CLASS IS IN SESSION LISTEN TF UP!!

[chronicyapper]

Hiii welcome to my lil blog thingy

I repost fanfics and sometimes complain

ASK ME ANYTHING ABT TWILIGHT I LOVE TWILIGHT

I also like other things but if I don't know everything abt it I can't give a good opinion but ask me anywho

love ya

[whimsicalfairytales]

I’ve never seen a single episode of the pitt but I do think that kind autistic woman should fuck the twitchy drug guy who has the eyes of an abandoned shelter dog

[greenfairys]

this is my personal headcanon so don't get mad at it but mel king would never have kids #tome. she was forced into the role of caregiver from a young age and it exhausted her. she wants to be the one someone takes care of and guess what? it works perfectly with langdon because he already has kids and he would give her the best princess treatment you've ever seen it's actually sickening

[pocketsope]

[nervousgazes]

Just woke up and saw pball with stubble pic and let me tell you if he’s currently filming he is playing Frank Langdon recently divorced single dad. I just know. Thanks.

[sylmischi]

Sprolden in the big 26⁉️

Your honour I love them forever they are everything

[f4irllie]

The Fray is the unofficial band for Kingdon.

'The Fighter'

'Never Say Never'

'Look After you'

'Heaven Forbid'

'How to Save a Life'

'Over My Head'

'Little House'

[dad-inside]

if s3 isnt entirely 14 hour long episodes of them fucking nasty then what's even the point

[thepittrat]

[stemelwithme]

touch

kingdon drabble - 3.6k - explicit - lovers to friends, confessions, fluff

If Frank had ever thought about it before, he’d probably conclude he likes physical touch about as much as the average person does.

It’s not like he minds it when people touch him, especially since he’s kind of oblivious about personal space. He often ends up brushing up against people or dropping a hand to a shoulder or bumping into someone in the Pitt, and he doesn’t tend to think twice about it beyond a quick apology when needed.

(And maybe he does some of that on purpose, when it comes to one coworker in particular, but again, this isn’t something Frank has ever thought about, so he definitely doesn’t dwell on what that means.)

(continued below or read on ao3)

He tends to follow other people’s lead. His mom has always been pretty effusive in her love for her kids—hugs to greet them and say goodbye, squeezes to the shoulder when she walks by them in the kitchen, gentle pats on the back when they’re under the weather or feeling down—so he initiates hugs and swings his arm around her shoulders when he sees her. Frank can genuinely not remember a single time he and his dad have touched. He must have clapped him on the shoulder, right? At graduation or his wedding or something? Whatever. He’s not going to rock that boat. His siblings aren’t particularly touchy: maybe a hug when they see each other at the holidays, but probably not even that.

He can’t remember having many friendships that featured much touching. His track and cross country teams had none of the homoerotic butt slapping or locker room horseplay he saw from the football or baseball or hockey teams, which he was grateful for. He probably knocked knees on the couch during COD marathons with his high school friends, but they tended to do the bro hug or clap or whatever when they saw each other.

He had one girlfriend in high school who was always touching him, wanting to hold hands in the cafeteria and sit in his lap when they studied in the library and make out behind the PE building. He went along with it, because he really wanted to get laid and it didn’t seem like that big a deal, but he definitely wouldn’t have started any of that without her encouragement. Same with his first girlfriend in college, who really liked going to parties and then ostentatiously making out with him on the dance floor or against the wall or in the line for the bathroom. If he had been more in charge, less of a pushover, he probably would have shut that down, but she was super hot and he had no idea why she was even looking at him, let alone regularly having sex with him, so he pushed his discomfort down instead of her away.

It was kind of a relief to start dating Abby, who’s not big on PDA or maybe any displays of affection towards him. He got to do what felt a little more natural to him, an arm around her shoulder or a hand to her back or a kiss on the cheek, and Abby didn’t like even that much attention, most of the time. Low maintenance, she said in the beginning, which. A lot to unpack, there, in the end.

It’s completely different with Tanner and Penny, of course, because hugging them and smoothing their hair back and feeling the weight of them against his chest is the best feeling in the world, probably. It’s so easy, too, to know that they want some kind of affection, to meet that need, and to watch their little bodies relax and lean into him, feeling safer and regulated by something so simple.

He never really knew just how much little kids like to touch other people—he was the first in his family or friend group to have kids and he’d never spent that much time with them before becoming a dad, which is kind of crazy in retrospect, just like so most of what happened around Tanner’s conception and birth and early childhood—but he loves being their jungle gym, pudgy hands grabbing whatever part of him is available for better leverage, or mattress, chests rising and falling against him in that twitchy sleep of a kid napping when they didn’t want to, or canvas, little fingers painting his face or tying his hair into crazy ponytails.

He ignores the way Abby’s parents stiffen and frown when the kids throw their arms around their shins or tug on their hands. He loves how open Tanner and Penny are in their love and doesn’t want their WASP bullshit interfering with that. Luckily, it’s something he and Abby actually agree on, so at least that is one thing they don’t argue about or have to hash out in front of lawyers or therapists or extended family.

He only realized when he saw his mom for the first time after his second stint in rehab and she gave him an enormous hug that he probably hadn’t really touched anyone in months, not since he last saw Tanner and Penny, and it settled something, feeling her arms wrap around his shoulders and smelling the hint of perfume she’s worn his whole life.

Anyway, if asked, which he hasn’t been, Frank would probably say that he didn’t care all that much about touch, one way or another, which is why it’s weirding him out that he keeps noticing and cataloguing how Mel seems to react to touch.

