hi, i'm tenny, 22. thank you so much for reading and i hope you enjoy ♡
fic recs tagged under #tenny's recs !! ♡
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♡ - fluff, angst / ☆ - smut / 𐙚 - my fave
STRANGER THINGS
EDDIE MUNSON
♡ more than anything (angst, fluff, hurt/comfort) - eddie's heard everything people say about him, and he's sure you have to. so why do you stay with someone as fucked up as him? in which eddie can't fathom why you love him, and you tell him exactly why.
☆ the first time (smut) (porn without plot!) - your first time with eddie. raw.
♡ the rest of our lives (fluff) - eddie, his beloved cheerleader girlfriend, and the way in which they navigate the highs and lows of senior year. together.
(𐙚) ☆ seven minutes in heaven (smut) - eddie munson shoved into a closet with the meanest girl in hawkins. she hates him, he's intrigued. what's the worst that could happen?
♡ inexperienced!eddie headcanons
☆ SERIES: YOUR THRONE - COMPLETED - eddie never thought the princess of hawkins high would ever be one of his customers, but you end up being the best he's ever had. you tease him, lead him on, leave him high 'n' dry multiple times. needless to say, he's obsessed. but you won't even spare him a glance.
a 3-part series. dealer!eddie x cheerleader!reader with looooots of smut
STEVE HARRINGTON
♡ one last time (some fluff, ANGST) (reader death!!) - steve takes care of you in every way, up until your final moments.
(𐙚) ☆ patience (smut) - your boyfriend steve has a really big dick, and you have sex with him for the first time. but it takes a little extra effort because of his size ;)
☆ a little problem (smut) - steve's had a long day at work. he's tired, he's a little grumpy, and he's very, very, horny. but unfortunately, his sweet, perfect girlfriend isn't home yet. guess he'll have to deal with it himself for now.
☆ temptation (smut) - steve's a busy guy. he's got a lot of work to do: plans for his baseball team, and papers to grade for his sex-ed class. but can he resist his pretty girlfriend when she's so damn tempting?
☆ avoidance (smut) - your best friend steve's been ignoring you for months, and the feeling's all come bursting out when you're both tipsy and horny.
THE PITT
FRANK LANGDON
♡ ONGOING SERIES: the highs and lows of (almost) parenthood - in which mr. and mrs. langdon prepare to welcome their first child into the world :)
(𐙚) ☆ losing you, loving you - you tried to help frank through his addiction, but he never wanted your help. you eventually chose to divorce him, settling with an agreement easily and without qualms because neither of you wanted to hurt each other. but one year later, he's knocking at the door of the house you once shared, and you can't help but to let him stay.
JACK ABBOT
☆ a first time for everything - when jack finds out that you've never had an orgasm from sex before, he's determined to change that.
☆ denial, acceptance - jack loves to play games with you. especially in the bedroom.
☆ go go juice - in which picking up his drunk girlfriend is one of jack's favourite boyfriend duties!
MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH
(𐙚) ☆ caught in the moment - robby agrees to cover jack's night shift, only to immediately regret it when he finds out he's working with the one person he's desperately been trying to avoid.
☆ comforting robby after a rough shift (with your mouth) drabble
OTHER
BOSCO LEROY
(aka the first character i ever wrote for on tumblr, so he has a special place in my heart)
listening to lana unreleaseds right now & am obsessed with the idea of pope with an early 20s! girlfriend who kinda scares him (LMAO)
not in a violent or genuinely horrifying way, it’s just she’s sooooo naturally seductive and playful that he’s genuinely thinking to himself “oh fuck i can’t keep up.”
he doesn’t want to use the word “feral” but, in his defense, she is pawing at his mma shorts while he waits to go up and fight. telling her the dreaded superstition of “no sex before a fight” was like taking the strawberry lollipop she loves so much right out of her mouth and stomping on it.
truly. the week was a mash of him restraining her wrists from touching, holding her ankle beneath the dinner table as she travelled to his cock, and bringing her up from her knees when she surprised him in the shower.
now, while he is a tad scared, he’s exactly where he wants to be. he usually hates leaving you at home to go and meet with his brothers, knowing he likes to keep you out of business, but wanting you around every second of the day. but now that you’re official? he loves the sound of your flip flops suddenly appearing on the concrete where the boys eat dinner. grabbing andrew’s hand and pulling him to his bedroom without a word other then a pouted, teary “andrew :(“
he loves turning to his brothers as you pull, shrugging his shoulders and holding up five fingers in a communication of “gimme 5 minutes to tucker her out and i’ll be back”
now when you actually get in the house, still clutching his wrist before letting go & stripping your shirt off as you walk to his room, the story changes. you turn to him with dark eyes, hands cupping your tits over your bra, “need you so bad, popey.” biting your lip, you turn to keep walking, swaying.
the message changes very quickly. andrew swallows, holding his cock through his jeans before turning to knock on the glass door next to his brothers. he holds up all ten fingers with a sure nod before stalking off.
You buy an expensive gift for Jack, and instead of being rewarded with gruff, flirty praises and kisses while he rams his fat cock inside you, your loving doctor smacks the shit out of your ass instead. It’s punishment for not buying it with his card.
Which, that defeats the whole purpose of buying Jack a present in the first place, but when he acts like you slapped him with the receipt and told the world he can’t provide for his girl, who are you to complain?
Well. You complain. You whine, to be specific. Whines about how much each ass smack stings.
“Wanna do something nice for me, Sleepy? You tolerate me. That’s plenty.”
The needy whines are bad enough. Jack can’t handle the way you jiggle under his palm.
summary: the ER knows you're married, pregnant, and hopelessly in love with your husband. so when brendon keeps hovering around you, everyone's convinced you're having an affair.
pairing: brendon park + attending!pregnant!reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy, workplace misunderstanding
notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
The first rumor started because of a protein bar.
Not because of anything dramatic. Not because someone saw you sneaking around hospital corridors or caught you pressed against a wall with Brendon Park's hand around your waist.
No.
It started because at two in the afternoon, during a brutally understaffed Friday day shift in the ER, you looked up from charting and said with exhausted fondness:
"My husband is going to kill me if he finds out I skipped lunch again."
And Dana, who had worked enough years in emergency medicine to survive on caffeine and spite alone, snorted.
"Husbands," she said. "They worry too much."
You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."
"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"
"He labeled every container by protein count."
"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.
"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."
Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.
Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.
They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.
They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.
And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.
That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.
So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.
And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.
Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.
Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.
The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.
The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.
Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,
"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.
Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.
"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."
Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"
"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."
Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.
"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."
The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.
Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.
Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.
"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.
"Hello to you too."
"Did you eat?"
The room paused.
You looked midly defensive. "Yes."
"You're lying."
"I had crackers."
