He’d die before admitting it to anyone else, but with you? He doesn’t even try to hide it. The second you tie his wrists behind his back with his own blindfold, his pants are ready to burst. Right now he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, breathing a little too fast. His cock is standing up thick and flushed, leaking all over his stomach. Well, no wonder, he’s been edged for hours.
You’re straddling his thigh, one hand slowly jerking him off while the other is tangled in his messy white hair. You kiss him deep, mixing your spit with his. And every time he moans into your mouth you squeeze his needy cock a little tighter.
“S-shit.. baby.” he gasps against your lips. Gojo tries to thrust up into your fist but the way his arms are tied behind him makes it hard. He just ends up twitching helplessly. You smirk and stroke him faster, thumb swirling over his leaking tip, spreading the mess around. The wet, filthy sound of your hand pumping his slick cock is loud in the quiet room.
“You’re so fucking hard,” you murmur, biting his bottom lip. “Look at you.. legs spread and leaking everywhere like a slut.”
Gojo lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a groan when you twist your wrist just right.
“Only for you,” he breathes, trying to sound in control of the situation but failing miserably. His hips jerk again. “Fuck… your hand feels too good.”
You keep making out with him messily, while you jerk him off nice and tight. Long strokes from base to tip, then quick, nasty ones focused on the head. Gojo’s thighs start trembling under you. His breathing is fucked up, little whimpers slipping out between kisses. You pull back just enough to watch his face. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy and his lips swollen. God, he's beautiful.
“Gonna cum already?” you tease, speeding up your hand. Gojo bites his lip, trying to hold it together, but his cock is throbbing hard in your grip.
“Don’t stop- fuck.. please don’t stop,” he whines, forehead pressed to yours. The cocky bastard is actually begging now.
You kiss him again, swallowing every sound as you stroke him faster. Gojo’s whole body suddenly goes rigid. His abs flex hard and he lets out this desperate moan right into your mouth.
He squirts.
Hard.
Clear fluid shoots out of his cock in messy, pulsing jets, splashing all over your hand, his own chest and your thigh. It just keeps coming while you keep jerking him through it, milking every drop. Gojo is shaking, moaning like he’s losing his mind, hips jerking uncontrollably as he makes a complete mess.
You don’t stop until he’s twitching and oversensitive, whimpering softly against your lips.
When you finally slow down, he’s panting, face buried in your neck, body still trembling from the aftershocks.
“Fuck…” he rasps, voice hoarse. A weak, breathless laugh escapes him. “I made such a fucking mess.”
You kiss the side of his head, still slowly stroking his spent cock.
“Yeah, you did,” you whisper. “And we’re not even done yet.”
Gojo shivers, but there’s a lazy, satisfied grin on his face when he looks up at you.
satosugu are cheating on each other with you, part two.
part one here!
you knew your nebulous position as the other woman was never going to last. when you’re the affair partner of both people in the same relationship, it’s inevitable that the truth will eventually come out. you just decide to have it happen on your own terms.
you escalate your own behaviour; with suguru, who you mostly have sex with and share the occasional drink, you up your antics. you leave behind lip gloss, you kiss bruises in places he won’t immediately notice, keep your nails sharper to scrape lines down his skin. you moan in his ear as he fucks you and ask, “what would your husband think, if he walked in here right now? watching me take you like i’m the one you’re married to?” just to relish in the way his voice strangles on a heavy groan as he comes.
with satoru, who’s far more interested in the emotional side of things, you devote yourself fully to the role of secret girlfriend. with suguru, you might be a nice, illicit fuck for when his husband’s busy. with satoru? you’re the partner he wishes his husband was. he takes you on elaborate dates, he buys you flowers, he flourishes with every sweet kiss and whispered affirmation. when he calls you late at night, paralysed with fear because he just knows his husband is cheating, you leave suguru in bed to console him from the safety of your bathroom. he can barely look at you when he fucks you, refuses to turn the lights on, then shudders in your arms as you nurture him in the aftermath.
it’s manipulative. you’re halfway in love with them from the thrill alone. you let it build and build, watch as their marriage slowly falls apart from their own actions, and, when it’s all coming to a climax, you arrange a threesome.
in the end, it’s easy. you invite them. suguru tells you happily that his husband’s out of the prefecture that weekend, and he misses you so much, sweetheart. can’t stop thinking about you. satoru tells you his husband is definitely with that homewrecker, so why can’t he spend a weekend with you? they don’t even care about the third, so long as you make sure they’re hot.
then they both show up, and it’s glorious.
after all, aren’t you blameless? it’s suguru that told you he wants something casual, satoru who said he doesn’t mind if you see someone else at the same time, since he’s doing the same. it’s not your fault they’re cheating. it’s not your fault they’ve accidentally fallen for the same woman outside of their marriage. it’s definitely not your fault that you accidentally arranged a threesome with both of them. how could you know? it’s not like suguru’s ever seen you snooping through his apartment. it’s not as if satoru has given you any details about his wayward husband, either.
there’s a moment of silence. of shock. they stare at each other in obvious disbelief while you smile cluelessly. you tell them you “just know they’re going to get along!” and they “have so much in common.” they don’t correct you. no, suguru does something better:
“it’s nice to meet you,” he says, perfectly neutral. “i’m geto suguru. i’ve heard a lot about you.”
satoru looks heartbroken. he looks angry. “gojo satoru,” he replies. “can’t say i’ve heard much about you.”
“looking forward to learning more, i hope.”
“something like that.”
you’re giddy with excitement. how couldn’t you be? they don’t even know. they’re playing some secret, private game between just the two of them, unaware that you know. that you’re a witness to it—better yet, that you’re an orchestrator.
they fight over who kisses you first, and when you goad them into kissing each other, satoru bites suguru so hard his lip splits. suguru growls, pulls him by the hair, and tells him that if he can’t mind his teeth like a good boy, suguru will tie him up so he won’t be able to use his hands, either.
somehow, that’s exactly what happens.
satoru bites and scratches as you all undress, a ball of tightly wound feeling he can’t quite get ahold of. when suguru kisses your neck, satoru tugs at his long hair so hard his neck cracks. after that, well, suguru doesn’t let it slide. he sits you in satoru’s lap and watches satoru bite his way across your tits before pulling his arms behind his back and tying him to the headboard. satoru’s legs follow, winding his calves to his thighs. it says something that satoru doesn’t argue.
