place, dropping the duffel bag heavily onto the table before unzipping it with purpose.
“What’d he do anyway?”
You lingered awkwardly a few feet behind her, arms folding tightly across yourself. You still felt strangely numb from the phone call earlier. Numb from the entire day, honestly. Like your body had just decided to shut parts of itself down to keep from fully processing the embarrassment of all this.
“It’s nothing,” you mumbled.
Even saying the words made heat crawl up your neck.
“You’ll think it’s stupid.”
Trinity stopped rummaging through the bag long enough to shoot you a dry look over her shoulder.
“It’s not stupid if it upset you this much.”
Your eyes dropped immediately.
That somehow made it worse.
Because you were upset. Mortifyingly upset. More upset than you had any right to be after one night together.
But it wasn’t really just one night, was it?
It was weeks—months—of tension and hope and carefully buried feelings finally bubbling over into something real. Or at least you thought it was real.
That was the humiliating part.
You’d let yourself believe it meant something more to him too.
Trinity turned back to the bag and started unloading supplies onto the table.
Two large bottles of alcohol.
A bag of chips.
More snacks.
You blinked. “Jesus.”
“I came prepared.”
Despite everything clawing at your chest, a weak laugh almost escaped you.
Almost.
You leaned heavily against the doorway instead, exhaustion settling deep into your bones.
“Abbot and I hooked up,” you admitted finally.
The words came out flat. Hollow.
Trinity froze mid-motion.
A heavy silence filled the room as she slowly turned to look at you properly.
“…Isn’t that a good thing?” she asked carefully after a moment. “You’ve been thirsting over him for how long now?”
Normally, the comment would’ve embarrassed you enough to protest.
Now it just hurt.
You swallowed hard, staring somewhere over her shoulder instead of meeting her eyes.
“He left before I woke up, Trinity,” you said quietly.
The room felt painfully still.
“And you told me he’s going around saying nothing happened.”
Your voice cracked slightly on the last word.
You hated yourself for it immediately.
Trinity’s expression hardened almost instantly.
“Oh.”
You looked away quickly, jaw tightening as emotion surged hot and ugly in your chest again.
The worst part was how badly you wanted there to be some explanation. Some reasonable excuse for why he left like that.
An emergency call.
Panic.
Regret.
Anything.
Because the alternative—the possibility that last night genuinely meant more to you than it did to him—felt unbearable.
Trinity nodded slowly, crossing her arms.
“So he’s a dick.”
You didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because even now, even after the humiliation and hurt and confusion, some pathetic part of you still wanted to defend him.
Jack had been kind to you. Gentle. Careful with you in ways that didn’t feel fake.
People didn’t look at someone like that if they felt nothing…right?
Your chest tightened painfully.
Unless you imagined all of it.
Trinity stepped closer, her voice firmer this time.
“He’s a dick,” she repeated. “I don’t care what his reason was. You don’t do that to someone.”
You rubbed tiredly at your face.
“I don’t know if I want to be mad at him,” you admitted softly, “or myself.”
And there it was.
The awful truth sitting underneath all the hurt.
You missed him already.
Trinity’s expression softened immediately.
“Oh, Honey.”
The sympathy in her voice nearly undid you.
“I’ll help you get over him,” she said gently after a moment.
You let out a weak laugh. “That might take a while.”
“Not tonight,” she continued, ignoring that. “Tonight we’re drinking.”
She grabbed one of the bottles and held it up slightly.
“Tomorrow we can spiral. Only a little, though.”
Another reluctant laugh escaped you, watery around the edges.
“And once you’re in a good place,” Trinity added, finally smiling a little, “you’ll go guy hunting.”
You snorted quietly, shaking your head.
“That sounds horrific.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
Trinity nudged your shoulder lightly as she passed.
“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got time.”
Something in your chest ached again at the casual warmth of it.
Because right now, with Jack pulling away and your pride lying in pieces somewhere beneath the weight of the last twenty-four hours, Trinity showing up anyway felt dangerously close to enough to make you cry.
* * *
By the time morning rolled around and your alarm started blaring from somewhere beneath the couch cushions, you were immediately aware of the dull, pounding ache behind your eyes.