Looking back, he can say it started his first day back on the Fourth, when he was the one trusted to look her over after that asshole knocked her to the ground. It wasn’t when he ignored how soft her hair was, how fragile her head felt in his hand, as he examined her, barely knowing what he was looking for, but when he went to lay a hand on her leg before thinking better of it, drawing his hand back at the last second. As he left the room, lights turned off behind him, he wondered why he had the instinct to touch his colleague’s thigh and also what stopped him, hand flexed an inch away from her scrubs.

Mel probably doesn’t like people touching her, he thought, which seemed to vibe with everything he’d learned about her up to that point. That seemed like a normal, perhaps even thoughtful or useful, thing to observe about somebody he was hoping would become, at the very least, a work friend, maybe even a real friend.

But he just kept noticing more about Mel’s reactions to touch, little interactions and microexpressions. More than that, he was inexplicably holding onto them. Her enthusiastic high fives after close saves. The awkward pat she bestowed to Jesse when he returned to work, followed immediately by a wince and a hasty retreat from the interaction. Her flinch when Dana clapped a hand on her shoulder at the end of a shift; her smile when Perlah did the same. Her nonreaction when somebody brushed their hand against hers in a trauma bay. The competent, steady exams she performed on patients, palpating tender injuries or rubbing sternums hard, usually accompanied by an explanation of what she was about to do in her calm, reassuring voice. The six inches or more she seemed to leave between herself and Santos during rounds or when they leaned against the counter under the board. The two inches she left between herself and Samira on the break room couch or during huddles. (The half an inch or less she left between herself and Frank in the ambulance bay.)

And sure, he knew he was collecting little facts about her in general, anecdotes tossed aside casually while charting—she once started what was meant to be a two-sentence memory by saying, “Back when my parents were alive—” which was an insane way for him to learn about her family, Jesus—and rambling stories shared on break. Like: She’s an Aquarius. She took Latin as her foreign language in high school, but wishes she’d taken Spanish (“It would be so much more helpful with patients!”) or French (“I could read the actual primary sources about 17th-century fashion in France, instead of relying on translations of variable quality”). She hates eggs. She’s been on-and-off anemic since high school, so she’s always trying to add more iron to her diet. She wishes she could have a dog, but she wouldn’t feel right about leaving them alone so often. She looks cute in a braid and devastatingly hot in a ponytail.

Just, you know, normal friend stuff to notice about your favorite coworker.

Anyway, he tries to be a little more careful, a little more thoughtful, with how he touches her, outside of the rush of a trauma or when they spend time together (thrillingly) outside the hospital. He stops himself from actually touching her when his hand automatically goes to her lower back as they’re leaving somewhere, wondering why he has some bizarre urge to escort or guide her. He asks if she wants a hug when he tracks her down in the stairwell and holds her gently, loosely, when she nods and collapses against his chest. He leaves his hand a careful distance from her head when he finds himself stretching an arm along the back of the couch as they watch something, even though his fingers itch to reach out and play with her hair.

He’s surprised when she brings it up, a few months after his return. He probably shouldn’t be, though, since she’s always honest and direct, two qualities he both admires and appreciates about her.

“Frank, we’re friends, right?” she asks, a night that he’s moping on her couch, not wanting to return to his depressingly quiet apartment quite yet. (The dog travels with the kids, something they’d landed on after a fair amount of trial and error and, helpfully, an article from Mel about co-regulation and pets. It’s definitely for the best, but it means that Frank alternates between having a full house and a completely empty one. It sucks.) He doesn’t have to think about his response.

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry if this is too forward,” she says, which she continues to use as a preface to almost every question she asks him, for topics that are both completely normal (what’s the custody arrangement between him and Abby?) and completely unexpected (how and when did he lose his virginity?). “But do you dislike physical touch in your friendships?”

Frank frowns.

“Uh.” He’s not entirely sure how to answer, particularly since his “friendship” with her exists somewhere outside all the other relationships in his life, somehow both more terrifying and more precious. “No?”

Mel nods, like she has a hypothesis or research question and is simply collecting data before she can arrive at a conclusion.

“Are you uncomfortable touching or being touched by me?”

He stares blankly at her for a minute. The combination of hearing the phrase being touched by me in her low voice while she stares at him expectantly, glasses reflecting the warm fairy lights in her living room and hair hanging loose around her shoulders, sends his brain straight to some places it should not go. He swallows and tries to remember how talking works.

“Uh, no?” he says, then feels stupid when he realizes it’s the exact same thing he just said.

“Is there a reason that you avoid touching me directly?”

“I just thought it seemed like you probably don’t like other people touching you?” he hazards, wincing. He should have known that she would be tracking him the way he notices him, and he hadn’t thought what she might think about how he gives Dana a quick hug at the end of a hard shift or knocks shoulders with Donnie when they’re messing around while trying to keep himself outside the bubble he imagines around her. “Especially since you have to do it so much and it’s usually outside your control.”

Mel looks pleased, not offended, and Frank feels his shoulders relax.

“That’s very thoughtful, Frank.” He clenches his jaw, trying, as always, to ignore how much he likes how his name sounds when she’s the one saying it. “And you’re right, I usually don’t like people touching me, especially strangers or people I’m not comfortable with. But you’re not people.”

Frank nods, a little light headed, and sees how this distinction aligns with his observations. He’s a little curious what it is about Dana that makes Mel feel uncomfortable, where Jesse lands on that spectrum. He doesn’t want to touch the Santos of it all with a hundred-foot pole.

“Do you, um, want me to...touch you more?” Frank asks, mostly because he always wants to make her feel comfortable, but also because he’s an idiot.

Mel bites her lip and studies him for a moment, her forehead and nose scrunching up thoughtfully (and adorably).

“Do you want to touch me more?”

Frank’s mouth is drier than the Sahara, probably. He nods, not trusting his voice, and continues watching her as she scrutinizes him, wondering what she’s looking for and what he should be doing to help.