“you act like you two know each other,” you say breathily, chest sore from where satoru bit your breasts on the wrong side of too hard, skin pinkening and indented with the shallow divots of his teeth.
satoru groans, watching as suguru pulls you away, situating you in his lap with your back to his chest and your legs spread over his thighs, presented to his husband. “never met the guy,” he says lowly, “and if i have, i don’t recognise him.”
“don’t worry,” suguru croons. “we are going to get very familiar.” his hand caresses down your side as he says it, thumbs rubbing strong circles into your skin.
satoru’s eyes stay fixed on your face.
suguru takes you apart with careful efficiency, teasing you until your pussy flutters with each brush of his fingers against your thighs, your navel, just short of the apex of your thighs. when he finally touches you where you want him, his fingers are long and slow and languid as he spreads you open, fingering you with lazy contentment as he sucks wet kisses down your neck and back. he leaves you straining and whining, makes satoru watch until he’s groaning as if he can feel the phantom touch of suguru’s every caress.
suguru bends you forward until you’re on your hands and knees, head just barely brushing against satoru’s knees. satoru parts his legs further, staring down at you with something close to awe. a little scared, a little sad, and very aroused. suguru crowds your back, bending over your figure and biting the shell of your ear as he slowly, slowly sinks into you.
“my good little wife,” suguru says, loud enough for satoru to hear. satoru chokes on his next breath, bordering on a sob. “should’ve married you, sweetheart. i could keep you like this forever.”
“suguru—“ satoru pants.
his skin is red and raw from his shuffling, his dick rock hard and straining against his black boxers. from the way his chest heaves, his eyes burn red-rimmed with tears, you’d think he’s the one being fucked. when he catches you looking, he lurches forward with a low groan, cut off as the rope tightens around his muscular thighs. he murmurs your name on a strangled groan.
a hand moves, grabbing you by the cheeks and pulling you to look over your shoulder, neck craning at an awkward angle. “ignore him, sweetheart.” suguru whispers in your ear. “eyes on me. he’s not the one fucking you so good, is he?”
“i could be,” satoru growls. “i have. fucked her hard and fast, like a whore. she must be, if she’s willing to fuck you.”
it’s mean, unnecessarily targeted at you when the ire is really directed at his husband. suguru’s eyes crinkle on a smile.
“that’s not a very nice thing to say, is it? she’s always so sweet, so good. maybe you just don’t fuck her right.”
“i’ll show you—“
you stop listening. suguru thrusts so hard and sure, just slow enough to have you craving more, just fast enough to satisfy you. stamina has always been his strong suit, and he fucks you into over sensitivity. his thumb moves, sitting heavy and mean over your clit, rubbing firmly against you with every thrust forward. you fall apart warbling his name, hands reaching backwards to scratch at his thighs. then he fucks you to tears, keeping eye contact with satoru, muttering filth in your ear all the while.
“should knock you up, so you have no choice but to marry me.” he says, watching as satoru’s mouth drops on a whine. “keep you happy and full in my bed, so you never have to leave. you’d be the perfect wife, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”
satoru comes untouched with a breathy whine of your name. your name, as if his husband isn’t right there. as if he hadn’t just watched his husband fuck the girl he’d been playing around with. suguru follows soon after, spilling into you unprotected.
they both stay the night. you share a quiet, almost awkward breakfast, where you play the fool and chatter with your usual enthusiasm. when they leave, it’s at the same time.
you don’t know what happens when they get home. what you do know is that suguru texts you a few days later to come over. satoru asks you out on another date. and, a few weeks later, you fall back into bed with the both of them.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. fic has been crossposted on ao3 and is linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist | ao3
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
synopsis: valko is in deep heat with the supermoon occurring, and he wants a solution that requires restraints, a collar, and you.
warnings: valko is in heat, sub!valko, good boy!valko, collar use, bondage, riding, overstimulation, biting, licking, scent marking, edging, knots, rutting, monsterfucking.
wc: 2,3k
a/n: i love him already, he's such a cutie. he deserves endless cuddles, BE NICE TO HIM! i want to devour him. I NEED HIM TO EAT ME OU– enjoy a pre-release celebration of our handsome wolf, valko!
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
He must be in heat. that’s the only way Valko can describe this feeling. The moon has been full for less than an hour, and he’s already twitching. Usually he can handle himself. But that’s not gonna work out well for him if all he can think about is you.
Your scent is delicious, beyond the scented lotions and perfume, he’s talking about your natural aroma, amplified by sweat and other smells your body emits. It draws him in. He can’t help but sniff the air every time you walk past him. His cock won’t stop twitching in his pants, tenting at the sight of you catching his gaze.
Valko wants to bite you. Valko wants to slather you with his saliva until you smell like him. He wants to rut his cock so deep inside you, cuddle you so close and keep you so warm with his hot body that you just have to call him a good boy.
“…ko,” He must be imagining you saying his name so nice and breathless.
“…alko.” There it is again, louder, your nails could drag down his back until he bleeds and he’d thank you.
“Valko!” He blinks, the mirage of a heated embrace disappearing from his perception to be replaced by your fingers snapping very close to his face. Such pretty fingers, he wants to lick—
“Yeah?” His voice is gruff and hoarse, almost like he’s keeping a whimper tight in his throat. His leg bounces as fast as his heart pounds his chest. You’re so pretty, with your pretty parted lips, and how your saliva keeps it just wet enough to shine in the warm lamp light. So plump for him to kiss and bite—
“As I was saying,” You pull your hand away, not hearing the small whine that leaves him from the lack of contact. “We need to make sure you’re comfortable for the next few hours. You said you can get agitated when there’s full moons, right?”
“Mmh.” Better a grunt than a moan. You brush it off assuming the effects of the celestial event are starting to mess with him internally.
Of course, you’re well aware that he’s got an extra pair of fluffy scratchable ears on the top of his head, an even fluffier tail protruding from the base of his spine, and sharper canines. You’re not ignorant.
What you don’t know is that he’s much more prone to getting heated in these hours. Especially in the presence of someone who his body, mind, and soul are attuned to completely. It’s you. You're that someone.