"That's not food."
Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.
You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."
"You're pregnant."
"And?"
"And you require actual nutrition."
Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.
Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.
The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.
Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"
You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."
"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.
You looked confused. "Brendon?"
The entire station froze at the first-name basis.
"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.
"That's his name."
"No one calls him Brendon."
"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."
After that, people started noticing things. Little things.
Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.
How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.
One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.
"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."
Dana laughed. "Six?"
"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."
"What does that even mean?"
"I don't even want to know."
Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"
You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."
"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"
"Oh, that was ours."
Silence.
You blinked up. "What?"
Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"
"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."
Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.
"You're... close with him?"
You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."
Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.
You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.
And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.
Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.
The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.
And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.
Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.
"You can't have that much caffeine."
You looked offended. "It was half-caf."
"It was basically battery acid."
"You tasted it?"
"You left it on the counter this morning."
Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.
You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"
"You wanted fries."
"I mentioned fries once."
"You cried about it."
"I was emotional that time."
"You threatened divorce."
The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.
Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.
Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.
Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.
"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."
Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."
You looked at him. "I know."
"You forgot."
"I remembered eventually."
"You remembered because I reminded you."
The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.
Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.
The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.
The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.
"Oh my God."
You frowned. "What?"
He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"
You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"
"That man practically tucked you in!"
"He's just—"
"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"
"My husband!"
"Exactly!"
You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.
"Oh my god."
"So, you are!"
"No I'm not, Frank."
"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"
"Because he made it."
Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."
"He color-coded the whole calendar."
He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.
Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.
Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.
Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.
But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.
And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.
That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.
Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.
You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.
"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."
The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.
"No."
Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.
"Repeat what you said."
The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"
"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."
The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.
"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."
Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.
The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.
"You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.
It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.
And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Dennis looked at her. "What?"
But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.
At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.
Not like a lover, like a husband.
"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.
You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.
Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."
You blinked. "Yeah?"
Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.
You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.
Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."
"You never said—"
"Well, nobody asked."
"You literally acted like you hated each other!"
You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."
Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.
Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.
Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.
And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.
The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.
The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.
And worst of all?
Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.
Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:
"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
Sometimes you hear a song and a fic pops into your head full formed. This is a trap. The fic may be fully formed in your brain, but you still Have to write it down. This is an important step that most people forget about.
they injected me with mental illness when i was a baby because they didn't like that i radiated moonlight and had stars inside my eyes. they were jealous of me.
summary: you tried to help frank through his addiction, but he never wanted your help. you eventually chose to divorce him, settling with an agreement easily and without qualms because neither of you wanted to hurt each other. but one year later, he's knocking at the door of the house you once shared, and you can't help but to let him stay.
tags: heavy angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, divorced! frank and reader, discussion of substance abuse and addiction (benzodiazepines), discussion of divorce, crying, reunion sex, making love, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie
a/n: inspired by this fic by @flowersforbucky bc of the angstiness and the langdon of it all and the divorcedness... of it all ♡♡
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Frank doesn't know why he's here.
You two are divorced. Have been for about a year now. It ended civilly- no yelling, no arguing, no screaming matches. Just a civil agreement and a lot of tears cried in your marital bed on your final night together, the bed where you used to laugh and talk for hours, fantasise about your future and kids and growing old together. It all just ended one night. He came home late, you were already in bed. It had been building up for a long time and it definitely wasn't an impulsive decision. He knew it was coming too. Could feel it in the air. Knew you hadn't talked, or touched, or even fought in far too long.
You were both too tired to put in the effort needed to fix things. Had tried and tried and couldn't bring yourselves to do it anymore. Not when Frank was struggling with an addiction that he refused to admit to, even to you. Not when you had so much more life to live, and it felt like Frank was beginning to weigh you down. He was defensive, yelled, insisted he didn't have a problem. Until you just stopped fighting for him in the moment that he needed you to the most.
You were his wife. And you knew he needed you. But you couldn't do it. You knew he didn't want to change; couldn't change. It left you heartbroken, and yet you knew you had to leave. So you did.
And he knew that letting you go was the most selfless, most loving, thing he could do.
So he doesn't know why he's back here. The house you once shared. The one you decorated together, down to every trinket. Where you loved, learned, grew. Where your marriage began and where it ultimately ended.
He rings the doorbell, lets it play it's familiar little tune. Hears the metal of the peephole slide across, feels your eye looking through it and right at him, before the lock of the door clicks and it's opening wide to reveal you.
You look cosy wearing the pajamas he used to love you in, and he instantly remembers how he'd come home from work to you in those clothes, cuddled up on the couch. How he'd kiss you, and hug you, and tell you how much he missed you. How he used to tell you every detail of his day. Now he just comes home to silence and microwaveable meals. He used to love to cook, but what's the point when there's no one to share it with?
"Frank," you say. It's soft, gentle, like you're scared that he'll break and he thinks he actually might. The sight of you hurts too badly. The last time he saw you was in a blazer, drafting up the agreement for your divorce.
"What are you doing here, Frank?" you ask, but there's no malice in it. You're confused. And he hopes that you're even a little happy to see him.
He wrings his hands, they're suddenly far too clammy. Wipes them on his jeans. Plays with the brim of his hat. He feels dumb.
"I- I honestly don't know," he finally says, chuckling mirthlessly. "I don't know. I-I'm sorry. I'll just go, I don't know why I came, I'm so stupid-"
"Stay," you whisper, barely audible enough for him to hear.
"What?" he replies, heart squeezing at the thought that any part of you still wants to be near him.
"Stay. Just for a while. Have a cup of tea or something? I'm watching Love Island."
Your show. The one you used to watch together on most nights, wrapped up under blankets. Warm skin on skin, your head on his shoulder. Constant commentary and laughs that he used to pull out of you so easily. Kisses in between scenes and hands in places they probably didn't need to be. He hadn't watched it with you for months before you even asked for a divorce, and it was one of those silly things he missed so much.
"Okay," is all he can manage.
In your living room, on your sofa, he feels awkward. It's changed in small ways, but he used to know this place like the back of his hand- and so much is gone. Particularly, the way he used to leave his clothes on the backs of random chairs. His books, his things, his stethoscope that he used to hang up behind the door after work so he wouldn't lose it. His keys next to yours. A space for you two forced to become a house for one.
The TV buzzes in the background, a low hum. He hears the kettle finish boiling in the kitchen not too far away, hears a spoon clinking in a ceramic mug. Listens to your steps as you walk towards him. He straightens in his seat. You place the mug down in front of him and he looks up in surprise. You pretend you don't see.