“Do you want to touch me in...ways that a friend doesn’t usually touch someone?” Mel asks, starting out strong but rushing by the end, bravery spent. Frank isn’t sure what answer she’s looking for, but he never wants to lie to her, so he nods, still not confident he can actually form words, and braces himself for whatever will come next.

“Thank goodness,” Mel sighs, launching herself at him. Between one blink and the next, she goes from sitting calmly on her side of the couch to straddling his lap, arms hooked around his neck, face expectant. “Can I kiss you, then?”

It’s never been a question of whether he wants to touch Mel, of course, but whether she wants him to touch her, so he’s not surprised that kissing her is his new favorite pastime, a better rush than the adrenaline after a perfect STEMI. (And then, of course, he keeps discovering new favorite pastimes: biting her neck, thumbing her nipple, making her come on his fingers and mouth and dick, hearing her moan his name, leaving hickeys where nobody but him will see.)

Frank was wrong, as he so often is. Mel really likes physical touch, when it’s coming from him.

She tucks herself into his back, forehead against his scapula, while he brushes his teeth in the morning or cooks. She plops down in his lap and wraps her legs around him like a koala when she finds him on the couch after a shower, hair tucked in her little microfiber hair towel. All the tension in her body bleeds away when he hugs her against him at the end of a long day, one hand rubbing up and down her back while the other cradles the back of her head. She loves absent-mindedly rubbing her feet against his shins (which he learns is called “cricketing,” and which she prefers to do against his legs than her own).

(All of this is only at home, of course. They touch at home or in the park or at a restaurant, but never at PTMC.)

(Ok, sometimes in the back staircase, only if nobody else is around.)

(Maybe in the ambulance bay, if it’s a really bad day. But only if nobody’s around.)

(...They get caught their second week together.)

It’s like she sees Frank as a human extension of her fidgets and lava lamp app and white noise machine with the bonus that he can apply pressure. She likes to stretch out on the couch and stick her feet underneath him, rubbing her toes together and erratically pressing against him, or bring his hands to the sides of her head so he can squeeze, first on the sides and then front-to-back, or drag him on top of her, telling him to let all his weight go even though he feels like he’ll crush her.

It’s a heady power, the ability to relax Mel with a single, well-placed touch, but it’s not one he takes lightly. It’s a lot more physical contact than he’s used to from another adult, but he feels himself settling, his own body and brain going quiet, each time her shoulders sink lower and her forehead smooths out and she smiles, that soft, secret smile just for him.

What Frank failed to take into account, though, is that Mel is one of the strangest people he’s ever had the honor to know. Which, to be clear, he loves. (How soon is too soon to say that?) He alternates between feeling like he understands her on a deep level and being completely baffled by her behavior, in the best way, and some of her most surprising behavior centers around touch. Or, more broadly, how she interacts with his body.

Sometimes she just sits right next to him and stares at the side of his face, whether he’s reading or scrolling on his phone or watching something. When he looks back, she smiles, unabashed, and continues her study.

She does things he doesn’t think are weird so much as not something he would ever think to do. She rubs her hand along his jaw in the evening, when his cheeks are a little stubbled from a five o’clock shadow, completely lost in the texture. She separates each of the toes on their right feet from their neighbors, ignoring his squirming because he’s more ticklish than he wants to admit, and hooks their toes around each other, beaming at him and explaining that she’s always wanted to hold feet with someone. She likes how soft his ears are, which isn’t feedback he’s ever received before, and reaches out to just hold on to an ear sometimes, softly rubbing his earlobe between her thumb and the knuckle of her index finger.

She’s doing her staring thing one day, but instead of smiling when he looks at her, she slowly inches closer and closer to his face. (He’s reminded of the knock knock joke she recently showed Tanner about the interrupting sloth.) She stops an inch or so away from his face, her sweet breath fanning against his lips when she exhales, so he leans forward to meet her. She draws back, then ducks back to rub their noses together, mouths almost touching but not quite. He has no idea what’s going on.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, when it’s been at least a minute of extreme proximity but no kissing.

Mel’s eyes start to crinkle and he braces himself for something absurd to happen.

“I’m edging you,” she whispers before falling back against the couch, laughing.

And that’s the thing he keeps finding about it: he has so much fun with Mel. He’s never laughed so much in bed—when he slips out of her or they’re switching positions and their elbows knock into each other or she starts nibbling on his bicep, but also when they’re whispering before bed or she leans over to show him something absurd in the romantasy she’s reading or she scrunches up her nose at his morning breath. He feels like everything is just a little looser, like he lets go of some of the tension and guilt and uncertainty he’s been carrying for the past couple years each day he gets with.

His favorite is probably the way she sometimes completely lets go, like her brain has finally shut off because she knows she’s safe and in good hands. It’s the most obvious right after she comes, eyes closed and chest heaving, completely limp and boneless, but he sees it other places: the shower, when she tilts her head back for him to brush her hair or lather shampoo or wash it out; in bed, when she reaches her hands or legs out so he can rub lotion into her outrageously soft skin; on the couch, when he hugs her with the right amount of pressure for the day and all the stress in her body ebbs away.

As they spend more time together, falling asleep and waking up side by side, clothes migrating between their apartments, sharing grocery lists and Google Calendars, Mel becomes more and more comfortable just being her unmasked self, with a corresponding rise in what Frank starts thinking of as silly Mel.

She starts a game with herself to surprise him by suddenly sticking her tongue into his mouth, a quick peck on the cheek turning into a shock of there-and-gone-again tongue. It’s not kissing. He’s not sure what it is. The spiritual cousin of a wet willy but wildly more intimate?

She hates it when he does the same back.

“How is it a game, if it’s just you doing that and then giggling about it?” Frank asks, a little perplexed but mostly, as always, charmed, the fifth or sixth time he’s been blindsided by her tongue and then sudden absence. “Is there a points system? A winner?”