But he has to behave for your sake. He can’t be bad, he can’t be too rash and aggressive or he might scare you off. You might not like it. But he wants you so damn bad, he can’t even hide it anymore.
You’re rattling about restraints, something to tie him to incase he goes berserk.
Restraints. Belts. Muzzle. Chair. Tie him to a chair. He wants you to tie him to a chair.
He wants you to restrain him. He wants you to sit on his lap and feel how hard his cock is for you, feel it throb just below your cunt, grind his hips up to you still so retrained and held back that he has to beg you to ride him. He might as well ask for it.
“…unless that’s too extreme.” You mutter, expecting a response. Nothing. Did he zone out again? What’s going on with Valko to be so distracted? He wasn’t like this last month. “Look, I know the full moon can be a messy time for you, and now that it’s a supermoon it could be worse, but I’d prefer you to actually respond— oh.”
Valko is drooling. Valko’s eyes are glazed over. Valko is blushing beyond relief. And Valko is sporting a rock hard boner.
The silence that stretches between you would have been uncomfortable, it should have been. But you seem to enjoy the rough pants that escape his lips, how his hands are balled into fists to keep himself at bay. How the veins on his neck are far more prominent now.
You sink your teeth into your lower lip, hoping you won’t say anything foolish.
“Don’t laugh.” Valko grits, his fluffy ears drooping a little.
“I wasn’t going to.” You say, trying to ignore the fact that your lips are twitching into a smile.
You glance down from his agitated golden eyes to his neck, to his large muscular chest covered by the black tank you always find so attractive on him, to the taper of his waist, to the pulsing print of his cock bulging against his pants.
Now that you think of it, you two haven’t shared the bed recently. You’ve both been so busy with work that neither of you have had time for each other. And you’ve been very wound up these last few days.
“I think we should figure out what restraints will be good for you.” A purr follows your words as you rest your hands on his chest. Muscular, warm, huge chest that you love to sleep on. You’re making this much, much worse and you know it. You can hear it in the groan that rumbles in his chest.
“Oh, is it getting worse?” You play an aloof demeanour, reaching to caress the soft ears on his head, making sure to rub on that sensitive spot where his hair is its softest. A soft moan escapes Valko’s lips as his golden eyes flutter closed.
“Please…”
“What do you need me to do, my love?” Your lips ghost the shell of his fleshy ear, tongue peeking out to trace the shell. He shudders, head lowering to give you more access, hips rocking towards you so you can feel just what you need to do.
You don’t want that, though. He has to say it.
“I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”
A pained moan rushes right into your ear as he drops a part of his weight on you. Valko doesn’t want to say it but he also wants to say it. It doesn’t make sense. This heated state is driving him insane, and you’re giving him such a clear path to relief. But what he wants is different from what you usually do… will you agree?
With a shaky breath, Valko nuzzles the side of your neck, mustering the will to confess his desire. “You have to tell me no if you can’t do it.”
“I will.” You reassure him, stroking his soft hair. His arms wrap tight around you, grounding himself in your presence as the words unknot themselves to flow out.
“If you’re grossed out—“
“I won’t be grossed out, Val.” You softly say, rubbing circles into his lower back. “Nothing about you grosses me out. I trust you, so you need to trust that I’ll handle whatever you need and that I’ll tell you if I can’t. Outside of cannibalism, I'm not doing that.”
That makes him chuckle. “You’ll tell me the second you’re uncomfortable?”
“The millisecond.”
His next request comes out more sheepishly. “You’ll tell me I’m doing good?”
“I’ll put a poet to shame.”
“Pull my hair?”
“Put a collar on you too if you’re feeling feisty.”
A sigh of relief escapes Valko’s lips. Oh, he loves you. Finally, he pulls his face away from your neck to level your gaze with fresh determination on his face. “I want you to tie me to the chair, and ride the shit outta me.”
Ask and ye shall receive, as you hear them say.
It was easy to put Valko on a chair especially when he's drunk on your kisses, hungrily biting marks into your bare chest and stomach, gripping your hips so tight you’d think he’s terrified that you’ll run. It was easier to get soaked just from watching him strip for you— that, and having his fingers curl so good inside your cunt as he slurped and lapped at your clit.
The only ‘difficult’ part was restraining him to the chair, legs, arms, and torso roped tight, and that’s just because he’s antsy whenever the full moon happens.
But something about this supermoon has got him more riled up than usual. Why, you ask?
You’ve been bouncing on the man’s cock for two hours.
You’re not complaining, you love every second of this. Your walls are fluttering around him as he slides in and out of you so easily, caught by you keeping his fat tip inside leaking all that sticky, hot precum before you drop into his lap again and again and again.
“Val— ooh, fuck!” Your praise has otherwise become mush, slurred moans of his name and whatever adulation could come to mind. Valko doesn’t mind since he isn't doing any better. If anything, he’s lost the need to think.
“S-So good,” His throat is torn from how loud he’s been, his hips jutting into you even with his thick, corded thighs roped down to the chair. His tail is slapping the floor, his fluffy ears are twitching. He can barely move, limbs strapped down and a collar wrapped around his neck at his own request. And he loves it.
He wants to cum so bad. But then he’d end up swelling so much that he’d be stuck for hours, just grinding and grinding and plugging his seed inside instead of feeling you slap down on him with each rise and fall of your full hips. He wouldn’t have your soft breasts bouncing in his face, or feel your hands scratch his undercut and pull his hair, or hear the hiccups in your voice or the ragged moans in his own.
Why make this pleasure so short-lived when he can prolong it?
His cock is leaking like a faucet, keeping him smooth and wet for you to use him as you please, pulsing with the desire to just release. His sacks are drawn up tight, literally clenching with enough cum to repopulate a country, and yet he still won’t give in.
Valko drags his tongue up your jaw all the way to your cheekbone. “ ‘m I fuckin’ you good?”
“Hah— mhm. Such a good boy.” You ramble into his lips as you kiss him, slipping your tongue inside to taste him as if he isn’t all that you can sense. “So big and thick and hot… so— Valko— so full ‘f you, want you deeper, you’re so good!”
You’re on orgasm number five by now, gripping onto Valko’s strong shoulders for dear life, back arched, tugging his hair like you want to rip his red locks off. It’s the supermoon, you tell yourself, it must be shooting his stamina through the roof.