You groaned quietly, squinting against the weak morning light filtering through the apartment windows.
Right.
You and Trinity had apparently decided that splitting an entire bottle of whiskey on a work night was a reasonable coping mechanism.
In your defense, it had briefly worked.
Somewhere between drunkenly ranting about emotionally unavailable men and Trinity threatening to fight Jack in the hospital parking lot, the ache in your chest had dulled enough for you to breathe again.
Unfortunately, now you just felt emotionally devastated and hungover.
Fantastic.
You fumbled for your phone, finally silencing the alarm before letting your head fall back against the couch cushion with a miserable sigh.
At least you weren’t sick.
You’d dealt with enough brutal hangovers in college to know this could’ve been much worse. Still, the headache pulsing through your skull and the sluggish heaviness dragging at your limbs told you pretty clearly that you weren’t exactly going to be operating at full capacity today.
Which was unfortunate considering you had to spend the next twelve hours pretending your life wasn’t actively imploding.
Fuck.
You slowly pushed yourself upright, wincing immediately at the stiffness in your neck from sleeping on the couch. The television was off now, but the aftermath of last night remained scattered across the coffee table—empty glasses, crumpled snack wrappers, half-open takeout containers.
The apartment smelled faintly like alcohol and regret.
Honestly fitting.
A quiet groan pulled your attention downward.
Trinity was sprawled out on the floor beside the couch, somehow still asleep despite your alarm going off for nearly a full minute. One of your couch cushions was shoved beneath her head at an awkward angle, and your throw blanket barely covered half her body.
You stared at her for a second.
“…You look dead.”
She responded with an incoherent mumble.
You nudged her lightly with your foot.
“We’re gonna be late for work,” you muttered, your own voice rough with sleep.
Trinity made a wounded noise into the cushion.
You scrubbed both hands over your face before grimacing immediately at the taste in your mouth.
Jesus.
Your expression twisted in disgust.
“I think my breath just violated several human rights.”
That finally got Trinity to crack an eye open.
“You’re so dramatic in the morning,” she mumbled.
“And you smell like whiskey.”
“So do you.”
Fair.
You sighed heavily, glancing toward the hallway. The thought of going into work today made your stomach twist unpleasantly.
Because Jack would be there.
The reality settled heavily over you again, chasing away the remaining haze of sleep almost instantly.
You’d have to see him.
Pretend things were normal.
Pretend hearing that he told people “nothing happened” hadn’t quietly shattered something inside you.
Your chest tightened.
God, this was going to suck.
“Did you bring a change of clothes?” you asked, forcing your thoughts elsewhere.
Trinity hummed vaguely in response, still half-buried in the floor.
“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you said, shuffling toward the bathroom with all the grace of a dying Victorian woman. Every part of your body felt sluggish and heavy, like sleep and alcohol still clung stubbornly to your skin.
“If you’re not ready when I’m done,” you added tiredly, “I’m leaving without you.”
Trinity slowly lifted her head from the cushion, squinting at you with narrowed, deeply offended eyes.
“You’re cruel,” she muttered.
You snorted weakly.
“No,” you corrected. “We’re stupid for drinking that much when we both had work the next day.”
“Worth it,” she grumbled immediately.
You paused in the hallway, glancing back at her.
And despite everything—the headache, the exhaustion, the dread already coiling in your stomach at the thought of seeing Jack—you felt something small in your chest loosen.
Because you hadn’t been alone last night.
Trinity noticed your expression soften slightly and pointed at you accusingly.
“Don’t get emotional,” she warned. “I’m too hungover to comfort you right now.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Small. Tired. Fragile.
But real.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Trinity mumbled, finally dragging herself upright with the energy of someone being forced out of a grave.
You shook your head faintly before disappearing into the bathroom.
The second the door shut behind you, though, your smile faded.
And there it was again.
That ache.
The one sitting quietly beneath everything else. Beneath the hangover and exhaustion and forced laughter.
Jack.
You leaned heavily against the sink for a moment, staring at your reflection.
Then, quietly—
“You need to get it together.”
Because in less than an hour, you’d have to look him in the eye like he hadn’t hurt you at all.
Trinity had been quick to kick you out of your own bathroom the second you finished getting ready.