Mel shrugs. She’s wearing the smirk that only comes out when she thinks she’s being very sneaky and mischievous. It makes Frank worry that his heart will burst straight out of his chest from the force of his affection for her.

“I can stop if you want,” she says, her smirk dimming. “I know it’s not fair to do something to you that I don’t want you to do to me.”

Frank huffs, sure he’s still smiling like an idiot. She’s just so cute.

“Honey, that’s not how it works. We’re different people who have different preferences. It’s not about fairness. I love when you’re happy, even if I don’t always understand it, so please, continue your game-that’s-not-a-game.”

Mel’s smirk melts into a real smile and she tugs him closer by the shirt.

“I love you,” she says, and Frank wonders for a second if he’s actually going to cry, what the fuck. It’s so much more than he thought he’d get, just a year and a half ago, staring at the walls of his detox room for the second time and convinced that he’d be alone and depressed forever because that’s what he deserved.

(Also, he can’t believe she said it first. And not even in the middle of sex or something! He’s been stopping himself from saying it since, like, day four of them dating.)

“I love you, too.”

He leans down to close the distance between them, heart still feeling too big for his body. He should expect it, he really should, but somehow he doesn’t: she sticks her tongue directly in his mouth and runs away, cackling, leaving him spluttering in surprise.

But he knows she’ll come back, probably to stick her feet under him or cricket against his legs or just stare at the side of his face, and his whole being feels impossibly calm and settled and present.

So, yeah. Frank might like touch more than he originally thought. Not that anybody besides Mel has ever asked, of course.

[chronicyapper]

mel and frank are so tangled coded

this is literally them you can't tell me otherwise

a criminal and a girl who has no friends in her tower??? also I lowk see him calling her blondie

[xialiuyi]

OFF CAMPUS Jalen Thomas Brooks as John Logan

(for the Off Campus anon <3)

[mateo-diaz]

JALEN THOMAS BROOKS as JOHN TUCKER Off Campus season 1

[fezrus]

Thigh high

John Tucker x Reader

Tucker finally catches you staring at his thighs and decides a cooking lesson isn't what you actually need.

word count : 2.1k — explicit — thigh-riding — dry-humping — praise — tuck being super sweet and cute and a giver — tuck (he deserves a warning cause damn) — my boy tucker deserves the filth so i'm not sorry about that one — enjoy and please tell me what you think !

There was a fine line between patience and sheer torture, and John Tucker had been dragging you across it for months.

It wasn't his fault, that was the worst part. He wasn’t playing games—he was just genuinely, wholesomely oblivious. Every time you wore his favorite jersey, or intentionally leaned close to touch his forearm while he laughed, or made a pointed comment about how he’d make an incredible boyfriend, Tucker would just beam, give you that sweet, devastating dimpled smile, and say something like, "Appreciate you, darlin', always so good to me."

Always so good to him. His polite deflections were a special kind of psychological torture.

Right now, you were sitting at his kitchen island, supposed to be chopping garlic for the shrimp scampi alfredo he was teaching you to make. Instead, you were entirely hypnotized by the view.

Tucker was standing at the counter, leaning over a cutting board. He was wearing a pair of very, very thin, gray athletic shorts. Because he was leaning forward, the fabric was pulled tight, completely mapping out the staggering size of his thighs. They were dense, farm-boy quads carved out by years of heavy squats and explosive skating. You could see the distinct, powerful sweep of muscle definition, and the way they flexed every single time he shifted his weight.

You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—

"Uh, darlin'?"

Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.

You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.

"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.

"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.

"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."

"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."

"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."

Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.

The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.

You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.

"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"

Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.

"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"

"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."

Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."

You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.

You just stared.

Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.

He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.

You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.

"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.

He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.

Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.

"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.

A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.

"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"

You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.

"Yes," you whimpered.

The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.

He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.

"Come here."

Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.

Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.

The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.

"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.

Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.

The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.

Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."

All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.

The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.

The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.

As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.

You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.

He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.

"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."

You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.

His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.

For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.

Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.

"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."

He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.

"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."

@addisondavenport @slvrstrs @coolfrogs868 @ficdelusioncore @kristenm74 @jujuonthatbeat1357 @ayeeshuh @linnygirl09 @unknownsangel2 @rollsonrollss

[heauxplesslydevoted]

If you’re making posts about the Off Campus boys and purposely excluding Jalen/Tucker, you’re weird. I’ll even take it a step further and say you’re sinister

[escapic-mezzanine]

IV. Pay for it

Sprezzatura — chapter four [masterlist]

knight!Jack Abbot x princess!reader

[medieval fantasy au]

summary: A single tear that stained the Princess’s cheek saved Jack’s life and made him bid his existence to the task of protecting her. As a captain of the guard, he finds new reasons for his devotion. They come with temptations, though, and ones Abbot can barely resist. And the Princess – she mastered the skill of effortless grace to mask the tension between her and her loyal guard. Unfortunately, an inconvenient betrothal was arranged by her father…

tags: +18, SMUT, NSFW, knight!jack abbot, medieval/fantasy au, princess!reader, princess x knight, royalty and kingdom stuff, unspecified age gap, blood and violence, mentions of poverty, war, inspired by ASOIAF, angst, fluff, sex, piv, oral (f!), fingering, implied sex, semi-public sex, making out, forbidden love, protectiveness, secret relationship, sneaking out, swordfighting, child abuse, plot, sub!jack abbot, he’s down bad, kinda obsessed but professional (or so he wishes), English is not my first language.

word count: 5.1k+

a/n: i think i was carried away with how pathetic i made our jackie. tried to fix it but failed miserably i guess, so be my guest and EAT.