It fucking has to be if he’s been rutting into you like a bullet train without cumming even once. His girth twitches with every rock of your plush hips, it leaks and weeps inside you every time you squeeze him hard enough to cut off his blood flow. It has to hurt, prolonging his climax for this long.
Valko likes it that way. He likes the hurt. He likes the way his body just responds to you so well, like you’re made for each other. You have to be.
Your knees are starting to ache. Your thighs are burning from the constant bouncing up and down his thick length but the feeling of him dragging through your walls with each vein pressing against your walls is too good. The overwhelming bump of his cockhead kissing your cervix may just tip you over the edge again. The fucking curve of his cock and the angle just lets him reach the sensitive nerves of your g-spot so good every damn time!
You love these fucking supermoons.
“Valko,” You hum, licking his lips then his chin and jaw, your breath heavy as you maintain your pace. Just a few more and you’ll be in pure bliss. But you need him there with you. “I’m close. I’m so close. Hnn, need you— cum with me.”
“You— oh, you sure?” He whimpers, nuzzling you as you lick the tears off his cheeks. “I’ll—“
“Knot me, mhm.” You nod, rubbing your nose into his cheek, inhaling his scent. This man’s frenzied behaviour has been rubbing off on you too much, not that there’s reason to complain. “You’re gonna swell up so fuckin’ thick, yeah?”
He nods. “Gonna plug all that cum in me, keep it warm inside while you grind ’n rut into me?”
“Yeah,” He affirms, his arms pulling against the restraints. Is this what you want? You want him to bond with you to that much of an intimate extent? You must truly love him. “ ’m gonna stay in you the whole night, snug inside. But I like when you ride me.” You can feel him pouting as he pecks your skin. So cute.
“Then you’ll be a good boy, right?” You coo, your hands cupping his face as you press your thumbs on his lower lip. “Cum with me, and stay inside all night.” You fight every urge to give in to the pleasure when he bites your fingers.
You suck his upper lip, letting your moans vibrate into his. “Can you do that for me?”
Valko’s a simple man. You ask for something and he’ll give it to you with a smile. Like he is now, canines bared, tongue lapping at your fingers before he attacks your lips with a bruising, hot kiss. He pulls away just for a second to mutter against your mouth, “I love you.”
“I know, baby.” You huff, smiling into the kiss as you scratch his fluffy ears. Valko’s hips rut up faster and you can feel his cock swell at the base, almost ready to be plugged into you. Oh, he is so going to eat his cum out of you once he’s soft. “Now be good and cum with me.”
you’re 100% convinced your boyfriend has a praise kink, and loves to be called a good boy, that much you know. especially when words slip out before you can stop them, seconds away from saying it was just a joke but then his steps falter each time and the tips of his ears burn with a light pink hue. avoiding your eyes, not wanting to admit it does things to him.
you’re sitting at your vanity, an iced tea sitting off to the side while you slowly with precise movements do a small flick of your eyeliner, simple and subtle. you smell him before you see him. his cologne floats through the air and you catch a glimpse of him through your mirror; droplets of water sliding down his broad shoulders, hair damp and a towel wrapped low around his hips.
you find yourself staring at him far too long through the reflection, your lip wedging itself between your teeth at each step he makes. you swallow when he pulls off the towel, reaching the dresser for a pair of boxers. the same pair that look way too tight on him. “baby?” you say quickly.
you see him halt, slowly turn around while pulling up his boxers and his eyebrow raises slightly in a silent communication. his way of asking you to continue. “my lipstick, the one that’s on my nightstand, can you bring it to me please?”
wordlessly, he makes his way towards said nightstand, still half naked and not a care in the world as he picks up the tube of lipstick. a dark red. a favourite shade of his that he loves to see on you. not taking his eyes off you once he does finally make his way over to you, his head tilts just slightly when he notices the bashful smile graced upon your lips, once that he adores being the reason as to why you’re smiling in the first place.
the second his bare chest presses against your back, your breath hitches at the pure wall of heat emitting from his body and you swallow when he leans over and gently, as he does with all your things, places the tube of lipstick on your vanity without a word.
and your words are pure accident, or a simple joke if you will. “good boy, thank you.” your voice soft and gentle yet it makes your boyfriend pause. eyes staring at you through your mirror and yet, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t openly react to your choice of wording, just stares.
then his fingers, light and careful, simply graze your neck, a hoarse grunt is all you get in return to your words and suddenly, he wraps his hand around your throat, not with ill intent, just there, relaxed, and squeezes enough to cause your breath to hitch again.
then he walks away to resume getting changed. not once commenting on your words but you know he heard them.
it switches up during the evening, you’re walking out of the living room and slipping into the kitchen where he’s standing there with a pair of grey sweatpants and a tight black shirt, stirring the pasta sauce. oblivious to you standing there.
“baby?” he calls out, not once turning around, adding more seasoning as he goes. “can you come taste this for me, please?”
your hand covers your mouth, trying to hold back a giggle as you skip towards him. “you cookin, honey?” your arms go around his waist and press your face into his back.
“course i am, you cooked last night, s’only fair. now try, baby, come on.” his chuckle is deep and raspy which causes your stomach to flutter, swift to turn in your hold, one hand cupping the back of your head, still wanting that closeness while he uses the other to hold out the spoon for you.
standing up on your tiptoes, you wrap your lips around the spoon and your eyes flutter closed. his body stills again, watching you in silence as you hum softly and swallow the small bit of sauce he put on the spoon for you, waiting for your thoughts. “mmm, s’really good, don’t even think you need to add anymore, perfect as it is.” you smiled and your eyes open, staring up at him in pure affection.
“yeah?”
“mhmm, perfect! good job, baby.” you don’t say it in a condescending or mean way, you truly mean it. he’s always trying out new recipes for different sauces and each time, they get better and better, but he isn’t thinking that.
all he can think about is the way you say it, so full of love and truth. his eyes are locked onto your lips, his breath hitching as his brain replays it over and over again. good job, baby. it shouldn’t affect him like this, but you do. your words always do.
his lips crash onto yours before you can say or do anything else, a startled squeak is torn from your throat but you recover quickly, giggle, arms instantly wrapping around his neck while he drops the spoon on the floor, arms wrapping around your waist, tugging you closer. “love you, honey.” he mutters against your mouth. “love you so much.”
it comes to head that same night when he’s got you pinned to the bed, hands moving all over your body; your hips, squeezing the skin, to your thighs, hiking them over his hips more, and bullying his cock into you with each slow yet delicious thrust. your nails, ones he paid to have done hours earlier, rake down his back, head thrown back with a string of whimpers and moans spilling from your lips.