“You’ve used up your allotted hot water privileges,” she’d informed you through the door while you were still brushing your teeth.
Now, dressed in clean scrubs and feeling only marginally more human, you leaned against the kitchen counter sipping weak coffee while waiting for her to finish.
The shower had helped a little.
At the very least, you no longer looked like you’d crawled out from the wreckage of an emotional catastrophe.
Unfortunately, that didn’t mean you felt much better.
Your body still carried the sluggish heaviness of too little sleep and too much alcohol, and somewhere beneath the lingering hangover sat the dull, constant ache of having to face Jack today.
Twelve hours.
Twelve whole hours of pretending you were fine.
You could do that.
Probably.
Hopefully.
The bathroom door finally opened, releasing a cloud of steam before Trinity sauntered out adjusting the sleeves of her hoodie.
“You look less tragic now,” she announced.
“Thank you,” you deadpanned.
“You still look tragic,” she added after a beat. “Just…slightly moisturized.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag from beside the couch.
The walk to the bus stop was quiet at first. Morning air bit lightly against your skin while the city slowly woke around you, traffic humming in the distance. Your stomach twisted tighter the closer it got to shift change.
You kept thinking about walking through those hospital doors.
About seeing him.
About not knowing how he’d look at you after all this.
Would he act normal?
Awkward?
Distant?
Would he avoid you entirely?
The uncertainty was eating you alive.
“You sure you don’t want me fighting Abbot?” Trinity asked suddenly beside you, pulling her hair into a ponytail as the two of you stopped near the curb. “Because I’m not above a good fight.”
A weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“Don’t waste your time,” you said, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Besides, I’m trying to hype myself up for my man-hunting phase.”
Trinity let out a dramatic sigh.
“Well, that makes one of us.”
You glanced sideways at her.
“Oh?”
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, expression flattening.
“Garcia still icing you out?” you guessed.
Trinity scoffed softly.
“She’s more of a fuck-and-have-ramen-after kind of gal.”
The attempt at casualness didn’t quite land.
You caught the slight tightness in her voice immediately.
“She’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t want anything beyond casual.”
Something uncomfortable settled in your stomach at that.
At least Garcia told her.
At least Trinity wasn’t left waking up alone wondering whether any of it meant something at all.
Guilt bubbled low and sour in your chest almost instantly.
Not toward Trinity.
Toward yourself.
Because part of you still felt ridiculous for being this hurt over Jack. Like maybe you were overreacting. Maybe you’d built the whole thing up too much in your head.
But then you remembered him looking at you so softly the night before.
Remembered the warmth of his hand against your skin. The way he’d stayed tangled up with you afterward instead of leaving immediately.
And then you remembered waking up alone.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Is there anyone else you’re interested in?” you asked quietly, mostly to keep yourself from spiraling further.
Trinity shrugged.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
You hummed softly in acknowledgment just as the bus pulled up to the curb with a hiss of brakes.
The doors folded open.
You followed Trinity inside, both of you moving sluggishly from exhaustion as you found seats near the back. The bus smelled faintly like coffee and damp jackets, morning commuters staring blankly ahead in silence.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You rested your head lightly against the cool window, watching the city blur past outside while anxiety churned steadily beneath your ribs.
The closer you got to work, the worse it became.
You hated this.
Hated that one person suddenly had this much power over your mood. Hated that the thought of seeing Jack again made your stomach knot with equal parts longing and dread.
Beside you, Trinity glanced over quietly.
“It’s probably for the best we’re on day shift,” she said after a moment.
You frowned faintly. “Why?”
“There’s more options on day shift anyway.”
You snorted softly, immediately understanding what she meant.
“Right,” you muttered. “The man-hunting thing.”
“Exactly.”
You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging weakly at your mouth before fading almost instantly.
“If you say so.”
Because right now, the idea of looking at anyone that wasn’t Jack somehow felt impossible.
And that was probably the most pathetic part of all.
* * *
Once you arrived at the Pitt, you felt yourself tense almost immediately.
It was instinctive. Unconscious.
The second those familiar hospital doors slid open and the sharp scent of antiseptic hit your nose, your body seemed to remember before your mind fully caught up.
Your stomach twisted painfully as you adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, forcing yourself to keep walking beside Trinity.
