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John Price can't deny that he's fond of you, his newest, youngest Sergeant. Still practically a rookie, but you work so hard to keep up with the rest of the Task Force. He feels protective of you in a way he knows he shouldn't, that he desperately tries to tamp down—and mostly succeeds at. Until the two of you are captured and tortured for days. They get nothing out of either of you, of course, but when on the fifth day, he's presented with a terrible choice, he knows he failed to hide just how much he cares about you.
You were dragged from your shared cell an hour ago, but when your captors return, you're not with them. Instead, John is brought to the interrogation room, where on the other side of the one-way glass, you're strapped on your back to a cold, metal table, wearing nothing but a blindfold. His heart sinks. He knows what that means. You'd told him they hadn't hurt you like that, not yet, but the two of you knew it was coming. He should have known they'd make him watch.
But they don't. They give him a choice instead: give up the info they want, watch as every soldier on their base has their way with you...
Or do it himself.
John has been tortured a fair amount of times in his life. Never before has he genuinely considered giving in.
He considers it now.
But in the end, his duty to his country, his team—even you, in a twisted way—wins out.
Two soldiers escort him into the room, standing guard in opposite corners, their guns trained on you both. You twist on the table, trying to track their footsteps, trying to count how many people are in the room with you. Your hands flex in their bonds, your thighs tremble with the strain of trying to pull closed against the ropes keeping them spread wide. John says nothing as he approaches you. He was warned that any attempt to communicate with you would lead to the men in the corner taking over his task before putting a bullet in your brain.
He places his palms on your knees, part of him hoping you'll recognize the shape of them, another part dreading it. But you flinch, sucking in a sharp breath before going very still, only your lips trembling, and he knows you haven't. When this is over, you'll think it was an enemy soldier that had violated you, not your Captain. Not the man you bring tea to in the middle of night when he works too late. Not the man you smile at over the scope of your rifle after you make a perfect shot. Not the man you trust with your life.
When this is over, only he will know what he's done. And just like every other godless decision he's made in the field, he won't let himself regret it. He can't. He wouldn't be able to do his job if he did.
He'll be haunted by it all the same.
His hands don’t shake as he trails them up your thighs, over your hips, and to your breasts. He doesn’t grimace at the way you try to curl in on yourself as he starts to play with your nipples, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t react at all to your thinly-veiled terror. He can’t. He’ll only make things worse for the both of you if he shows just how much this is wearing on him. How much it's tearing at what remains of his blackened soul.
Your nipples have stiffened, now, from the cold or his touch, he’s not sure. He leans over, trying to keep as much space between your body and his as possible as he takes one of the hard peaks into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it before giving it a light suck. His newly freed hand trails back down your body to stroke the inside of your thigh. He’s tempted to try and tap something out in morse code, but he’s distracted when a choked noise escapes you, and he flicks his gaze back to your face. You’re biting your cheek so hard you’re bound to have drawn blood, and your lips are pressed tightly together, clearly trying to stop yourself from making any more noises.
There are damp patches on your blindfold.
He swallows, looks away. He sucks on your nipple harder, lightly pinching the other, and your body jerks a little, back arching up and pressing further into his touch before rapidly pulling away. His hand on your thigh moves to cup your pussy, and he’s not surprised by the wetness he finds there. The expression of shame on your face told him as much. He briefly wonders if this is worse for you, him dragging it out, trying to prepare your body at least a little bit, and hopefully spare you real injury. But it’s not just for you. He’s stalling, trying to will his body to cooperate. He can’t do this if he’s not hard, after all.
One of the guards in the corner takes a menacing step closer, leveling his gun at your head, and mouths harder. Or maybe hurt her. Either way, John gets the message. Gentleness will not be tolerated.
He stares at the guards for a long moment, trying to find a way out of this—but it’s no use. They’d shoot him before he could disarm even one of them. If he survived, they’d kill you. If he didn’t, they’d do much worse.
He can’t risk either outcome. His gaze goes unfocused for a second before it sharpens to a deadly point, and he lets his weight settle on top of you, making you grunt as the air leaves your lungs. He pinches your nipple harshly, twisting it, and you yelp, trying to squirm away from him. At the same time, his fingers delve between your folds, searching out your clit. When he finds it, he starts rubbing quick, little circles around it, even as he takes your other nipple between his teeth and bites down.
You yelp again, but this time manage to cut yourself off halfway through. You’re shaking, and you let out a strangled groan as he pulls your other nipple away from your chest, stretching it painfully before letting it go. Your breast bounces, and he feels his cock twitch. He doesn’t feel guilty. Not right now. He can’t let himself, not if he wants to get this done. But the guilt will come later, and he knows not even a whole pack of cigars and half a bottle of whiskey will get rid of it.