“say it again,” he rasps into your neck, teeth grazing over the sensitive skin as he pulls out slowly, the tip of his cock still nestled inside, each movement has your head spinning and legs tightening around him “say it.” and then, he sinks back into you. harder, faster.
your toes curl where they’re bent around him and your back arches up into his chest, gasping and biting down on his shoulder, the sensation tears a hiss from his teeth but he doesn’t stop. if anything, his grip tightens on your hips, his pace more brutal. “fuckkkk, you’re so good, baby” you whine, fingers slipping down between your bodies and reaching your clit. “always fuck me so good” each word has your fingers rubbing faster circles on your sensitive bud.
he removes his head from your neck, coming to rest his forehead against yours, and his pupils are blind wide, tips of his ears pink and he whimpers when your cunt clenches tightly around his cock. “again,” he pants against your lips. “say what you really want to say, honey.”
you can’t really focus on what he’s saying, too busy focused on the feeling of his cock hitting that spot deep inside you that has your toes curling again, nails sinking into his biceps, and your hot breath against his mouth. “m…my good boy, you’re my, mmm fuck, you’re my good boy, fucks me so good.” you blabber out, eyes fluttering closed, fingers still rubbing figure eights on your clit.
slipping his free arm under your arched back, he fucks into your harder, the plap plap plap of skin slapping echo the room and the new angle he has you in has your eyes rolling into the back of your head.
brushing his lips against the shell of your ear, your whine loudly at his deep chuckle. your hands struggle to stay on one part of him, long gone from your clit, now trying to find a place to keep them. “yeah, that’s it baby, keep calling me your good boy while i make you cum on my fuckin’ cock.”
He’s already shaking when he settles between your thighs, face flushed, eyes glassy like he’s been edged for hours, even though you’ve barely touched him. “Fuck—please,” he whispers, voice cracking as he spreads you open with trembling fingers. The first taste of you hits him like a drug; his whole body jerks, a choked sob catching in his throat. He dives in anyway, tongue flat and desperate, lapping at your clit like he’s trying to drink you dry.
You can see it happen in real time: his hips twitch forward against nothing, dick leaking steadily onto the sheets, untouched and throbbing. He moans into your pussy, loud, broken, obscene vibrations ripping through you as he sucks harder, nose buried in your folds, cheeks hollowing with every pull. “God—taste so fucking good,” he mumbles, words slurred and wet against your slick.
His shoulders hunch, back arching as another helpless jerk rocks through him. Pre-cum drips in thick strings from his tip now, pooling beneath him, but he doesn’t reach for himself. Doesn’t even try. He just grinds his hips into the mattress once, twice, then stills, like he’s fighting not to come yet. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly. “Keep going, baby.”
His tongue pushes inside you, deep & greedy, and he comes with a strangled cry muffled right against your cunt. Hips bucking hard against the bed, dick pulsing untouched, thick ropes of cum shooting across the sheets while he sobs into you. His whole body convulses, tears slipping down his cheeks, mixing with your arousal on his jaw, but he never stops licking. Never pulls away. Just keeps eating you through his own orgasm, tongue sloppy and frantic, chasing every drop like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
When the last shudder leaves him, he’s a wreck, face soaked, lips swollen, chest heaving, cum still dripping from his spent dick. He looks up at you through wet lashes, voice hoarse and wrecked. “Did I do good?” he asks, small and hopeful, as if the answer might break him. You stroke his cheek, thumb brushing away a tear.
STARRING: zayne, caleb, rafayel, xavier, & sylus [seperate] x f!reader
CW: jealousy, handjobs in a bathroom | PATHETIC caleb, dry humping, cumming in pants, recording? | bratty!raf, panties in mouth, vibrator play, mention of overstim | heavy breeding kink, riding | aether core actin up, blowjobs | they are all desperate and begging lowk (highkey)
j says... idk if i love or hate this. i miss posting though and hope i proofread good enough (if theres mistakes just ignore them ok) thank you to @gardenialily @rafayelkisses @berrylus + everyone else who helped me brainstorm. inspired by this ask! thank you anon!
✮⋆˙— zayne
You and Zayne never argued. The two of you usually saw eye to eye, and honestly, you didn't see each other enough to waste time on disagreements. It just wasn't worth it.
Or so you thought.
The entire car ride had been silent, tension simmering thick between you, built from something neither of you seemed willing to touch further. The bickering had started small, but kept layering over itself—too many nights apart, too much distance, and something deeper you knew was bothering Zayne that he refused to talk about.
What should have been an easy night turned sour fast.
The Akso hospital charity event was usually something you enjoyed attending—especially on the arm of the most prestigious surgeon in the room—but tonight, you find yourself distracted. Zayne moves through the crowd like a storm cloud in a tailored suit, brushing off every attempt you make to soften the mood.
It wasn't like him, and you couldn't quite pin down why he seemed so irritated. But instead of pushing, you eventually excused yourself to the refreshments table.
There, you fell into conversation with a visiting surgeon from a few cities over. He's easy to talk to, warm, engaging—and most importantly, good at distracting you until you could get Zayne home and figure out whatever stick had lodged itself up his ass tonight.
You laughed softly at one of his comments.
And then Zayne was there.
He materializes at your side, one hand sliding around your waist and pulling you flush against him like he hadn't spent the entire evening acting upset with you. He introduces himself, made a pointed emphasis on your relationship, and after a few clipped exchanges, he's steering you away.
"What was that for?"
"What do you mean?" His voice stays level, but he won't meet your eyes as he guides you through the crowd.
"All the sudden you just… pulled me away like that."
"You could have been having a conversation with me," he states, stopping in a shadowed corner. His head dips, lips grazing the shell of your ear while his hands roam possessively over the silky material hugging your form.
Your brows lift at the sudden affection, but you lean into it regardless. "I've been trying to all night."
A muscle ticks in Zayne's jaw. He nips lightly at your lobe before finally pulling back enough to meet your gaze.