You just had to act normal.
That was the goal.
Be professional. Be mature. Don’t let him see that he’d gotten under your skin this badly.
You could survive twelve hours.
Probably.
The emergency department buzzed around you the moment you stepped fully onto the floor. Phones ringing. Monitors beeping. Stretchers rolling past. Nurses moving quickly between stations while doctors rattled off orders over exhausted conversations.
Normally the chaos would stress you out.
Today, it almost felt comforting.
Familiar.
Grounding.
The Pitt had a way of swallowing personal problems whole if you let it. There was always another patient, another emergency, another crisis demanding your attention before you could spend too long drowning in your own thoughts.
You needed that today.
Needed something louder than your own heartbreak.
You followed Trinity deeper into the department, trying to focus on the movement around you instead of the nervous pounding in your chest.
Then you heard his voice.
Low. Rough with exhaustion.
Your entire body reacted before you even saw him.
You looked up automatically just as Jack exited one of the trauma rooms with Shen close behind him, the two of them discussing something quietly.
He looked terrible.
Dark circles shadowed beneath his eyes, exhaustion weighing heavily across his features. His shoulders seemed tighter than usual, posture rigid in that way people got when they were running purely on caffeine and stubbornness.
Like he was holding himself together with tape and string.
Your chest ached immediately.
Which honestly just annoyed you at this point.
Because really? After everything, your heart still fluttered the second you saw him?
Pathetic.
Jack glanced up mid-conversation.
For one brief, terrible second, your eyes met.
And there it was.
That awful pull.
Something in his expression shifted instantly the moment he saw you. Like surprise mixed with guilt mixed with something softer he couldn’t quite hide in time.
Your stomach flipped painfully.
You looked away so fast it almost made your neck hurt.
Before he could notice how affected you still were.
Before you could start hoping he’d stop you.
Say something.
Anything.
Beside him, Shen continued talking, oblivious, but Jack had stopped hearing almost every word coming out of his mouth.
Because you were here.
And you wouldn’t look at him.
The realization landed heavily in his chest.
He watched you turn away immediately after spotting him, watched your shoulders tense subtly as you kept walking beside Trinity like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t spent the last twelve hours replaying your face in his head over and over again.
Guilt twisted viciously beneath his ribs.
Of course you were avoiding him.
What else did he expect after what he did?
Jack swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to look away before he did something stupid like follow after you.
Because the expression on your face just now—
You looked hurt.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Hurt.
And somehow that felt worse.
“Abbot?”
Shen’s voice snapped him back into the present.
Jack blinked once, dragging a hand tiredly down his face.
“Sorry,” he muttered roughly. “What were you saying?”
Meanwhile, you forced yourself to keep moving.
Professional.
Normal.
Fine.
You could do this.
“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Dana called from the nurses’ station, dry amusement lacing her voice the second she spotted you approaching.
Beside you, Trinity snorted.
“Hey, Dana.”
You tried for a smile despite the way your pulse still hammered unevenly beneath your skin.
“Hope you had a nice day off, Honey,” Dana added casually, though the knowing glint in her eyes made heat immediately creep up your neck.
You wondered briefly if everyone at this hospital could smell emotional disaster on people.
“No different than any other day,” you said carefully.
The lie felt brittle.
Dana hummed softly, clearly unconvinced, but mercifully didn’t push.
She turned back toward the chart in front of her.
You exhaled quietly through your nose, grateful for the escape.
But even as you started settling into work mode, pulling yourself into the rhythm of the department, you could still feel it.
Jack’s presence somewhere behind you.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
And despite every effort not to, some awful part of you was still painfully aware of him.
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Where did the inspiration come from? I actually did the cold water and ice trick and it works, but I looked insane. Hope y'all enjoy it❤️ Also the nickname is partly because my name translates to 'duckling' and partly to one drabble from another writer that used the nickname 'duck' and i found it cute. (Small self insert)
The apartment was silent, silent enough for Simon to start feeling subtly unsettled. Nowadays, he is used to you walking around, watching something in the living room or just talking to him about whatever uni drama happened recently. When these things started, the military man answered things almost mechanically, not exactly interested in the lives of people he doesn't know; however he liked when you started spewing random facts in random moments. With time though, Simon got used to the sound and energy of you - you would call it 'vibe', he called it a comforting presence, even if these words would never get past his lips.