It was his mug. The one he used every morning. The one you used to fill up with coffee while he showered so it was ready by the time he got out. The one you used to make hot chocolate in, with cream and marshmallows, every Christmas when you two would watch reruns of Home Alone and Elf. He's surprised you have it, and he's surprised you kept it. He searched for it in every box after he moved into his new apartment, wanted the memories that came with it. Had you been using it every morning? Thinking of him like he had been thinking of you in every waking moment of his new life?
He takes a slow sip. Sighs with his eyes closed. You always did know exactly how to make his tea, and it never tasted the same when he tried to make it himself.
"So," you start, holding your own cup to your chest, blanket around your legs. You're sat across the room from him, different from the way you used to huddle close on that very couch, and it makes him feel strange. "How have you been, Frank?"
"I'm fine. I'm doing... better." He gives you a tight-lipped smile. Choosing his words carefully.
"That's good."
"I went to rehab."
You're surprised. He can tell. He knows you like the back of his hand. You don't want to scare him off, make him feel pressured. "How did it go?"
"It was..." he pauses. Decides to tell you the truth. Open up to you the way you begged him to when you were still married and he was still in denial about his addiction. "It was horrible. It was so hard. Every second was painful. You know, with my back, it was agony. I didn't know if I'd get through it."
You sit, stiffly, but he can see the way your eyes glisten. The way your breathing deepens and your face goes all red the way it does when you're about to cry.
"Robby caught me," he continues. Wants to be honest with you even if it's embarassing. Even if his pride takes a massive hit. Wants another chance, desperately. "Robby caught me stealing from the ER. I was taking benzos to help me with the withdrawal symptoms from the opioids. The pain was too much, and it was the only thing that helped. Especially with how hectic it gets in the ER, I couldn't handle it. Robby caught me. He fired me."
"Oh."
"And that's why I went to rehab. I realised what I had done. The rift I caused between you and me. The way I hurt you because I couldn't tell you the truth."
You're tight lipped. Haven't said a thing since he started except for hums of agreement or question.
"I want you to know that I'm better. I'm trying. I'm back at work. I-I'm having random drug tests. I'm not taking anything. I-I had a patient who I stole drugs from and I admitted it to him, and he died, but I-I was honest. I've done my best. I'm 186 days clean. Today was my first day back, and I did a closed blind reduction of a cervical spine dislocation. I'm still good at what I do, and I'm proud of myself for it. I'm still shaking."
He holds his hands out, shows you the way his hands are quivering. Nervous. And your eyes catch on something gold still on his left ring finger. You bring a hand up to your mouth.
"Frank," is all you can muster, softly. Eyes brimming with tears. He follows your line of vision to his pathetic ring finger, where he still pathetically wears his wedding ring. His pathetic promise to you to love you till death do you apart. And he hasn't broken that. He hides his hand immediately.
"Fuck, I didn't mean for you to see that. I promise."
"Why are you still wearing your wedding ring?"
"I," he starts, but no words come out. "I don't know, baby. I mean, fuck, I don't know. I'm sorry-"
"It's okay, Frank." you sigh, voice breaking in a way that breaks his heart in two. "I'm really proud of you. I'm really happy for you. You've done so well for yourself."
"Thank you, I-"
"But I think you should go."
Frank can't do anything but nod. You're right. He doesn't even know what he's doing here with you, why he came to bother you. What he's doing in the house where you fell apart, with the person he hurt. The person who hurt him right back.
He gets up, picks up his things, and walks himself to the door. You follow behind him.
He turns around just to get one final look at you, in what was once his house too, "thank you."
"For what?"
"For the tea."
You just nod and watch him open the front door. But your heart hangs heavy with the weight of watching him walk away.
"Frank," you squeak, voice cracking along with your heart.
He turns immediately, hoping and begging that you'll ask him to stay again.
"Frank, I-" you can't finish the sentence. It all comes out at once. Relief that he's doing well, that he's working hard to overcome his addiction. That he's been clean for 186 days. Devastation that you had to let go of your relationship because he refused to get help, refused to take yours, just for him to end up doing the work anyway, merely months after your divorce. A sudden, useless, spark of hope that you two could be together again, because you still love him. More than you should. You just loved yourself more, and you couldn't handle the effects of his addiction and his denial.
You're choking through tears before you know it, hot cheeks and burning eyelids. He can't handle it. Hates seeing you like this, and because of him no less. He should never have come. Never should have rehashed the pain of your past.
But he's dropping his things on the floor anyway, scooping you up in his arms because he's wanted to hold you since you opened the door. He's warm, you feel protected, loved, you feel like you're finally home after a year. Pathetically, he's still your home. All you've ever wanted.
He strokes your hair and shushes you, rocking you back and forth while you heave and cry into him. He's blinking back the tears in his eyes himself. To finally feel you close to him, the only thing he's ever craved in his life. He can't help but to press a kiss into your hair, inhale the scent of your shampoo that he's missed so fucking much.
"It's okay, honey." he soothes. "It'll all be okay."
There's a million other things he wants to say. Wants to tell you that he's thought of you every single day since he moved out of your home together. That he still loves you; can't see himself with anyone else, refuses to even entertain the idea of a date with someone else. That it stings when he thinks of you being with anyone other than him- that the sight of you walking down the aisle again, beautiful as ever, giving another person the happy, teary, smile you gave him on your wedding day haunts him in his worst nightmares. That when everything hurt, when rehab felt like torture, you were the only thing that kept him going. And going home to an empty apartment, without your things, without your scent, without you, made him want to die.
"It's not okay, Frank. It'll never be okay. How can it be okay when you're not with me?"
Had you felt the same way as him all this time? Had you missed him like he missed you? Begged the universe, hoped for the stars to align, to give you two another chance?
He stares at you. Breathing heavily. He used to know exactly how to comfort you. Would listen to you talk for hours, holding you, never letting go. And when you had gotten everything out, there were no more words or tears to spill, you would ask him to help you feel better. Take it all away with his lips, his fingers, his tongue. His cock.
He doesn't know how to help you now. After almost a year apart, he's lost. Watching you like an idiot who doesn't know what boundaries he can or can't cross. If he can hold your hand, if he can kiss you.
But when you look up at him with those eyes, lips parted. When you take his hands in yours and guide it up to cup your face. He knows.
"Will you kiss me, Frank?" you say, quietly, embarassed. Exactly how you used to when you used to go to him with every problem, every inconvenience. When he was your rock. "Take the hurt away?"
He holds you. Rubs his thumb over your cheeks. Looks you in your eyes with a thousand thoughts and feelings swirling in his head, in his heart. Wondering what you're thinking. Is this really the best thing to do? Is this even really happening? Because it feels like a dream.
"Are you sure?" he asks, scared speaking too loudly will jostle him awake, that you'll get so startled that you'll dissipate into thin air.
"Yes," you nod. Press your face into the calloused, worked hands.