And his eyes—oh.
Oh, you know that look anywhere.
And suddenly everything clicks into place. Why he'd been snappy since the moment he picked you up in your simple little gown. Why he'd been acting wound so tight all evening.
"Is this entertaining for you?" he mutters, immediately catching the glint in your iris.
"Maybe."
Your smirk widens as his grip tightens. Before he can say anything else, you grab his hand and tug him further down the empty hall, towards the family restroom.
"You know," you state lightly, "you don't have to be jealous. You can just tell me if you're horny."
Zayne's ears go pink immediately. "That's… not it."
"Oh? You sure?"
The door is unlocked. You shove him inside, lock it behind you, and crowd him back towards the sink without much resistance at all. In the next second, your hand slip down, pressing gently against the hard bulge straining beneath his slacks.
"Because this says otherwise."
Zayne inhales sharply, both hands bracing back against the countertop as your palm rubs over his cock through the fabric.
"I've just…" he begins to admit, cut off by a groan when you squeeze him. "Missed you. And I handled it poorly earlier. I'm—fuck—sorry."
Your grin only widens as you start to undo his belt. "Aren't you always the one lecturing me about communicating my feelings?"
"Yes."
His zipper comes down, and he lifts his hips just enough to help you shove his pants and boxers lower. His cock springs free, flushed and slick at the tip, hissing softly at the cool air that hits him.
"Then why..." you murmur, wrapping your warm hand around the base just to hold the weight, "didn't you just tell me you were just desperate for attention?"
Zayne bites down on his lip as you finally start moving. Slow strokes drag up his aching cock, making the blush dusting his face spread lower on his throat and chest.
"Hm?" Your thumb traces the prominent vein along his length before smearing the wetness gathered at the tip. "Are you too proud to admit you're a needy mess? Is that why you picked a fight with me?"
His head tips back towards the mirror, breath catching hard.
"Yes—god—I did, and I'm sorry, just please don't go slow." His hips jerk helplessly into your fist. "I need—just… faster. Please. I cant—"
"Yeah?" you hum, keeping your pace just shy of slow. "It's that bad?"
"Yes." The word comes sweet and honest. "I've been thinking about you all week. I can't focus, can't sleep—it's been incredibly frustrating." Zayne groans quietly. "I just need you. Please."
"Poor thing," you coo, feigning sympathy before tightening your grip and speeding up, eyes fixed on the way your hand pumps his cock. "All worked up and angry because nobody touched you. Now you need me to take care of you in a bathroom."
He folds forward with a shaky exhale, forehead pressing against your shoulder. A broken little whimper slips out as you he pulses against your palm, chasing more of your touch.
More of you.
So when you suddenly pull away, the frustrated whine he makes is almost pathetic.
Your eyes lift and sparkle.
"After the cruel way you treated me… I think you'll have to beg to cum."
✮⋆˙— caleb
He really didn't think you were serious.
You two played around all the time. Sure, he pissed you off sometimes, but there was nothing a little kiss behind your ear and his hand sliding down your front couldn't fix.
Well—until you banned him from sex.
Caleb had laughed. You were just as needy for him as he was for you. There was no way that you'd last a full week without him stuffing you full. So he'd smiled, kissed your cheek, and gone about the rest of his day like it was nothing.
But a day turned into two, and then five.
Five whole fucking days without anything from you.
You had said no sex. Not no making out, not no spooning, not even no showering together.
But you gave him absolutely nothing.
No wandering hands and definitely no sitting on his lap just to tease him. You barely even let him touch you longer than a few seconds before pulling away with that unimpressed little look on your face.
And it was driving him insane.
Caleb shuts the front door harder than necessary, not even bothering with his boots as he stalks through the house looking for you.
He's the colonel, after all.
He takes want he wants.
And the whole drive home he'd been imagining exactly how he was going to do it. Probably backing you against the mattress, pinning your wrists down and forcing you to listen while he told you exactly how cruel you'd been. Maybe he'd kiss you until you forgot why you were mad in the first place. Maybe he'd drag those tiny shorts down your legs and remind you that you needed him just as badly as he needed you.
But then he finds you standing in the kitchen in your cute little pajamas, all soft skin and sleepy eyes, something in him folds.
Suddenly, it isn't just about dominance anymore.
Because part of wanting you involves wanting your forgiveness too.
"Hey," his voice comes softer than expected as he steps closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. "Missed you."
"Mmm, missed you too, 'leb."
Caleb doesn't pull away after the kiss. Instead, he presses his nose into your hair and inhales deep. Your sweet scent goes straight to his head, turning everything fuzzy.
"No," he murmurs, arms sliding around your waist as he pulls you against his chest. "Like—I really missed you."
You just hum softly, rubbing his back as he melts into the embrace.
He dips lower until his face buries into the space between your neck and shoulder, breathing you in like he's starving... because, well, he is.
You're so warm and soft and his, and fuck it's making every drop of blood rush straight down to his cock.
"It's been so long," he whispers, almost pleading in hopes he can get you to crack just a little. "C'mon… I'm sorry. I've been good. I need you, Pips."
"I told you," you say firmly, though you don't pry him off. "Two more days. Keep whining and I'll make it longer."
Caleb groans, the sound low and full of true misery.
His pants are unbearably tight now, because something about your tone and flat out refusal is making him lose his mind.
He can't stop himself.
His hips jerk, grinding his erection against your side, and oh god, the friction feels heavenly.
You gasp, turning sharply. "Caleb—!"
But he's already past caring about reprimand. His face burns red as he buries himself back into your neck, rocking against you again with a shuddering breath.
"'m sorry…" he mumbles, tightening his grip on your waist. "I need you… please…"
"Caleb…" you warn.
He doesn't care and can't find it in him to stop.
It's been too long without you, and this is the closest you've let him get in days. So instead of backing away, his hands spread desperately over your body, fingers slipping under your shirt just to feel your skin.
A broken little whimper leaves him at the contact, and his hips pick up into messy, desperate thrusts he can't control.
"You're being pathetic, Caleb."
And he moans.
Actually fucking moans.
He hides deeper in your neck, embarrassed and turned on all at once.
"I know," he stutters. "I know, baby, I'm sorry—I just—I c-can't. Need you… s'bad…"
"What would the fleet think, hm?" you murmur. "Seeing their colonel like this?"
