Kinktober fic for Day 1: Sex machine (Overwatch)

Jack tilts his head back and pants for breath, the metal exam table dimpling under the grip of his fingers as his body tightens in yet another orgasm.  The muscles of his lower abdomen almost cramp with the force of their attempts to eke some remaining drops of fluid from him, but he feels squeezed dry.

Every drip of the biological enhancers into his bloodstream seems to ratchet up his libido to agonizing new heights, and the vibrator they inserted into him to help him compensate has been going for half an hour now. This side effect doesn’t happen to everybody, but after the first time it happened, the doctors who sat him down to talk about it told him reassuringly, “You’re not the first.”  It helps a little to know that, at least with the embarrassment of the whole thing, but if he’d known these treatments would include him being strapped down and fucked with a sex toy for an hour a week, he probably would’ve skipped the sign-ups.

The worst part, though, is how in moments, the relief of release fades back into the pain/pleasure of over-stimulation, taking the moment of mental clarity with it.  “Please.  Please!” he begs, writhing on the table as the medical staff continue to work around him.  Every so often, one of them presses a hand to his shoulder or stomach or leg, encouraging him to be still for the injections, but they’d have to weigh him down with a boulder to make him stop moving.  He just can’t do it.  They had to bind him down just to keep him sliding off the table.  Lately they’ve been having to graduate to heavier-duty binders.

Some coherent corner of him is glad he’s too out of it to recognize the noises he’s making.  A couple of the staff display decidedly pink faces as they come and go, mucking with syringes and tubes and spinny whirring centrifuge things.  The drugs ache under his skin, tingle in his groin in a dreadful constant tease. Shackled down, he can’t even touch himself.  He’ll be grateful for that later, probably, but right now he couldn’t care less if a team of doctors and nurses watched him rub one out.

It’s another half hour before the treatment session ends and he’s cleaned up and released.  By the end, he’s just lying there, quivering all over and whimpering.  On the bright side, he’s far gone to notice the pain of the injections.  He’s heard some of the other guys scream in the last few rounds.  Not that Jack doesn’t scream, sometimes, but not because of that.

It’s standard procedure for someone to escort a soldier back to their dorm after treatment.  Jack isn’t the only one who has to be more or less carried to make it there.  There are some wolf whistles and catcalls in the halls; there’s no hiding the fucked-out look after coming for an hour straight.  The soldier hauling him like a sack of potatoes hands him over to Gabriel at the door of their shared rooms, salutes, and leaves.

Gabriel drags Jack’s ass inside and to his bed.  “Again?  Shit, rookie, the least they could do is give you some kind of aftercare.”

Jack isn’t a rookie, but Gabriel likes to call him that when he’s too out of it to argue.  But he lets Gabe fuss.  Gabe grumbles to himself in Spanish as bustles around, fetching a glass of water he presents to Jack with an air of finality, and bringing over a hot pad he drapes across Jack’s lower stomach.  Jack sighs gratefully as the heat begins to sink into him.  Maybe tomorrow he won’t be too stiff to move from the waist down.  He doesn’t resist when Gabriel starts running his hands over Jack’s limbs to check for bruising, and then kneads at his large muscle groups till Jack feels even more like a soupy sack of pumpkin innards than he did already.  He doesn’t complain–never does–when Gabe finally slides into the not-very-wide bed with him and pulls Jack tight against him.

Jack nestles his head in the crook of Gabriel’s shoulder and thinks, not for the first time, that maybe this isn’t not so bad as long as he’s got someone to look after him.

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