He licks his lips. Stares at yours. And slowly, giving you a chance to move away, to change your mind, he leans in, brushing his nose against yours like he always used to. You used to giggle every time. He moves at a snail's pace until his mouth is against yours. Soft, smooth, everything you've been missing and wanting, thinking you'd never have him like this again.
He kisses you hard, soft, tries to tell you all of the words he can't get out with every movement of his lips, every stroke of his tongue. Holds you tight because he knows this may be the last time, and fuck, he doesn't want to waste this opportunity to love you again.
The kiss deepens in time, rougher, harder, sloppier. You're breathing hard through your nose between wanton moans while Frank's hands wander everywhere, all over your body. The cup of his hands against your breasts remind you of how much he used to love them. Burying his face in them, nipping at them, sucking at your nipples. The feel of your hands in his hair, tugging between fingertips, the sting delicious against his scalp. He fucking loves it.
It's not long before you're pulling your shirt off, tugging at his too until he follows suite. You're desperate to feel him as close to you as possible- skin to skin, chest to chest. Heart to heart.
Both of your pants come off too, unbuckled, unbuttoned, thrown to the ground and forgotten as you lead him to the bedroom you once shared. Let him set you down in the middle of the bed in between your side and what used to be his, let him press kisses on your face, your neck, your décolletage. In between and all over those breasts he always loved. Down to your clothed pussy where he pulls aside your panties to lick and taste your juices again. You taste as fucking good as he remembers, and he can't help but to eat you out with more vigour. Hungry.
"Frank," you moan, hands tangled in his hair as he licks and sucks at your clit, palming himself through fabric. "I need you. I need to feel you now."
So he obeys. Pulls your sticky panties down to your ankles and off, then strips out of his own boxers. Comes back up to kiss you tenderly, grinding himself in between your legs to get you wet, though you don't really need it.
"Are you ready?" he asks when the feeling of you so close drives him so crazy that all he wants to do is plunge into your heat.
"Please," is all you can reply.
Frank pushes in slowly. Wants to savour the stretch of your pussy, the way it adapts to his size, wrapping around him. You haven't been with anyone since your divorce, so the stretch of a dick pushing inside of you feels foreign, and so fucking good. The same goes for Frank who's missed the wet, warm hug of your walls. The way you suck him in.
When he's fully seated inside of you, he starts to move. Thrusting slowly and languidly, savouring the moment of feeling you all against him. Kissing him, touching him, scratching at his skin.
"I've missed you," he whispers into the crook of your neck. Soothing the skin with a gentle kiss. "I've missed us."
You break down again, sob ugly and uninhibited as you pull him closer into you, hugging around his neck.
"Fuck, I missed you too."
He stops when he realises that you're cryinf, holds you, starts to pull himself out, "Fuck, baby, did I do something wrong-"
But you interrupt him, "Don't. Keep going, please."
So he does. With you still wrapped around him, skin to skin, chest to chest, heart to heart. He keeps thrusting into you, feeling every part of you until his skin feels like he's on fire. Tears wet his cheeks too as he lays with you for the first time in too long, listening to your sobs that mix with the obscene noises from the place you two connect, and choked out moans from how good he feels inside of you.
"Not gonna last much longer, baby." Frank admits when he feels his orgasm coming closer and closer. "Will you cum with me?"
You nod into his neck, press kisses to his face. Push your hips up against him to meet his thrusts, and wrap your legs around him. He's suddenly impossibly deep inside you, and each thrust has his tip rubbing against that spongy spot inside of you, until your orgasm takes over. And watching you only leads to his orgasm too, one that leaves the two of you shaking and moaning against one another. Holding each other like you always used to, as the aftershocks burst through you. Hoping your bodies and your mouths can speak for your hearts.
There's too much history. There's too much pain. A year apart, and for good reason too, and neither of you knows what the next step is. Can you two really be together again, the way you used to be?
But it's a question you ignore for now. Just for tonight, you're just you. Mr. and Mrs. Langdon. You're just two people who fell in love and loved, and grew together, and wanted, want, a future together. You're just two people, choosing to hold one another, kiss one another, relish in the warmth of the person you love more than anything in the world.
oh my heart, this was so painfully beautiful 😭❤️ stunningly written, it pulled at my heartstrings just right. her keeping the mug. frank still wearing his wedding ring even though it had been a year. and accidentally, instinctively calling her baby. ugh it’s just the right amount of angst and fluff and longing and 👌🏻👌🏻👌🏻
thank you for tagging me! i’m so happy my fic gave you the inspo to write this 🥰🥰
my queen angel, tysm for reading, i was so excited to write frank angst after reading ur fic !!! and YES HE'S A PATHETIC BOY but he's my pathetic boy with his wedding ring 😭😭 i'm so honoured by ur reblog and comments! ♡♡♡
summary: you tried to help frank through his addiction, but he never wanted your help. you eventually chose to divorce him, settling with an agreement easily and without qualms because neither of you wanted to hurt each other. but one year later, he's knocking at the door of the house you once shared, and you can't help but to let him stay.
tags: heavy angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, divorced! frank and reader, discussion of substance abuse and addiction (benzodiazepines), discussion of divorce, crying, reunion sex, making love, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie
a/n: inspired by this fic by @flowersforbucky bc of the angstiness and the langdon of it all and the divorcedness... of it all ♡♡
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Frank doesn't know why he's here.
You two are divorced. Have been for about a year now. It ended civilly- no yelling, no arguing, no screaming matches. Just a civil agreement and a lot of tears cried in your marital bed on your final night together, the bed where you used to laugh and talk for hours, fantasise about your future and kids and growing old together. It all just ended one night. He came home late, you were already in bed. It had been building up for a long time and it definitely wasn't an impulsive decision. He knew it was coming too. Could feel it in the air. Knew you hadn't talked, or touched, or even fought in far too long.
You were both too tired to put in the effort needed to fix things. Had tried and tried and couldn't bring yourselves to do it anymore. Not when Frank was struggling with an addiction that he refused to admit to, even to you. Not when you had so much more life to live, and it felt like Frank was beginning to weigh you down. He was defensive, yelled, insisted he didn't have a problem. Until you just stopped fighting for him in the moment that he needed you to the most.
You were his wife. And you knew he needed you. But you couldn't do it. You knew he didn't want to change; couldn't change. It left you heartbroken, and yet you knew you had to leave. So you did.
And he knew that letting you go was the most selfless, most loving, thing he could do.
So he doesn't know why he's back here. The house you once shared. The one you decorated together, down to every trinket. Where you loved, learned, grew. Where your marriage began and where it ultimately ended.
He rings the doorbell, lets it play it's familiar little tune. Hears the metal of the peephole slide across, feels your eye looking through it and right at him, before the lock of the door clicks and it's opening wide to reveal you.