Caleb chokes on a broken sound, because his hips have found a rhythm that drags his cock perfectly against your hip through his boxers. He's too far gone to notice the phone in your hand, which is recording every humiliating second.
"C'mon Caleb," you coax, tilting his face up.
His eyes are glassy when he looks at himself on the screen, bottom lip caught between his teeth. It so shameful that his cock twitches.
"Tell them," you demand. "That you're so desperate you're gonna hump me until you cum in your pants."
"I'm—fuck—" his voice cracks. "I'm gonna cum—"
And he does.
A low, pathetic whimper spills out of him as he cums untouched in his boxers, staining the front of his uniform. His hips keep moving, dragging himself through the sticky mess, riding out the orgasm with sloppy kisses scattered along your neck.
It takes him a long moment to come back down.
And when he finally does, his eyes darken at the phone stilled pointed at him.
"Delete that."
✮⋆˙— rafayel
"Raf, I swear…" you hiss through gritted teeth.
"What! I'm not even doing anything!"
A muscle ticks in your jaw. "You're not doing anything?"
"No!" he protests dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm just… being your lover, okay? Don't you care about me and my affection?"
"You're being annoying."
Rafayel gasps like you've actually offended him. "Am not!"
You shake your head and focus your attention back onto your report, scratching your pen across the paper while he continue sulking beside you.
There's about five more minutes of peace before his hand is back and caressing your thigh.
"Are you almost done?" His voice turns syrupy sweet, clearly trying to coax his way into getting what he wants. He squeezes your thigh gently. "Please. I need attention."
You don't reply.
Rafayel groans loudly at being ignored, melting next to you. He nuzzles into your shoulder, lips brushing your neck as he whines.
"I'm horny…"
You set your pen down with far too much force, finally turning your attention to him.
Rafayel perks up instantly at having your eyes on him, face brightening with smug satisfaction like he won.
"Fine," you say. "Go sit in that chair. And you better be naked when I get back."
Without another word or glance back, you disappear from the room, entirely pleased to return to sudden obedience.
Sitting tall in the chair, completely naked, legs spread slightly as he lazily strokes himself, is your one and only. His expression still homes that smirk, but the desperation underneath it is obvious now. His cock twitches with every slow tug of his hand.
"Gonna come and take care of me, pretty?"
You hum thoughtfully. "With that mouth, I don't think so."
The smirk turns into pout, bottom lip jutting out as he strokes himself a little faster.
"Please? Look at how hard I am. It hurts… you have to take care of it."
"I think I need to take care of something else first."
He cocks a brow suspiciously, watching closely as you peel down your leggings, then your panties.
"See?" he starts smugly. "I knew you couldn't resist me. Now c'mere and—mmph!"
You shove the bundled fabric that was just against your cunt into his mouth, muffling the rest of his sentence.
His eyes widen in genuine shock while his hand stills on his cock, though it throbs visibly at the switch in control.
"You're so mouthy," you shake your head. "Keep them in, or else I'm not touching you at all."
Rafayel's eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. He nods immediately.
"Gooood boy," you drawl, tracing your fingers down his chest. You circle one of his nipples until his skin prickles in goosebumps.
You let your gaze fall to his cock, smirking as it drips steadily against his stomach.
"So messy already."
A muffled, pathetic plea comes from behind the gag, his hands sliding up your bare thighs, inching higher and asking permission without words.
"No," you deny. "You've been a brat."
His brows knit together.
"And brats…" you continue, flashing the silicone vibrator you discreetly brought in with you, "get punished."
You thumb the toy to life, watching the pleasure and panic war on his face before pressing the buzzing head lightly against his hipbone.
He whimpers and squirms away from the sensation, thighs twitching as the vibrations travel through him.
You smile sweetly. "Hold it."
Rafayel blinks at you like you've lost your mind.
"Now."
With a bit of reluctance, he obeys.
The second the toy settles into his palm, another muffled noise leaves him at the strength of the vibrations. You guide his wrist.
"Rub it along your cock," you instruct. "Find where you're sensitive."
Rafayel swallows hard around the fabric in his mouth.
The toy touches him and he moans instantly, body jerking as he shakily drags it along his length. The moment it presses beneath the tip just right, his head falls back with a strangled sound.
"Hold it there. You were soooo horny, yeah? This will help."
Within seconds, Rafayel is a whimpering mess.
His eyes glaze over, body thrashing while saliva soaks the cotton in his mouth—that doesn't fully muffle the desperate little noises escaping him nonstop now.
You stroke his cheek gently, then trail your fingers down the column of his throat. The touch is more than enough, and his cock throbs as cum spurts and drizzles from the tip, coating his abdomen and the toy.
"Don't move it," you order firmly. "You're gonna make yourself cum again."
✮⋆˙— xavier
You can't breathe.
Xavier's mouth has been pressed against yours the entire elevator ride, barely giving you a gasp for air as he fumbles with the buttons before shoving you gently against the wall to kiss you again.
It's not unusual for him to be this hungry, but after an ordinary day—visiting your friends and their new baby—it just wasn't what you expected.
Not that you're complaining.
Instead, you let him guide you through the hallway between messy kisses and fumble with the keys while your lips trail down his neck. Xavier shivers beneath the affection, unable to shove you both inside fast enough.
The lights don't even turn on.
He just walks you backward towards the nearest surface—the couch—before sitting down and dragging you straight onto his lap like he physically can't stand having space between you.
"You're so eager tonight," you giggle.
"Is that a problem?" he asks immediately, voice rough and husky.
"Of course not."
Xavier hums, dipping his head to press slow kisses along your jaw and neck. His hand grab your hips tightly, fingers flexing in encouragement for you to move.
You obey, rocking against the hard line pressing in his pants, gasping at the delicious friction it creates despite the layers.
"You're… ovulating right?" he ask suddenly, almost dazed.
You blink and still your movements. "I… I don't know. Why?"
"No reason."
His cheeks flush immediately after saying it, almost as if he regrets letting the thought slip out loud. Before you can question him further, he changes the subject entirely by tugging his shirt over his head, revealing firm lines of muscle.
"Come on. I wanna see you."
In the dim glow spilling from the window, clothes disappear piece by piece until there's nothing left to separate you both.