So, it was fair to say that when the exam season came and you started to leave your room less, the apartment felt empty, pressing down on his hyper aware and stressed mind. It wasn't the first exam season, far from it, yet he still felt uneasy without you in his proximity. All Simon could hear from behind your door was the sound of turning pages, scrolling and clicking on your laptop, sometimes typing or cursing.
Today, when Simon came into the kitchen to eat whatever was left from last night's dinner, he stopped dead in his tracks. There you were, face down into a red bowl of water and ice, bubbles surfacing. He expected many things, being used to your shenanigans fueled by stress and frustration, but... This was new.
"Didn' expect ya new copin' mechanism to be goddamn waterboardin' y'self", his voice startled you when your head lifted from under the water. The lieutenant always spooked you because of how light his steps were, though he always mumbles something about listening to less music with your headphones on.
"My head hurts and I heard this actually helps. Pills didn't work", you sigh putting your hands in the ice cold water.
"An' actual torture was the next option?", Simon said pulling the corner of his lips into a slight smirk. "Could've asked for help."
"I actually tried eating ice before this. Wasn't cutting it."
"Tha' school of yours is slowly fryin' y'brain, kid. Take a pause and hydrate", he throws you a bottle of water from the fridge as he looks for something to eat.
Simon, the same man who pushed rookies to their limits, making them train until some of them threw up, wasn't exactly content seeing you overwork yourself. You didn't need anyone to push you to your limit, it was an instinct to do it. While he could appreciate your determination, enough is enough and brains need a break.
The leftovers from last night weren't exactly appealing to him. An idea bloomed in his mind.
"How 'bout y'take a break and we get some take out and watch somethin', duckling?"
The nickname starts a fuzzy feeling to spread throughout your body. You ponder the proposal. These days have been actual hell and, truthfully, you missed hanging out with your roommate watching silly things only for him to be dead serious, playing cards and listening to his horrible dad jokes, anything regarding his presence really.
"Fine, but it's my time to pick."
"It's not, but since y'look like a wet dog, I'll allow it."
Simon won't tell you that for the first night in a few weeks he finally felt at home and at peace. Looking at you laugh warmed something in his chest that he thought to be long dead. He even slept better.
It's hard to say which one of you actually wants more for your exams to be done and over with.
in a perfect world, johnny would be the first to retire. he would be the first to find someone, fall head-over-heels in love, and throw all of his hard work and dedication away in favor of a quiet life by the ocean. it would be tough, at first, it would take years for him to truly shake the weight of the war from his bones, but he would do it. he would rather be a good husband, a father, than just another tragedy in an endless string of them. he would marry you as soon as his retirement papers cleared. he would give you a home full of laughter, and children, three at the very least, maybe a dog. he would be at every ballet recital and sports game, every parent-teacher conference and award ceremony. he would grow old with you, dance with you in the kitchen even at the ripe age of sixty-something, would complain about his creaking back right up until the bitter-sweet end. john mactavish would make a fine husband, given the chance.
kyle would be the next to jump ship. one day, he would see himself in the mirror, and he’d realize that he doesn’t recognize the man he has become. the years have taken their toll on him, he’s tired, he’s scared, he’s angry. his youth will have passed him by, and he’ll have forgotten to enjoy it. all the time he should’ve spent falling in love, and planning for the future, and making stupid decisions so he would have them to laugh about one day, was spent on the front lines, fighting somebody else’s war. he’ll decide that he wants no part in any of it, not anymore, and he’d turn his papers in the following morning. he meets you after, somewhere casual, maybe he’d spill his coffee all over you in his rush to get somewhere that, in retrospect, was entirely unimportant. he’ll buy you dinner to make up for it, and then again the next week, just in case his debt hasn’t been settled, and again, every friday for the next several years. he’ll marry you sometime in between, something small and intimate, with his brothers in arms as your witnesses, maybe he’ll finally give his mama the grandbaby she’s been begging for his whole life. kyle garrick would choose to be a better man, given the chance.