You look cosy wearing the pajamas he used to love you in, and he instantly remembers how he'd come home from work to you in those clothes, cuddled up on the couch. How he'd kiss you, and hug you, and tell you how much he missed you. How he used to tell you every detail of his day. Now he just comes home to silence and microwaveable meals. He used to love to cook, but what's the point when there's no one to share it with?
"Frank," you say. It's soft, gentle, like you're scared that he'll break and he thinks he actually might. The sight of you hurts too badly. The last time he saw you was in a blazer, drafting up the agreement for your divorce.
"What are you doing here, Frank?" you ask, but there's no malice in it. You're confused. And he hopes that you're even a little happy to see him.
He wrings his hands, they're suddenly far too clammy. Wipes them on his jeans. Plays with the brim of his hat. He feels dumb.
"I- I honestly don't know," he finally says, chuckling mirthlessly. "I don't know. I-I'm sorry. I'll just go, I don't know why I came, I'm so stupid-"
"Stay," you whisper, barely audible enough for him to hear.
"What?" he replies, heart squeezing at the thought that any part of you still wants to be near him.
"Stay. Just for a while. Have a cup of tea or something? I'm watching Love Island."
Your show. The one you used to watch together on most nights, wrapped up under blankets. Warm skin on skin, your head on his shoulder. Constant commentary and laughs that he used to pull out of you so easily. Kisses in between scenes and hands in places they probably didn't need to be. He hadn't watched it with you for months before you even asked for a divorce, and it was one of those silly things he missed so much.
"Okay," is all he can manage.
In your living room, on your sofa, he feels awkward. It's changed in small ways, but he used to know this place like the back of his hand- and so much is gone. Particularly, the way he used to leave his clothes on the backs of random chairs. His books, his things, his stethoscope that he used to hang up behind the door after work so he wouldn't lose it. His keys next to yours. A space for you two forced to become a house for one.
The TV buzzes in the background, a low hum. He hears the kettle finish boiling in the kitchen not too far away, hears a spoon clinking in a ceramic mug. Listens to your steps as you walk towards him. He straightens in his seat. You place the mug down in front of him and he looks up in surprise. You pretend you don't see.
It was his mug. The one he used every morning. The one you used to fill up with coffee while he showered so it was ready by the time he got out. The one you used to make hot chocolate in, with cream and marshmallows, every Christmas when you two would watch reruns of Home Alone and Elf. He's surprised you have it, and he's surprised you kept it. He searched for it in every box after he moved into his new apartment, wanted the memories that came with it. Had you been using it every morning? Thinking of him like he had been thinking of you in every waking moment of his new life?
He takes a slow sip. Sighs with his eyes closed. You always did know exactly how to make his tea, and it never tasted the same when he tried to make it himself.
"So," you start, holding your own cup to your chest, blanket around your legs. You're sat across the room from him, different from the way you used to huddle close on that very couch, and it makes him feel strange. "How have you been, Frank?"
"I'm fine. I'm doing... better." He gives you a tight-lipped smile. Choosing his words carefully.
"That's good."
"I went to rehab."
You're surprised. He can tell. He knows you like the back of his hand. You don't want to scare him off, make him feel pressured. "How did it go?"
"It was..." he pauses. Decides to tell you the truth. Open up to you the way you begged him to when you were still married and he was still in denial about his addiction. "It was horrible. It was so hard. Every second was painful. You know, with my back, it was agony. I didn't know if I'd get through it."
You sit, stiffly, but he can see the way your eyes glisten. The way your breathing deepens and your face goes all red the way it does when you're about to cry.
"Robby caught me," he continues. Wants to be honest with you even if it's embarassing. Even if his pride takes a massive hit. Wants another chance, desperately. "Robby caught me stealing from the ER. I was taking benzos to help me with the withdrawal symptoms from the opioids. The pain was too much, and it was the only thing that helped. Especially with how hectic it gets in the ER, I couldn't handle it. Robby caught me. He fired me."
"Oh."
"And that's why I went to rehab. I realised what I had done. The rift I caused between you and me. The way I hurt you because I couldn't tell you the truth."
You're tight lipped. Haven't said a thing since he started except for hums of agreement or question.
"I want you to know that I'm better. I'm trying. I'm back at work. I-I'm having random drug tests. I'm not taking anything. I-I had a patient who I stole drugs from and I admitted it to him, and he died, but I-I was honest. I've done my best. I'm 186 days clean. Today was my first day back, and I did a closed blind reduction of a cervical spine dislocation. I'm still good at what I do, and I'm proud of myself for it. I'm still shaking."
He holds his hands out, shows you the way his hands are quivering. Nervous. And your eyes catch on something gold still on his left ring finger. You bring a hand up to your mouth.
"Frank," is all you can muster, softly. Eyes brimming with tears. He follows your line of vision to his pathetic ring finger, where he still pathetically wears his wedding ring. His pathetic promise to you to love you till death do you apart. And he hasn't broken that. He hides his hand immediately.
"Fuck, I didn't mean for you to see that. I promise."
"Why are you still wearing your wedding ring?"
"I," he starts, but no words come out. "I don't know, baby. I mean, fuck, I don't know. I'm sorry-"
"It's okay, Frank." you sigh, voice breaking in a way that breaks his heart in two. "I'm really proud of you. I'm really happy for you. You've done so well for yourself."
"Thank you, I-"
"But I think you should go."
Frank can't do anything but nod. You're right. He doesn't even know what he's doing here with you, why he came to bother you. What he's doing in the house where you fell apart, with the person he hurt. The person who hurt him right back.
He gets up, picks up his things, and walks himself to the door. You follow behind him.
He turns around just to get one final look at you, in what was once his house too, "thank you."
"For what?"
"For the tea."
You just nod and watch him open the front door. But your heart hangs heavy with the weight of watching him walk away.
"Frank," you squeak, voice cracking along with your heart.
He turns immediately, hoping and begging that you'll ask him to stay again.
"Frank, I-" you can't finish the sentence. It all comes out at once. Relief that he's doing well, that he's working hard to overcome his addiction. That he's been clean for 186 days. Devastation that you had to let go of your relationship because he refused to get help, refused to take yours, just for him to end up doing the work anyway, merely months after your divorce. A sudden, useless, spark of hope that you two could be together again, because you still love him. More than you should. You just loved yourself more, and you couldn't handle the effects of his addiction and his denial.
You're choking through tears before you know it, hot cheeks and burning eyelids. He can't handle it. Hates seeing you like this, and because of him no less. He should never have come. Never should have rehashed the pain of your past.
But he's dropping his things on the floor anyway, scooping you up in his arms because he's wanted to hold you since you opened the door. He's warm, you feel protected, loved, you feel like you're finally home after a year. Pathetically, he's still your home. All you've ever wanted.