Xavier stares at you like the sight alone might kill him.
"You're so beautiful, my star," he whispers reverently, hands gliding over your skin like he can't help himself. "So pretty… always so pretty for me."
The praises makes warmth curl low, your cheeks turning as pink as his. His hands settle on your waist again, thumbs stroking softly as he looks up at you with blown pupils.
"Please," he says quietly. "Ride me. I'll be so good for you. Please, baby."
And you absolutely can't deny that face.
So you settle above him, and sink down onto his length slowly, both of you gasping at the stretch. His head immediately tips back against the couch, broken moans spilling from his lips.
"Oh god…"
You start moving instinctively, bouncing slowly in his lap and he watches you with completely glassy eyes.
He's unbelievably responsive tonight. Each roll of your hips pulls helpless sounds from him, his hands roaming your body and settling on your breasts. His thumbs swipe your nipples and pinch them when they pebble.
Praises spill endlessly, coming faster as he began to meet your thrusts.
Pretty. Perfect. His star.
His cock is throbbing inside you within minutes, and upon the feeling, you shift to lift off—only to be met with a firm grip on your hips, plunging you back down.
"N-No," he gasps.
Your eyes widen in surprise.
"Stay," he pleads softly, holding you down as he thrusts up. "Please stay on me."
"Xav—"
"I wanna cum in you," he admits. "Please.. you looked so beautiful today with their baby. Imagine how gorgeous you'd look carrying my baby."
The words clearly embarrass him the second they leave his mouth because his face burns bright red immediately after. But he doesn't take them back.
If anything, he looks needier for admitting it.
His forehead presses against your chest as he whimpers softly, sucking a mark into the supple skin while his hips continue twitching.
"Please, star… please let me."
You cradle his face, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before you set the pace again. The second you whisper permission, Xavier moans so sweetly it almost sounds painful.
He cums instantly, pressing his tip up until it nestles against your cervix, letting warm spurts of his seed spill deep inside you.
Something passes in his expression as his orgasm subsides, and his hands slide beneath your thighs to flip your position, laying you on your back and hitching your legs around his hips.
He withdrawals his cock nearly all the way before plunging it right back in.
"i'm gonna fuck a baby into you. Tonight."
✮⋆˙— sylus
Onichynus' boss man was about to wear a hole into his living room floor.
He had been at it for at least the ten minutes since you'd arrived and starting watched him—probably longer before that, if you had to guess.
Sylus had been short with your messages all day, clipped responses that lacked their usual teasing edge. Instead of waiting for him to maybe confide in you over the phone, you'd taken a quick ride over to the N109 yourself.
"I know you know I'm here," you drawl, sauntering in the room. "Yet you still haven't greeted me. How rude."
Sylus stops at your voice but doesn't turn around, gaze fixes on the glittering city sprawling beneath the windows. The glow paints sharp lines across his face.
It's not like him to stay so silent.
You pad closer, brow furrowing in concern.
"Hey," you whisper, slipping your arms around his waist. "Are you alright?"
Sylus inhales sharply at your touch.
And his body is burning with a feverish heat.
You tilt your head, trying to catch his expression in the reflection of the glass. His face is flushed nearly as red as his eye, the glow in his aether core pulsing faintly.
And when you glance down, it's almost as if the bulge in his pants is about to pop the button clean off.
Usually, Sylus' desire when it came to an unstable aether consisted of devouring you whole—whatever form that happened to take. But this time feels different. The desire weaving through the space between you is softer somehow. Less demanding and far more desperate.
Sylus swallows hard, throat bobbing, and when he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse.
"Sweetie…"
"Sy," you soften instantly. "Why didn't you tell me your core was acting up?"
For a moment, he says nothing and just exhales shakily. His cock throbs visibly beneath the fabric at the sound of your voice.
"I thought it'd pass," he admits quietly. "Usually it's not this bad and usually..."
Embarrassment flashes across his face as he mutters, "it wants me to be more dominant."
Oh.
Poor thing.
Your turn him in your arms, sliding your hands up his chest. The red glow brightens as you rest your hand over the violent pound of his heart, making him shudder hard. A tiny smile tugs at your mouth when his face burns even hotter.
"Sensitive, are we?"
"Don't tease me," he says instantly, though it lacks its usual bite, making it sound more like a cute plea.
You glide your hands up to cup his face, stroking lightly beneath his eye. A strained sound catches in his throat as his hips jerk forward involuntary the second the core pulses again.
"Oh, baby…" you murmur softly. "What does it want?"
Your fingers drift lazily down his neck, making him tremble.
"It wants… it needs…" he stops, struggling with the admission. "Sweetie, I want you to take care of me."
You bat your lashes up at him. "Yeah?"
"Please, kitten," Sylus whispers. "Please."
You don't need much more incentive than that.
You guide him gently towards the couch, hands smoothing over his shoulders when his legs nearly give out halfway there. He sinks down heavily, spreading his thighs with a shaky exhale when you kneel between them.
His eyes stay locked on you, blown wide with desperation as you undo his pants, fishing out his weeping cock from the confines of his boxers. He's painfully hard. Angry red at the tip, leaking steadily, and twitching the second your hand wraps around him.
Sylus throws his head back immediately, mouth falling open in pure ecstasy at just your palm around him.
"Oh, fuck—"
Teasing feels almost too mean, so you only kitten lick the salty bead that gathered at the tip before wrapping your lips around the plush head.
His thighs tremble as you take him deeper into your mouth, fingers gently carding through your hair to encourage the motion.
"S-So good, sweetie," he stutters. "Fuck… oh god…"
You begin bobbing softly, gagging once on the size, which makes drool slip down the corners of your mouth.
Sylus begins to whimper.
"T-Too much—fuck—"
His aether core pulses brightly, making every pleasurable drag of your tongue feel amplified. You hollow your cheeks, bobbing your head while your hand strokes what you can't fit.
Within seconds his length is throbbing in the warmth of your mouth.
A salty rush explodes on your tongue as Sylus moans brokenly, shaking while you suck him gently through the orgasm. Apparently not gentle enough though, because he jolts hard from the oversensitivity.
'Ah—ah, sweetie—"
You pull off with a pop, swallowing everything he gave you before wiping at the saliva coating your mouth. You smirk at the completely dazed, blushing man slumped before you.