simon wouldn’t retire by choice. not in any world, not even a perfect one. but, eventually, it’s bound to catch up with him. even the world’s most capable soldier is vulnerable to his own damn humanity. he’d be forced to return to manchester, sooner or later, older, meaner, sore all over, all of the time. he’d buy a bike, a passion project, just something to keep his hands busy, lest he goes mad in his empty house, nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. it wouldn’t be enough, in the end. it can’t chase away the skeletons in his closet or tell him that it’s okay to be scared of the dark, even at his grown age, so he would do what any half-sane man would, and adopt a dog. a retired military mutt, just like him, who’s greying at the snout and growls at little kids when they pass by on their bicycles. he’d meet you at a dog park on a sunday afternoon, would remember your face but not your name. not until you chase him down in the street some weeks later, at least, and claim that his boy got your girl pregnant. he’d pay the vet bills, and he would help you find good homes for the puppies, and then, he’d stick around still, because he, like any stray, is desperate for a place to call home. you’d let him stay so long as got his boy neutered. he wouldn’t give you kids, wouldn’t burden you with his last name, but he’d damn sure love you. simon riley would learn to be happy, given the chance.
john wouldn’t retire until he’s already halfway to too late. the kids are nine and twelve already, old enough to resent him, and you’ve gotten used to having the bed to yourself, setting the table for three instead of four, brushing your friends’ comments off when they bring up how strong you are, doing it all on your own. your worrisome heart would sink every time the doorbell rang unexpectedly, or when he went too long without contact, fearing for the worst. it would not be some big, sudden revelation on his end. he’d notice in fragments. no, he doesn’t know his kids’ teachers’ names, and, no, he didn’t know that your son was diagnosed with asthma last summer. he can’t remember the last time the two of you celebrated an anniversary, or went out for dinner, or talked about anything that mattered. he wouldn’t make a big show of it, wouldn’t even tell you that he was considering it, but you’d wake up one morning, expecting him to be long gone, and he’d be stood at the stove, burning eggs, and he would never leave you again. he’d do what he could to make up for lost time. he’d schedule date nights for the two of you, without prompting, he’d take your boy fishing sunday mornings, share all that hard-earned wisdom over soggy sandwiches and plop his boonie hat on the kid’s head to keep him from burning in the summer sun, he’d sit on his daughter’s bedroom floor with a tiara on his head, sipping shitty tea from plastic cups, and he’d thank god. john price would right his wrongs, given the chance.
but this isn’t a perfect world.
john mactavish dies at twenty-seven, shot in the head by a man who should’ve died two years prior. you bury him before you get to marry him. your daughter’s born three months later — she’ll never meet her father, but she has his eyes, and his smile, and you know he would’ve loved her. he always wanted to be father.
kyle garrick spends the rest of his life fighting for a cause he doesn’t know if he believes in. your paths don’t cross in that little coffee shop, because he’s on the other side of the world, getting shot at, while you go about your life none the wiser. he dies at thirty-six on an operation no-one’s allowed to talk about, desperate and alone.
simon riley kills himself a month after his sergeant’s untimely demise — not like anyone can prove it. it’s impossible to claim that he walked into the line of fire intending to be shot down. what exactly was going through his mind, no one knows for certain. in your late twenties, you adopt an old military mutt, who’s greying at the muzzle and growls at your neighbor’s kids.
john price signs the divorce papers when you send them, because he knows it’s unfair of him to keep you tethered to him. he watches your children grow from afar, through the pictures you send and the quiet, solemn voicemails you leave. you never stop loving him, but you can’t wait around for him forever. you three are the only ones left to attend his funeral, when the time comes. you’re the only one with something kind to say.
every time someone realizes they dont have to pick between being a boy or a girl an angel gets its wings btw. and also extremely loud cheering can be heard in the distance from me specifically
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Ghost x afab!reader, jumping on that portal pussy bandwagon, anal, pussy eating, chat is it selfcest if you eat yourself out?, dom/sub vibes
Ghost tosses the portal pussy in front of you, as his cock prods at your asshole, smearing the lube and slick he'd pulled out of you with his fingers before shoving the other half of the portal over your cunt.
You blink at it, hazy, and Ghost drags your wrists into the small of your back. "Eat it."
"Huh?"