He strokes your hair and shushes you, rocking you back and forth while you heave and cry into him. He's blinking back the tears in his eyes himself. To finally feel you close to him, the only thing he's ever craved in his life. He can't help but to press a kiss into your hair, inhale the scent of your shampoo that he's missed so fucking much.
"It's okay, honey." he soothes. "It'll all be okay."
There's a million other things he wants to say. Wants to tell you that he's thought of you every single day since he moved out of your home together. That he still loves you; can't see himself with anyone else, refuses to even entertain the idea of a date with someone else. That it stings when he thinks of you being with anyone other than him- that the sight of you walking down the aisle again, beautiful as ever, giving another person the happy, teary, smile you gave him on your wedding day haunts him in his worst nightmares. That when everything hurt, when rehab felt like torture, you were the only thing that kept him going. And going home to an empty apartment, without your things, without your scent, without you, made him want to die.
"It's not okay, Frank. It'll never be okay. How can it be okay when you're not with me?"
Had you felt the same way as him all this time? Had you missed him like he missed you? Begged the universe, hoped for the stars to align, to give you two another chance?
He stares at you. Breathing heavily. He used to know exactly how to comfort you. Would listen to you talk for hours, holding you, never letting go. And when you had gotten everything out, there were no more words or tears to spill, you would ask him to help you feel better. Take it all away with his lips, his fingers, his tongue. His cock.
He doesn't know how to help you now. After almost a year apart, he's lost. Watching you like an idiot who doesn't know what boundaries he can or can't cross. If he can hold your hand, if he can kiss you.
But when you look up at him with those eyes, lips parted. When you take his hands in yours and guide it up to cup your face. He knows.
"Will you kiss me, Frank?" you say, quietly, embarassed. Exactly how you used to when you used to go to him with every problem, every inconvenience. When he was your rock. "Take the hurt away?"
He holds you. Rubs his thumb over your cheeks. Looks you in your eyes with a thousand thoughts and feelings swirling in his head, in his heart. Wondering what you're thinking. Is this really the best thing to do? Is this even really happening? Because it feels like a dream.
"Are you sure?" he asks, scared speaking too loudly will jostle him awake, that you'll get so startled that you'll dissipate into thin air.
"Yes," you nod. Press your face into the calloused, worked hands.
He licks his lips. Stares at yours. And slowly, giving you a chance to move away, to change your mind, he leans in, brushing his nose against yours like he always used to. You used to giggle every time. He moves at a snail's pace until his mouth is against yours. Soft, smooth, everything you've been missing and wanting, thinking you'd never have him like this again.
He kisses you hard, soft, tries to tell you all of the words he can't get out with every movement of his lips, every stroke of his tongue. Holds you tight because he knows this may be the last time, and fuck, he doesn't want to waste this opportunity to love you again.
The kiss deepens in time, rougher, harder, sloppier. You're breathing hard through your nose between wanton moans while Frank's hands wander everywhere, all over your body. The cup of his hands against your breasts remind you of how much he used to love them. Burying his face in them, nipping at them, sucking at your nipples. The feel of your hands in his hair, tugging between fingertips, the sting delicious against his scalp. He fucking loves it.
It's not long before you're pulling your shirt off, tugging at his too until he follows suite. You're desperate to feel him as close to you as possible- skin to skin, chest to chest. Heart to heart.
Both of your pants come off too, unbuckled, unbuttoned, thrown to the ground and forgotten as you lead him to the bedroom you once shared. Let him set you down in the middle of the bed in between your side and what used to be his, let him press kisses on your face, your neck, your décolletage. In between and all over those breasts he always loved. Down to your clothed pussy where he pulls aside your panties to lick and taste your juices again. You taste as fucking good as he remembers, and he can't help but to eat you out with more vigour. Hungry.
"Frank," you moan, hands tangled in his hair as he licks and sucks at your clit, palming himself through fabric. "I need you. I need to feel you now."
So he obeys. Pulls your sticky panties down to your ankles and off, then strips out of his own boxers. Comes back up to kiss you tenderly, grinding himself in between your legs to get you wet, though you don't really need it.
"Are you ready?" he asks when the feeling of you so close drives him so crazy that all he wants to do is plunge into your heat.
"Please," is all you can reply.
Frank pushes in slowly. Wants to savour the stretch of your pussy, the way it adapts to his size, wrapping around him. You haven't been with anyone since your divorce, so the stretch of a dick pushing inside of you feels foreign, and so fucking good. The same goes for Frank who's missed the wet, warm hug of your walls. The way you suck him in.
When he's fully seated inside of you, he starts to move. Thrusting slowly and languidly, savouring the moment of feeling you all against him. Kissing him, touching him, scratching at his skin.
"I've missed you," he whispers into the crook of your neck. Soothing the skin with a gentle kiss. "I've missed us."
You break down again, sob ugly and uninhibited as you pull him closer into you, hugging around his neck.
"Fuck, I missed you too."
He stops when he realises that you're cryinf, holds you, starts to pull himself out, "Fuck, baby, did I do something wrong-"
But you interrupt him, "Don't. Keep going, please."
So he does. With you still wrapped around him, skin to skin, chest to chest, heart to heart. He keeps thrusting into you, feeling every part of you until his skin feels like he's on fire. Tears wet his cheeks too as he lays with you for the first time in too long, listening to your sobs that mix with the obscene noises from the place you two connect, and choked out moans from how good he feels inside of you.
"Not gonna last much longer, baby." Frank admits when he feels his orgasm coming closer and closer. "Will you cum with me?"
You nod into his neck, press kisses to his face. Push your hips up against him to meet his thrusts, and wrap your legs around him. He's suddenly impossibly deep inside you, and each thrust has his tip rubbing against that spongy spot inside of you, until your orgasm takes over. And watching you only leads to his orgasm too, one that leaves the two of you shaking and moaning against one another. Holding each other like you always used to, as the aftershocks burst through you. Hoping your bodies and your mouths can speak for your hearts.
There's too much history. There's too much pain. A year apart, and for good reason too, and neither of you knows what the next step is. Can you two really be together again, the way you used to be?