Abbot rarely overthought things that were already done, but now he caved in and allowed his mind to linger about the night’s events. If it was a wrong decision, it was the sweetest one he ever made…

But hell, did he feel wrong when he woke up first in the morning… Not the nasty taste of a mistake on his tongue, no, but a sense of wrongdoing, like he caused a grand offense. It was hilarious how he carried himself with this sort of superiority around his men, and then it turned out that he was actually built to follow orders and respect people above him. Not that he truly believed in them being any better – royals and nobles were people as bad as the others, sometimes worse. It was something that you taught him; you with your thoughtful mind and skill to be objective. Apparently it wasn’t just what he believed, it was how he learned to live and navigate.

He should have asked more. He should have waited at least until both of your minds were free of the effects of the nasty liquor. If he were to be honest with himself and admit the truth he didn’t wish to face – he shouldn't have done any of that at all. Yet, there was not one bone stained with regret in his body. He was just a drunk idiot who wanted to worship his lady. And damn, he did that good enough to leave you longing for him more and more.

It didn't matter to him if you were touched before. You rushed him so firmly that night that he had no hesitation how you wanted him.

He shook his head with a grin on his face while getting ready for the day. He put on the belt with his sword, fixed the sleeves of his chain mail and sent a quick look at the small mirror he kept in the corner of his room. He mostly used it to make the chamber lighter, putting a candle in front of it. He was a tidy man, and he kept himself in check, but he only ever cared about his looks when it was crucial – whenever he had to represent the army, the king…

Now he did that with awkwardness, and he wasn’t sure if it was out of worry what he was about to see or the mere fact that he somehow cared about it.

“How can one little princess bewitch a man so badly–”

He wasn’t sure of the words before it suddenly left his mouth. That’s what he was; bewitched, and he wished to never be cured out of it. Well, perhaps he only wished to overcome his own self cautiousness.

He was about to start thinking that the gray hair and wrinkles all over his face and neck weren’t making him feel any better, but then he fixed his posture and felt his shirt shift on his back. The sting he felt there made him stand straighter and smile.

He could feel the nail marks on his back even deep in the night, whenever he moved and the rough shirt grazed his skin. It made him choke on the air when he arched his back into the mattress to feel the ache more, just as if you were still dragging your nails over him.

He was snapped out of his tottering peace by the thought about the betrothal you didn’t know about. He knew he wouldn’t be able to tell you about it first without losing his mind but… Gods, was he cruel because he let you stay oblivious?

When he turned up on post by your bedroom right in the morning he tried to hide his worry, but Captain Abbot was always a terrible liar. The sight of your lips curling up in a smile the moment you saw him warmed his heart and made him feel worse at the same time.

 The same thing that made him turn to drinking, was what he couldn’t admit to your face. He told himself that it wasn’t his job to do so, yet he wasn’t about to just justify his own behaviour.

“Princess. There is something that I need to apologize for, but I cannot explain it to you yet. I—If you would grant me a moment of your time later, so I could…” He stared somewhere over your shoulder as he spoke, too afraid to actually meet your gaze.

Still, he saw how you looked at him with a light frown, still smiling. “Well, I hope that you don’t regret what he did.”

“No. No, not at all,” he assured immediately, looking surprised that you would even suggest that. “There’s just something that I feel… guilty about.”

You shrugged like it was nothing. For a while you wanted to mock him for greeting you in such a way, but you knew it would hurt his feelings. He wasn’t a man who opened up that easily.

“You can apologize to me later then.”

“Thank you.”

Jack lowered his voice when he spoke to you without actually meaning to do so. He spoke slower, counting every word – not in worry, but in an overwhelming care, like he never valued somebody’s opinion as much as yours. When you spoke, everything else was just an irritating back noise. He listened and answered with the same gentleness that others rarely saw in him.

You cleared your throat, joking about closing the door and opening it again.

“Morning, Captain,” you greeted him again, acting like the previous interaction didn’t happen. “Come in.”

But Abbot lingered on the doorstep, only watching you go back inside and pick up your things for the day.

“Everything alright, Abbot?” You asked looking over your shoulder.

He turned to the side, resting his back against the wall. “Get ready. I’m waiting,” he called to you.

“I can see that,” you teased and would swear that he rolled his eyes. “Are you in rush?”

He didn’t answer, just nodded a bit There was something hesitant in it, like he didn’t want to neither look you in the eyes nor actually admit it.

“Oh, I understand. It’ll only take a minute,” you assured him, growing more serious.

You knew he usually liked the mornings. He always walked you to the main hall where you were having breakfast with your parents. It was a tradition that you always asked him to join you, which he usually declined except the few occasions when your father insisted he should do that. Then he would walk with you to your studies, sometimes staying close and sometimes leaving you under the watch of your teachers while he turned to his own occupations.

“Are you sure you are fine, Captain?” You asked again while walking deliberately slow to catch another moment alone with him.

“As fine as I can be,” he muttered without a longer thought.

“Which is...” Instead of finishing your sentence you stopped to face him, taking up the chance offered by a secluded corner you were standing in. Covered by wall you could have easily got closer to him without risking much.

He beat you to it, though.

“Don’t pry, princess,” he said in a way that didn’t fit the smile he was fighting. His arm moved almost on its own, and soon you were pulled into his side by your waist. His fingers smothered the material of your dress, dragging his palms in circles.

“It’s just that you seem bothered by something,” you explained and laid your hands on his chest.

It almost made him grow in pride.

“It is not for you to be worried about,” he said softly and blew away some of your hair out of your face.

You almost laughed. He did that so often, like you were on battlefield, and he only cared about clearing your vision.

“For who then? Is there someone with whom you would prefer sharing your sorrows?”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to stop you before you could even finish, but then he rolled his eyes when he noticed how unserious you were.

“Foolish girl,” he sighed and shook his head.