You jerk forward over the mattress, chin digging into it, and the pussy- your pussy- bumps your lips. You feel it, a soft brush against your folds, and gasp.
"I said, eat it. Until I say done," Ghost answers, and forces his cock into your ass with a brutal snap of his hips. You moan, body sliding again, and one hand holds your wrists as the other grips the back of your head, briefly forcing you down, lips parting across your own pussy, tasting your slick, clit throbbing on your tongue.
Fuck, oh fuck, hard fat cock in your ass and the musky-sweet taste of yourself, not licked off Ghost's fingers or cock but straight from the source, and you moan as your tongue curls over your clit. The matching sensation spurs you on, needing more, sucking at yourself as Ghost sets a fast, hard rhythm, taking your ass for himself while you feast on your pussy.
Each lick and suck hits you twice over, the mindfuck of it all, eating out a soft, wet pussy but feeling it on your own body, learning how to make yourself feel good from a new angle, no fingers to help you, just your own tongue wriggling into your hole, fucking yourself on it, drool and slick smearing across your cheeks. You suck your clit hard and lose the rhythm immediately, eyes rolling at the dual sensations, as Ghost keeps steadily gaping your ass open around his cock.
"Fuck, oh- I can't," you gasp, and lick across your pussy from hole to clit, shuddering. You know what you need to come but you can't do it, too lost in the pleasure of your tongue and lips, and Ghost takes the back of your head again and shoves you down into your pussy again, this time holding you there as you pant and squeal. Your ass burns around his cock, the clenching muscles only making it worse, pussy so sloppy wet it's obscene, feeling the spasms on your tongue as you moan, clenching around your tongue like a toy.
You can feel Ghost, you realize, the relentless pound of his cock rubbing against your tongue through the thin barrier between pussy and ass, and your tongue curls and your pussy gushes, his hand on your head and the powerful motions of his body forcing you to- grind against yourself, tongue rubbing up and down, in and out, you can't stop it and can't move against or for it, just riding the pressure and heat as it builds in your belly.
Your pussy clamps down, spasms building, and you pant and whine as your tongue is dragged over your clit again. Oh fuck, fuck fuckfuck, gonna come- "Baby, fuck, gonna come," you slur, sloppy with your own gushing fluids, and Ghost grunts behind you, picking up speed.
His cock splits your ass open, and you start to come as he pulls all the way out and shoves back inside, making you take it, and your clit grinds across your tongue as you lap over it, a little throbbing pulse, and oh god, the way your tongue is so wet and hot on your pussy, feeling your breath stutter, you can just barely suck at it and wriggle your tongue into your hole and fuck- oh shit-
"Cum, cumming," you moan, and the squeezing clench of your pussy echoes between your thighs and on your tongue, wet smears sticking to your cheeks and chin as Ghost groans, feeling your orgasm in your ass, as you milk at his cock. The musky scent of your come fills your nose, the soft folds swollen on your cheeks, your own sweet, precious little pussy, eaten and sucked, you know what it feels like now, to make yourself come on your tongue, and you moan and shudder when your lips rub over your clit again.
Ghost pants, his hips slapping hard to your ass, and you muffle a shout into your pussy as he puts his weight on you, crushes you into the mattress, hips forced flat. The angle of your pussy in the portal changes, and your clit rolls between your lips, scraping your teeth, and a sharp burst of slick fills your mouth as a hard clench burns through you.
You squeal, breathless, and Ghost sighs pleasure into your ear as he comes, the hot bursts in your ass, his cock slipping back and forth in the mess he's making of your insides. You gasp when he lets up, releasing your wrists and head properly, leaving you to roll your cheek away from the portal, your pussy all soft and slick in your blurry vision.
His hand slides between your legs, and abruptly the portal is moved up, pussy vanishing from sight, instead replaced with a swollen little pucker- your asshole, gaping just a little, with thick creamy come dripping out to the rhythm of your pounding heart.
Ghost drags the portal back to your face, and sets your lips against it, his cock now notching at the tender entrance to your pussy.
Shout out to my mom who explains my transition as "Having a daughterpillar turn into a Boyterfly". It doesn't erase the fact I was an adorable little girl, and also affirms my gender now. I love my mother.