But it's a question you ignore for now. Just for tonight, you're just you. Mr. and Mrs. Langdon. You're just two people who fell in love and loved, and grew together, and wanted, want, a future together. You're just two people, choosing to hold one another, kiss one another, relish in the warmth of the person you love more than anything in the world.
summary: in which picking his drunk girlfriend up is one of jack's favourite boyfriend duties!
tags: smut, age gap relationship though it's not really mentioned, girly reader wearing sexy clubbing clothes and heels and a thong, jack is such a good boyfriend it makes me cry, reader is so spoiled by this man, your friends love jack, you're drunk so dub con, blowjob, deepthroat, mention of gagging once, cumming in your mouth, kissing you after you swallow his cum, handjob until he gets hard again, cowgirl, pronebone, a little hair pulling, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, slight! breeding kink, creampie
a/n: based on this ask. thank you for requesting, nonny!!! and remember that reqs are open! i just don't really know if/when i'll get to them, but feel free :)
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jack loves watching you get ready for a night out. he loves how excited you get frolicking around the room, trying on different sexy outfits and asking him which one he likes the best. he's obsessed with your fashion shows and will never stop at a simple "this one's nice". he likes to go into depth, tell you how good that dress looks on you, tell you how that skirt makes your ass look incredible with a complimentary smack on it to prove it, earning a giggle and a kiss from you.
he loves how you always choose the outfit he likes best, the one that makes you look quite literally heaven sent. will always help you tie the straps into a neat pretty bow (he's great at it, of course, after years of tying sutures) and zip up any zippers you can't reach. and you always let him feel you up a little as a thank you, all over your curves, squeezing your tits in his strong grip.
jewellery clasps are a bit fiddly for him since his fingers are so big, but he tries his best for you anyway, letting you pull your hair away from your shoulders so he can see bring the necklace around it. peppering kisses down your bare neck when he's done. he wants to kiss your lips really, but doesn't since he knows you won't want him to mess up your lipstick. he'll always smell your perfume on the junction between your neck and shoulder, and will inhale it all in, complimenting how good you smell.
and when you're ready to leave, he'll strap you into your high heels because he never lets you bend down to put your own shoes on, if he can help. and god forbid you ever take any form of public transport, he has a car for a reason doesn't he? he's opening the door for you, clicking your seatbelt in, and driving you to wherever the venue is. hums along to your pre-clubbing playlist without complaint while you sing your heart out and dance around in the passenger seat. will get out of the car just to open the door for you, let you kiss him goodbye, and then watch you as you walk into the venue before he even puts his seatbelt on.
it's always around 3am when his phone rings, telling him you're ready for him to pick you up. there's always loud pumping music in the background and your words are always slurred, but he knows exactly what you want to say anyway.
when he gets there, he already knows the drill. opens the backdoor so your friends can get in with a chorus of "hey jack!" and "you're the best, jack!" from your gaggle of drunk girls. you always get in last, passenger door opened, seatbelt clicked in for you as per your routine. and you never let him close the door again without kissing him first, whispering, "i'm gonna suck your soul out of your body and ride you for hours when we get home", though it's never actually a whisper. it's always met with a, "we heard that!" from the backseat.
he drops off every one of your friends at their apartments. doesn't need a gps or google maps. he's dropped them off so many times that he's memorised it like the back of his hand- including which route is the best for maximum efficiency. each of your friends leaves with a "love you, jack!" to which you huff and yell after them, "get your own man!" he loves it really. your friends are all so sweet and treat you so well, exactly how you deserve. so he's grateful, would never leave a single one of them drunk and alone out on the streets. especially when he's perfect capable of driving them home too. it's so charming to you how sweet jack is to the girls. it only makes you love him even more (and makes you hornier).
and when you finally get home, oh, you keep your promise. push him down unto the couch with an 'oof' while he chuckles, totally amused and totally horny. you waste no time getting his belt unbuckled, tugging until he lifts his hips up and lets you pull his jeans and his boxers down to his ankles. he loves the way you still gape at his cock every time you see it, examining the way it fits in your palm. thick and impossibly heavy. you never hesitate, just go straight into sucking his cock like you're starving. lap up every drop of his precum, like its sustenance, swirling your tongue all over his flushed tip, the bumpy underside providing extra stimulation. you like to rub against his frenelum too, in a motion that feels almost overstimulatingly good, and it quickly became his favourite move of yours after the very first time you sucked him off.
when he's all sloppy and slick with your spit, you start to take him deeper and deeper, bobbing your head up and down on his length until his tip hits your throat. he loves it when you take him deep like this, powering through the gagging like a champ. eyes teary and mascara running down your face in a way that makes you look utterly fucked out. he loves to cup your face while your deepthroating him like this, lock eyes with you as you look up at him through your lashes. wipes at your eyes and cleans up the messy mascara with his thumb.
you always know when he's close too, can tell from the way his cock starts to twitch in your mouth, the way you can feel his balls tighten into his body when you roll them between your fingers, spit dripping unto them from his shaft. you speed up then, bring a hand to the base to tug in sync with your bobbing lips. fast and hard. revelling in the way his moans get louder no matter how hard he tries to stifle them, grabbing the back of your head to keep you right there while his hips buck up into you, pushing his dick even deeper into your throat until he's cumming, hard, painting your mouth white, twitching with each spurt of his cum.
you swallow every drop. always do. open your mouth and stick out your tongue with a giggle to prove it. he's slumped into the couch, looking down at you with admiration while you clean him up with your tongue, leaving his cock softened on his thigh when you get up.
it's then that you take your clothes off bit by bit, the outfit he picked out from your options for the night. loves how your breasts drop down when they're freed from your top, moans at the sight of your juices stretching between your thong and your pussy. you're always so fucking wet for him.
he welcomes you as you take a seat on his lap, straddling him with both your legs and wrapping your arms around his neck. tucks your hair behind your ears as you press one soft kiss to his lips.
"missed you, baby." you always say, sweetly.
"missed you more, sweetheart." he always replies. "did you have a good night?"
"would have been better if you were there too."
he kisses you deeply after that. loves the warmth of your lips and the leftover taste of lip gloss, all wiped away by the sloppiness of your mouth around his cock. the taste of him lingers on your tongue and while he's indifferent to the taste, he loves the reminder that you swallowed up every drop, that you savoured every bit of him. you kiss him wetly, all tongue and teeth that nibble on his lips, and he fucking loves it. it's the way you always kiss him when you're drunk and horny. wild with not a single thought in your head.
he'll play with your clit while you kiss, press the pad of his thumb against it and rub, enjoying the way you moan into his mouth and try to shift your hips for extra stimulation in the bundle of nerves. move his other hand up to cup your breasts, pinch at your nipples. it always feels so fucking good for you, arching your back into him and panting with need. he loves to tease you like this for a while, kissing your neck and leaving marks for you to find later.
you like to play with him back when he's touching you like this. pump his cock until it's hard again in your hand, feel it grow harder and thicker. jack likes to time how long you last too, how long it takes before you're moaning his name and asking him if you can put his dick inside you, and it changes every time. less time the more drunk you are.
and when you finally ask, he never denies you. never insists that you wait longer, because he can't wait either. he's a fiend for your pussy, loves everything about it. would die just to touch your pussy if it ever came down to it.