“Will you ever call me by my name?” You suddenly asked. “I’m always princess or girl, while hearing you say my name is the sweetest thing ever…”

“Gods, it’s early in the morning, and you’re already making my day more difficult…”

It was just a whisper, but you heard and saw the desire in him. Your lips brushed against his, and he tightened his grip on your waist.

“We should go,” he reminded you but groaned when you pulled away.

You fixed the collar of his shirt even though it already looked perfect, and waited for him to catch his breath. Now he matched your slow walk, and wouldn’t even think about complaining. Almost blindly you reached out to find his had. He felt your skin brush over his and quickly cupped your hand in his. None of you minded that you had to let go of each other whenever you were passing a servant.

“I thought we could make some plans for today’s afternoon–” you spoke up.

“Give me a break… I don’t think my back can take it,” he joked, actually surprising you and making you chuckle. He looked behind to see if no one was staring, then he raised your hand to his lips to place a kiss on it. “I have important things to tend to,” he explained more seriously.

“You do?”

“Yes. Correspondence.”

Now, that was just bullshit. Abbot was clearly hiding something from you.

“Oh, correspondence. From your men, I take it?”

“Yes.”

You scoffed, and it made him hold your hand closer to his body.

“Most of your man cannot write, Jack.,” you observed. “Just tell me if I bother you. You don’t have to make up lies to get rid of me for one afternoon.”

“You don’t. Never,” he argued, but refused to let you in his mind more. Well, he was always stubborn. “You are right, we should make some plans for today. You are going to need it.”

You frowned.

“Excuse me?”

With a deep breath he turned to face you without stopping.

“Y/n,” he called softly. You were saying the truth – it was the sweetest thing to hear ever. “When your father explains to you what he arranged try to remain calm. Preferably don't throw anything at the servants…”

“I have never–”

“I know, but today you might,” he muttered half-amused and half like a grieving man.

“You are scaring me, Jack,” you admitted. “What has my father arranged?”

“I cannot tell you. Especially since walls here have ears around here,” he snapped, looking straight at a staring chamberlain.

He wished you would listen to him. That you would spare your rage to the king and take it out on him later. Truthfully, he would lean in to let you slap him, break his nose, tear his skin apart if only it would make you suffering more bearable. He would only feel decent if he suffered alongside you.

“I don’t like this…”

He nodded at your words and stopped his need to brush your cheek in a comforting way.

“I will have your horse saddled for when you're done with your studies,” he promised.

But the tension was still there and deeply buried anger lingered in Abbot’s eyes. You hated to let him go like that, just like he never allowed you to leave when you were sad or angry with him.

“Jack.”

It was soft, not a command but certainly worked like one. A plea, but it was enough to make him stop. It always was. Jack stared at you like he was wondering if he liked what you did to him or no – but truly he never wondered too much.

“You better get ready if what you say is true,” you warned. “If there is any reason for me to be furious, I won’t take it easy on you.”

It turned out to be just empty words, because when he next saw you he almost had to force any words out of you. He wasn’t sure if you already let out your rage on your teachers or your father himself, but for the whole walk from the library to the stables you refused to acknowledge his presence by your side.

It wasn’t on purpose, not really. He could see your wandering gaze, and hand that moved closer to him a few times. He stared at your face when he brushed his palm over your shoulder, looking for any sign of discomfort. You only leaned in to him and allowed him to guide you.

You moved away from him only when the darkness of the stable hid the two of you.

“You didn't tell me.”

The pain in your voice was enough to break his heart. Jack didn’t know if he was allowed to get closer to you know, so he stayed still, his back pressed against a wall. All he wished for was to move and support your weary shoulders, hold you up when you needed it.

“No,” he nodded, “but I'm willing to pay for that now.”

Your heavy look moved up at him. He truly looked guilty, as he said. That was what killed all anger that you could have for him. Gods, in the depth of your heart you understood him. You could imagine how selfish you would turn if it was the other way – if he was to be married, and you were left with something that seemed like the last chance.

And now he stood there in front of you, looking sickly pale even in the dim light, sending you nervous glances like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to look at you properly. He would let you throw yourself at him. He would welcome every fist and every curse, while all you wanted to do was to burry your face in his chest.

“I apologize,” he said so steadily as if he practiced those two simple words. “I am so terribly sorry, Y/n. I will do everything to make it up to you…”

“Just–” your voice betrayed you, and you had to take a deep breath. “Just keep me company. Act like nothing’s changed.”

“Is that…”

“I don’t know,” you interrupted him harshly, “I don’t know if it’s stupid, rapid or risky, Jack. That’s just what I want. Can you do it for me?”

It was his turn to look out of breath, but he nodded. He took a step closer only to stop and  look down. “Yes. Yes, I want it too.”

“Good,” you whispered and walked past him to get to your horse.

You were too tired to be loud about your anger and show how displeased you were with him. A forest trip was enough to calm your raging thoughts, and even if Jack was looking your way like he wanted to check something, it looked like he was taking the silence well.

You noticed the bow Jack traced to your saddle. A small smile climbed on your face when you thought that he would probably forbid you to do anything anyway. Ever since something truly sparked between you, he was less of a good teacher, simply because he couldn’t stand the idea of his woman doing something for him…

“Are you good with a little hunt?” He asked after stopping his horse not far from you.

You shrugged. “Only if you lead it.”

“Whatever my lady commands.” Abbot bowed in his saddle dramatically, then nodded at you. “Now get down from your horse.”

You sighed, following his example and strolling after him through the high grass. It was a nice feeling; grounding. You paid very little attention to what he was doing – you were much too taken by the sounds of nature and the feeling of grass under your palm.

No matter what awaited you in the future, it was nice to know that the trees couldn’t care less and the color of the leaves wouldn’t change just because the kingdom got a new ruler.