He dips two fingers into your cunt. Immediately, he wishes he’d started with one. That he had the time to start with one. Your cunt is the tightest thing he’s ever felt, and though you’re wet—wetter than he expected, but he supposes that’s a blessing—your face still screws up in pain. His blood runs cold. Are you a fucking virgin?
He ruthlessly shoves the thought away and quickly curls his fingers, trying to find your g-spot, trying to distract you from the burning he knows you must be feeling. At the same time, he soothes the nipple he bit with his tongue, giving it a few more light sucks before he licks his way up to your neck, tucking his face in it to hide. You turn your own away from him as much as you can as he nips at the sensitive skin under your ear. He can feel the muscles in your neck straining as you try and fail to get away. He ignores it, breathing in your scent and letting his eyes fall shut. After days of torture, you mostly smell like blood, sweat, and dirt, but beneath that, there’s something uniquely you. It’s the scent that lingers in his office after you’ve delivered him tea, the scent that lulls him to sleep when the task force is stuck in a cramped safehouse and you all have to bunk together. It’s your fucking scent that has followed him into his dreams—dreams that are far, far too close to his current reality for comfort.
Surrounded by that heady smell, with the feeling of your warm, soft skin under his lips, he lets himself linger on those dreams for the first time. Lets himself pretend they’ve come true, that you’re below him and naked because you want it, because your ranks and ages have been stripped away and there’s nothing wrong or inappropriate left about him wanting you, too.
He kisses you, the shell of your ear, your jaw, your throat, then finally your lips. They’re soft and plush against his own, in the fleeting moment he tasted them before you jerk away, and his moan drowns out your heartbreaking whimper. He moves his fingers inside you, in and out, in and out, spreading them open, getting you ready for his cock. He’s half hard in his pants, and as he pictures how pretty you would look as you beg for more, his bulge grows.
At least until he works a third finger in, and you go tense as a live wire, making the natural resistance he encounters—which was already quite a bit—substaintially worse. He’s swiftly reminded of reality, and he can feel his erection starting to flag. But he can’t let that happen. So he takes his other hand, the one still fiddling with your nipple, and covers your mouth with it. Then, he shoves his third finger all the way in.
You let out a sound between a gasp and a cry, twisting in your bonds. His face is still hidden in the crook of your neck, but he can feel wetness on his cheeks, and he knows it's not from him. For a moment, he’s distracted, and you take the opportunity to fight back, biting his hand viciously.
He yells in wordless pain, yanking his hand away from your mouth as he rears back. The sight of you shatters his fantasy entirely, and he knows he has no choice—it’s now or never. He pulls his fingers out of you, making you yelp again, and quickly frees his half hard cock. He closes his eyes against your tears, gives it a few, rough strokes, then grabs your hips and forces himself inside you.
You scream so loud it makes his ears ring, but he doesn’t let himself stop, no matter how desperately he wants to. He does his best to tune you out, focusing on the enticing way your breasts bounce with his every thrust. They’re brutal and fast, practically punishing, because he won’t be able to stay hard enough to do this, not for long, not with the way you’re writhing in pain beneath him.
“Stop!” You shriek, but he doesn’t, he can’t. This is how he protects the most lives, including your own. He has to do this. He has to. “Stop! Please, oh God, no, please stop! STOP!”
He wants to cover his ears, he wants to make you shut your mouth, he wants to listen to you and stop, but all he does is tighten his grip on your hips and fuck you faster. Physically, it feels good, but he’s so far away that he barely registers it. But his body does, and his bollocks draw up, his cock throbs, and then he fills your maddeningly tight cunt with his hot seed. You’re screaming, and he’s cumming, and for the first time, he lets himself wonder how he can possibly face you when this is over.
“Captain,” you sob as he pulls out of you, panting. He freezes, looking up at you with wide eyes, the first hint of emotion he’s shown this entire time. How do you know? Bloody Hell, how do you know? “Captain, help me…”
He stumbles away from the table as you cry, pleading for his help. You don’t know, he realizes suddenly. You have no idea that it was him that just violated you, that you’re begging your rapist to save you. Save you from himself.
His shoulders are shaking, and when he lifts a hand to touch his face, his beard is damp.
Oh, he thinks, his shock as muted as the rest of his emotions. I am crying.
He can’t remember the last time he did. It’s been decades, at least. Maybe it was when he got the news that his mother had died. It felt like his whole world had collapsed that day.
It feels a lot like that right now.
But he made his choice. Now he has to live with it.
You both do.