you always start by running his dick up and down your slit, coating him in your sticky juices until he's wet enough to push the tip into you. it always pulls the most obscene noises out of both of you when you start to shift your hips, sitting lower and lower unto his cock until he's fully inside. his balls against your ass. you always rock yourself against his dick, back and forth a couple times first, before readjusting your body and your legs, pulling yourself all the way up to his tip before slamming back down. wet, sinful noises mixing with your pornographic moans. and you go insane. bouncing up and down on his cock like it's life or death, fast and hard despite the burn in your legs. tits bouncing in jack's face until he takes a peaked nipple into his mouth, tweaking the other while you thrust against him, desperate to cum. desperate to feel good and to make him feel good.
now, you always give it your best try. ride him for as long as you can, longer the drunker you are. but he can always tell when his princess is getting tired. he's spoiled you, after all, you're not used to putting much work in when it comes to sex with him. he can always spot the tell tale signs of your thrusts slowing down and you're frustrated sighs at the lessened stimulation. the way you start to rock back and forth on him again to avoid using up energy to bounce on him.
he's always gentle with you when this happens. wants you to think it's your idea to switch positions since you're always too stubborn to admit it when you're tired. will press circles into your clit while he thrusts up into you, moans spilling from your lips at the feeling.
"want me to fuck you, princess?" he always starts.
"no," you say at first. "wanna ride you for a lil' longer."
"you don't want me to fuck you the way you like, baby?" he'll press on your clit with more pressure, thrust his hips up harder. "the way where my dick goes in so deep? don't you want that, sweets?"
"well, i do love that position..."
and before you know it, you're on your front in your bedroom (jack carried you all the way there with his dick still plugged up into you). tits pressed against the matress and legs parted just enough to give jack space to find your hole.
"ready, baby?" he'll always check before he thrusts in, the tip of his cock pressed lightly, waiting, against your wet pussy until you say yes.
"fuck yes, jack."
and he wastes no time. never does. sheaths himself into your wet, spongy walls without another warning. burying himself deep, deep, into your pussy with his balls pressing up against your ass. you always moan so fucking loud in this position because of how deep he is inside of you. always get so sopping wet between your thighs that your juices drip unto the bedsheets, soak through them within seconds. you always moan so loud, delicious to jack's ears, burying your face in the covers so they're muffled and the neighbours won't hear. he grabs your ponytail and yanks you right back so he can warn you right in your ear.
"let them hear, baby." he'll rasp, hips never stopping their ministrations on your soppy wet cunt. "let them hear how good i make you feel, angel. how deep this fucking cock is inside."
"fuck!" you moan out when he hits that spot he knows you love, spongy, that always elicits that same sinful sound from you that's music to his ears. the sound he's been in love with since the very first time he fucked you. he's deep now, just how you like it, he's got you pushing your ass up into him, trying to get it even deeper so you can cum hard around his cock.
and he wants you to. he wants you to cum so bad he's pressing further inside of you with more and more force, till his body hurts with such strenuous activity, soothed only by the pleasure your pussy gives him, milking his cock with the tight squeeze of your muscles, warm, wet, delicious.
"mmph, fuck, jack!" you moan into the pillows, screaming from how good you feel. drooling all into the fabric while he fucks you till you feel like you're in heaven. "jack, baby, gonna fucking cum. fuck, i'm gonna cum so hard."
he listens to your babble, loves how messy and fucked out you are. thrusts faster and faster while your cunt cries out, brings his hand round to the front of your body to play with your puffy clit.
"fuck," you moan. "fuck, fuck, fuck!"
and he knows what that means. knows you're gonna cum, hard. knows he's doing his job, making you feel amazing. fucking you like a real man should.
"then cum, baby. c'mon, cum for me. let me feel your pussy squeeze around me, princess. you gonna milk me for every drop, hm? gonna let me cum all inside you, princess?"
"mmph!"
"c'mon, baby." he scolds, "you know you can do better than that. tell me. you want me to cum deep inside you till you're all full up, princess? hm? fuck a baby into you? tell me."
"god, jack, please." you groan, tears in your eyes now, painfully close and his words are only pushing you closer to the edge. you're panting, pushing your ass back into him to meet each of his thrusts. the wetness of your pussy only making his cock slip and slide deliciously in and out of you. "fuck, yes, i want all your cum! i want it so deep inside of me, fuck, i do. want it all, baby. please!"
his pace quickens. his fingers rub all over your clit, messy and desperate. eyes rolling into the back of his head as he brings his fist to his teeth to bite down on it, needing something to keep him from cumming. he wants you to cum first, but it's so goddamn hard to hold his orgasm back when he's watching your fat ass cheeks ripple and bounce with each of his thrusts. watching his cock disappear into that wet cunt of yours, squeezing, pushing back into him.
"you gotta cum, princess. i'm so fucking close, but i need you to cum first. can you do that, honey? hm?"
it's all you need. to hear that he's close too before you're eyes are fluttering shut with the sheer, white hot pleasure of an incoming orgasm. and it absolutely rips through you. you're shaking and moaning, grasping at the sheets as you cum. crying out obscenities. jack pulls you up by your hair, shoves his lips into yours in a way that has you reeling. he's rough, moaning and groaning loudly into your mouth, so you know he's close too. especially from the harsh thrusts of his cock into you, the sharp movement of his hips in and out of your pussy.
"fuck, gonna cum deep inside this pussy, baby." he hisses out when he feels the familiar knot in your stomach. pushes down unto your hips as he fucks you through your orgasm and gets himself to his own. louder and more vocal. moans that make your pussy gush with juices, only allowing his cock to slide in faster and slicker.
he cums with a cry, collapsing unto your body just to rub his cock into your pussy while spurts shoot out of him, filling you up. but he doesn't stop. shoves himself in and out of you incessantly and feels his own cum slosh out unto both of your thighs, and the soaked sheets. rubs circles into your clit slowly as the aftershocks of your orgasm overwhelm you. won't stop talking about how pretty you are. how good you are for him. how greedy, and sweet, and beautiful your fucking pussy is.
and when he's done, balls emptied into your pussy that always wants his cum, he cleans you up with a wet, warm washcloth, peppering kisses all over your body as he cleans. he has another dry one to pat you down after. he finds your makeup remover and your cotton pads, soaking it well enough so he can take off all the remnants of your messy night- both at the club and at home- and applies all the steps of your skincare routine by memory. you taught him once and he never forgot it. he brushes your hair after that. braids it tidily just how you taught him. presses a kiss to your forehead when he's done.
you're already long gone, dead asleep, and he takes a few minutes to admire your pretty sleeping form before he sets himself down to sleep too. arms wrapped around your middle, ass pressed up against his cock for round 2 in the morning.