Suddenly Jack called your name in a hushed voice and stopped. In your state of dissociation you almost hit his back.

“See that? That’s what’s called a proper deer track,” he said, proud of his skills, pointing to a clear path the animals must have taken some time ago.

But you didn’t care anymore. You pretty much stopped hearing the explanation at the moment he started. You managed to stop before your body touched him, but instead of fixing the distance, you slowly leaned closer.

Standing behind him, you lazily wrapped your arms around his middle and dragged your cheek against his back before getting on your fingertips and resting it on his shoulder. A part of you expected Jack to huff, tell you to wait and hold off your tenderness.

He surprised you with a content hum. His strong hand was immediately placed over your small one that rested on his chest. He straightened his back from the hunched posture he was in while tracking. Now, he couldn’t care less about some damn deer.

“Are you always this brave after being pissed off?” He asked cheekily, especially for a man who let out such a pleased sound only a second ago.

“You should know that, shouldn’t you?” You muttered against his back but eventually tried to catch his gaze. “Jack?”

“Hm?”

“I’m not angry with you anymore, just so you know.”

He nodded and moved, turning you in his arms so you were cuddled next to his chest and he could look at your beautiful face.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, placing a chaste kiss at the top of your head.

Just when your lips were about to meet the hot skin on his neck, something in the bushes nearby moved, and you could hear a tramp of hooves. “I think that was your deer,” you observed with ironic seriousness.

“How will I explain to your father that we returned empty-handed?”

He certainly didn’t look too worried about such a thing.

“Just tell him I’m too lazy when it comes to hunting, and you had to look after me…”

“It wouldn't be too much of a lie, would it? Hey–”

You didn’t give him much time to complain about you smacking his shoulder, because you forced him to take a step back and pushed your face to his. His surprise was your ally, and you made his back hit a tree, while your open mouth kisses made him moan.

“Easy,” he said softly, his voice much more shaky than he wanted it to be. “And I thought I’m the one who can’t get enough of you.”

His breath and whispered words made you pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes seemed to be lost – overwhelmed in the feelings he had for you. Still, when you looked up, they stopped wandering and suddenly couldn’t move away from your face.

Even though Jack’s hands were shaking, urging him to pull you close and grip your flesh, he made an effort to steadily trace your jaw with his finger. “Gods, you're beautiful…” He said in the voice of a man who was drowning and finally took a deep breath.

The shallow scars that marked your perfect skin called for him to drag his touch over them. He barely could turn his gaze away from those barely visible signs of bravery, wisdom, wit… Yes, you were the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, but you were also so much more.

“You say it quite often,” you noticed with a smile, pressing the side of your face more into his hand. “I don’t think I say it back enough,” you added quietly, like it suddenly troubled you.

It broke a laugh out of Jack’s throat.

“I would be offended if you called me a beauty.”

“But you are!” You argued, even more in awe of how handsome he was when his eyes were adorned by wrinkles from laughter. “Believe me, Captain, if I could only see one thing for the rest of my life it would be your face.”

He was taken aback, freezing for a moment, but finally he shook his head dismissingly. Just as if he was dealing with an unruly, amusing child. It made you want to prove your point harder, no matter what it took.

“You don’t believe me?” You dared, getting closer to him again. “It’s alright,” you shushed, before he could answer, “we can work on that. There’s no rush.”

“What I know for sure,” he spoke up after clearing his throat, “is no matter how crazy it might sound, I never wish to be away from you again.” He was speaking right into your ear and the warmth of it started bothering you. Your breath hitched and your hands worked quicker, moving up to the nape of his neck, picking on his gray hair. “Will you allow me to say something so audacious before I even made an effort to apologize to you properly?”

“Oh, Captain.”

He smiled into your skin. “It thrills you to call me that in situations like this, doesn’t it? Perhaps I should start calling you my princess…”

You dragged your nails over his skin and sucked on his neck, before meaning to move down. “Don’t you dare. Just call me yours.”

He caught you before you could move further and held you up. He frowned a little, clearly surprised at how you moved, but there was something dashing in it. Making no effort to stop you, he watched as you opened the laces of his shirt and tugged it out of his trousers. A hand was softly placed atop of yours when your fingers made their way to the buckle of his belt.

“You’re supposed to be furious with me,” he said quietly, clearly enjoying the way it went.

But no, Jack couldn’t take it when your face brushed against his chest, you touched the bulge in his breeches and moved down. He forced you to look up and kissed you like he wanted to silence his own desperation in your lips.

“Jack…”

“Not today,” he pleaded. “Today was harsh for you… Wait, just—”

Before you could notice he spined you around. Your back was resting against the tree, and Jack sank to his knees, just like you wanted to before. “Hold yourself on my shoulders.”

You wanted to laugh at that, but soon enough you were standing there on trembling legs, one of them thrown over Abbot’s shoulder. The leather of your high boot touched his back and the harshness of it made Jack swallow down a moan. Your trousers were pulled down, and he focused all of his attention where you needed him most.

Jack’s nose bumping into your clit made you throw your head back with a moan and support yourself on his broad body.

“Do you like that, sweetheart?” He could barely look away, overwhelmed by how tight you seemed.

He would swear that he was getting as much pleasure from it as you, if not more. He held onto your hips, not allowing you to move as if that would make him suffocate.

“Gods, Ca–Captain!”

The moan made him grin into you. He straightened his back and fixed your leg on his shoulder, almost wanting to slide his hand down his own body when he pushed into you more.

But then you froze – not in the way you did when your release was close – and he stayed still in dread. He didn’t dare to speak up, look up, not even pull away. He simply held onto you, making sure you wouldn’t fall, and waited for you to move.

“Oh my–” you breathed out heavily, trying to grab Jack’s arms and tug him up. “Fuck, come here, Cap… Get up!” You ordered him in a rush, gripping his shirt now.

Jack had to use all his strength to force himself up. He didn’t back away from you, quite the opposite. His huge body basically covered yours, and he supported himself on the tree, next to your head.

Blood still buzzed in his mind, but he could not hear what startled you: a chatter.

“Don’t be afraid,” he muttered, seeing how shaken you looked.

Your eyes traveled over his shoulder, looking at the pair of smallfolk, probably hunters looking for game. Despite the talk, Jack didn’t turn his eyes away from you and stayed perfectly still.

“Jack– You stare,” you said quietly, somewhere between the worry and the heat of the previous moment.

Jack’s unbothered demeanor calmed you. You knew he would protect you no matter what, but still you would like to avoid getting spotted in the woods without your suite. Especially while fucking with your Captain of the guard.

“Mhm,” he agreed to your words, “I like what I see.”

“Fuck, Jack,” you sighed and hid your face in his chest.

You could only hope that staying still could make you less visible to the people. You were suffering though, your body aching to move and Jack’s panting next to your ear didn’t make it any easier. You focused on his hand that creeped under your shirt and wrapped around your waist, fingers brushing in circles.

“Are they gone?” You asked after a while when Abbot’s breath calmed.

“You tell me,” he said but let go of you a bit to look around. He made sure to cover you and help you fix your clothing. “Clear,” he stated and hissed a quick ‘fuck’ under his breath. He was playing it cool, but you could see how he blushed. His ears turned red, and he brushed a hand over his jaw.

“That was close,” you giggled nervously when he turned back to you again.

You stopped, and your mouth fell open at the sight of Jack’s focused gaze. “What?”

“Stay still,” he ordered softly and shifted closer. Before you could ask, his hand was in your hair, moving softly. “A bug,” he explained and brushed it off.

You grimaced immediately and the corner of his lips moved up.

“If that’s a price of fucking in the woods, I’m willing to pay it.”

He shook his head at your words. “I’m sometimes surprised by your vocabulary, princess. You speak like one of my soldiers.”

“Don’t call me that,” you said seriously.

He leaned closer to kiss you on the lips in a long, loving way. “My girl…”

“Yes, that’s better,” you agreed, trying to chase him when he moved away.

“Come on, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

Abbot whistled at your horses, but told you to not mount up.

“Where are we going?” You asked after a while of walking behind him.

Suddenly Jack grew cautious of his idea. Why would you even care about—Gods, was he just overthinking it?

“My old place,” he explained. “It’s uhm… Well, it’s peaceful. We can finish what we started without being interrupted.” 

“Tempting,” you admitted. It was your next words though that made Jack’s heartbeat speed up. “You worry that I would be indifferent about where you used to live?”

He miserably failed to spot the moment when you learned to read him so well. It was sometimes scary, really.

“Well, I don’t expect you to be–”

“I could never be indifferent when it comes to you,” you promised, making him slow down his steps and hold your hand.

His old cottage was on the edge of the forest, on a small meadow. Jack had to kick your way in through the rusty door. He gave you a while to look around the dusty inside, rooms almost empty except for a chair and a mattress stuck in a corner. The wind from the chimney blew the remaining soot from the fireplace around, staining your clothes. You didn’t mind and strolled around like you were picking up pieces of him, of your beloved…

Watching you made Jack loosen his clenched jaw. He didn’t care about the place. He rushed the grim memories out of his mind, too occupied by the ones that were yet to come.

“Y/n,” he whispered, standing behind you, and you deliberately stepped back into his chest. “Fuck, I need you…”

You turned around in his arms and he had to squint his eyes when you looked up at him with so much desire. He obeyed your light push on his chest and moved to sit down on an old, creaking chair.

“Let me know if you plan to scream right into my ear again,” he said boldly, trying to tug you down with him, but you stayed up.

“Oh, and you accuse me of having a nasty mouth?” You dared with a smile, leaning in to kiss him shortly then start working on taking off his shirt.

“I never said that–” he tried to argue, but was silenced by your mouth.

If he ever questioned his fate in life, its purpose was to get him to this very moment. To sitting in front of you, feeling like he couldn’t breathe when you weren’t around.

The movement of your lips got desperate, and Jack couldn’t help but to try and seek more of you. Eventually he dragged you to sit on his lap, making you whimper at the feeling of his warmth. He felt heavy, something tugging him down, but he still jerked up into you when you moved. Your shaking hands proved themselves to be a grand enemy when you tried to get out of your clothes.

Jack shifting under you had you moaning and pressing yourself more to him through the rough material. He found your lips once again, desperate like never, and groaned into your mouth when you rolled your hips.

For a moment you thought he would stop you when his big palm landed on your thigh. Instead, he made you move, guiding and begging you to do it again.

“Jack… Gods, I love you,” you cried out, suffocating under the growing tension.

He pulled your head to him, picking on your earlobe with his teeth. “Don’t—”

“But I do!” You cut in, wrapping your arms around him like you would never be able to touch him again. “I love you…”

He should have said that you didn’t understand what you were saying… But how could he?

The words died on his tongue when he tried to say it back; to promise you were the best thing in his life and that he would love and worship you until he would die. No matter if you were his, if you were married to another man… he would always be by your side.

A strangled hiss left his mouth as he hid his face in your hair, rocking you against him.

a/n: i can't prove it but they would be so freaky in modern days

[mikesseleven]

Langdon: Me and my baby, she has three rules for me, okay? Langdon: Rule number one. I do the dishes because I like playing in the water. Langdon: Rule number two. She does the cooking because I’m not allowed to touch the stove. Langdon: And tell them rule number three, baby. Tell them what you always tell me. Mel: Uh, don’t wear those little shorts around unless you’re trying to drop them.